Okay so um... It was a bit more than 10 hours, but in my defence I fell asleep.
✨Anyway✨
Bucky Barnes V Halter Necks
Part 1
Warnings:
Very light smut, dirty thoughts, light dirty talk, Bucky is a boob man.
Very much un-beta'd
I am still new to writing, so be nice. Likes are cool, comments are amazing!
Thanks for reading!
Bucky Barnes was anything but a simple man.
He'd lived through a world war. Had been brainwashed and turned into a killing machine. Was given a metal arm and an ocean of trauma, that he waded through more often than not.
He's over 100 years old and looks in his thirties, for Christs sake. That's anything but simple!
So yeah, he was not a simple man.
No way.
Well...
That was true...
Until his eyes landed on your dress.
Well not quite the dress.... The halter top.
Bucky became a very simple man once his eyes laid upon that.
His cheeks tinged the lightest of pinks.
His throat became dry.
His heart almost stopped beating altogether.
It wasn't his fault really, when you think about it.
You just looked so fucking hot.
Your curves, which he had never seen outlined before, were hugged nicely. Very nicely. (And other things were on display more than he'd ever seen).
Bucky was starting to feel something of his own being hugged nicely, by his jeans.
Shit.
He needed to stop looking before he came in his pants like a damn teenager.
But he just couldn't pull his eyes away.
Not from how the straps -tucked so neatly behind your neck- framed your chest perfectly.
How the A-line showed the tops of your soft tits.
How they bounced as you laughed....
He throbbed.
Bucky had to stop looking. Now.
Impossible.
Illegal probably.
But then—
"Bucky, thank god!" A voice called to him,
His eyes peeled away from your tits and to the source of the voice. He didn't need to move his eyes far.
Bucky managed to croak out a weak,
"Hey, Dolly."
His eyes moved down again then back to your face.
Your tits were coming closer, oh god,
Danger
Danger
Danger
His brain exclaimed.
But Bucky was not thinking with his brain.
"I've been waiting for you, where've you been?" You ask him, relief making you more relaxed. More settled.
Bucky noticed how your breathing slowed, deeper breaths lasting longer now. Don't ask him how.
He also noticed his pants getting tighter.
You looked at him expectantly.
His brain fumbled.
Shit. Your question!
"I, um, I—what? Oh! Yeah, uh, Sam told me I was dressed like a hobo and made me change about three times." Bucky chuckled, distress still covert enough to get him by.
"Aw man, I missed hobo Bucky? Worst night of my life!" You joked, mock stomping your foot.
"Tell me about it" Bucky murmured, eyes roaming whilst he had the chance, his hand nonchalantly moved downwards, trying to fix his not so little problem.
His jeans were still tight. Tighter maybe.
He held back the groan that almost slipped past his teeth.
Buckys eyes roamed for a moment too long, up and down. Lingering happily in all the places they could.
When he looked up, he caught your eyes.
You'd caught him.
Staring.
At you.
Shit.
Bucky looked like a deer caught in headlights. A kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, almost disbelief at his own stupidity.
His heart raced. He was ready for you to slap him in the face, pour your drink on him as you called him a perv. Anything.
But you didn't.
You looked away. Your shoulders drawing forwards. Head tilted down. Face flat.
Disappointment.
Even worse.
"Dolly, 'm sorry, I didn't mean any—" he began
"It's fine," You huffed out, "Everybody's been staring. Think they forgot there's a girl under the tactical suit."
Oh.
You hadn't been disappointed at him looking at your perfect tits. Hadn't even noticed.
You'd seen him scanning your dress... And had felt judged.
He had to fix this, whilst not looking at your tits. Your perfect, beautiful tits he could just smoosh his face into and kiss all over and—
Focus Barnes!
Bucky took a deep breath, trying to centre his attention on anything but his own thoughts.
"Hey," Bucky stepped closer, trying to catch your eyeline, "'m not shocked and I definitely didn't forget about the woman under the tactical suit," .
You look up at him, eyes watering just slightly. Cheeks tinged the same shade of pink, but blotchier.
The thoughts he has, he needs to go to a confession booth. No. They might send him to hell where his sinful thoughts belong.
But the way you looked at him?
Made him throb even more.
He tried his best to hold in a groan.
"...I mean— Why does everybody keep staring?" You say, eyes still watery. Your face looks exhausted.
Bucky makes a mental note to kick himself for not listening, for not noticing you even started talking to him.
But the question makes him smirk.
Why is everybody staring?
Because you're fucking hot.
Because you look like my midnight snack.
Because they all want to take you home.
That's what he wants to say.
His smirk only grows.
Your brow furrows, "What? Is there something wrong?"
Buckys still in his thoughts (or thots). Ears now decoration only.
Even your frown is hot.
Your hands on your hips, leaning forward slightly.
Perfect view.
Were you doing this on purpose?
"James!" You were getting agitated now, ready to rip Bucky a new asshole if he didn't tell you what was wro—
Bucky made a sound.
Did he... Just... Moan?
No. No!
But...
Yes?
Your eyes widened.
"Ja— Bucky!" You whisper yelled, your cheeks now red instead of pink.
Buckys cheeks were the same colour.
You looked him up and down, trying to figure out just what was going on. And then you saw it. The tent in his pants.
"Oh." You breathed.
Buckys cheeks had turned an even darker shade of red. Scarlet. His face could be a mood ring from all the colours it was turning.
Finally buckys brain caught up to him. (The blood had to start rushing somewhere else at some point, right?)
"Dolly, I'm— I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to— it's just that, Well, your dress is— Shit. It's not your fault. I'm just— I'm so fucking sorry Dolly." Bucky rambled.
You on the other hand, were eerily quiet.
Is this why everybody kept staring?
Because you were.... Hot?
"...It'll never happen again, I swear it.." Bucky continues, panicking clearly
Hot enough that a super soldier was moaning at you for chastising at him?
This was an unexpected turn of events.
You smirked.
Turned your head.
Innocent look on your face.
Bucky stopped talking five seconds ago. Clearly scared for himself.
"Well, now I know why everybody was staring at me, I suppose. Right James?" You say, looking devilishly sweet.
I really love your writing, reading it makes me wanna write and create myself. And I'm feeling more confident about posting, so I hope it's okay that I tagged y'all!
bucky barnes finding you on the side of the road headcannons
i just wanted to say thank you so much for 200 followers! it means the world to me and i wanted to show my appreciation via headcanons. i hope you enjoy! this might or might not be inspired by real events...
ᯓ★ bucky barnes was on his way to intercept the "rogue agents" that Valentina had sent to the same place to essentially kill each other while burying her secrets. the last town he passed was seventeen miles behind him and the rest areas and gas stations were sparse along the desert roads.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes is mentally taking account of all the weapons he has on him, how many bullets he needed, and how he would rope all the agents in to be character witnesses in the impeachment trial for Valentina. he's so busy thinking about the items on his check list that he nearly misses the broken-down car on the side of the two-lane highway.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes was about to drive by without stopping, until he saw you appear from behind the vehicle's hood with grease smeared along your temple and covering your hands. something about the sight had him pulling over to the side of road and dismounting from his motorcycle, figuring out how to offer help without coming off as a bumbling idiot or without delaying his self-imposed mission any further.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes is completely blind-sided as he approaches you and the vehicle and is greeted with your wide-eyed expression. you looked bewildered, cautious, and grateful all at once and your expression was doing a number on his heart that he had long thought hollow.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes found himself looking under the hood of your car, but just from one glance, he knew he couldn't help you since you had a broken hose trying to pump coolant to your engine. when he gives you the news, he feels his heartbeat momentarily stop as your face morphs into one of distress.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes finds himself headed back to the last town he saw seventeen miles ago with you holding on to him tightly. he had promised that he would take you to the small mechanic he remembered passing. he felt bad that he couldn't do anything more, but the least he could do was see you safely to the one place that could actually help you.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes is about to leave you in the capable hands of the owner, Thomas, when you rush over to him and give him perhaps the warmest hug he has ever received in his life. when you break apart, you offer him your number and offer to make it up to him if he ever found himself in the same city as you again.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes leaves and makes it to where he needs to be, but the entire time you stayed in the very back of his mind. your wide eyes, your hopeful expression, and the warmth of your body all swirled around his head. after meeting Bob, fighting Sentry, surviving the Void, and accidentally becoming one of the New Avengers, he still finds himself thinking about you, even after a few weeks.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes pulls out his phone late one night and pulls up a message to your number. he writes and deletes his message multiple times before he sends a simple "hope your car is okay". he's been mentally berating himself since he hit send. no introduction, no asking how you are. what did he think was going to happen? just as he starts to dig himself even deeper in his pit of despair, his phone vibrates in his pocket. you texted him back that you unfortunately had to get rid of your car after the mechanic uncovered further damage.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes was about to offer his sympathy to you when he saw the thought bubble pop up at the bottom of your chat. after a few minutes, your message finally came through and bucky felt as if the clouds had parted and the sun was shinning down on him directly. you had told him you were staying with friends in New York for a while to scrape together funds for a new car and get somethings together.
ᯓ★ bucky barnes had never responded to a message as quickly as he did in that moment. he offered to meet up with you the following day as you were only a few subway stops away from the Watchtower. you responded back just as fast, letting him know you were excited for your "date" and bucky barnes fell asleep with the goofiest smile on his face, finally feeling like things might be going his way for once in his long, long life.
thank you again for 200 followers! I want you to know I care about each and everyone of you and that you all give me motivation and reason to continue flexing my writing muscles
Summary: What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. Besides, there are plenty of ways to talk.
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): brining back Bucky Barnes the flirt. he never died because i said so. set around TFATWS. I couldn't find any canoncial evidence of Bucky speaking French but I didn’t look that hard. you don't need to translate anything to understand what's happening, but if you want to please feel free!
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: google translate French, gratuitous use of italics. Bucky Barnes goes to the club, cursing, grinding on the dance floor, hot and heavy make out, oral (fem receiving)
DT: the bestest betas a girl could ever ask for, my sweet @artficlly, @heldbybarnes, and addy (I still can’t believe you know French), thank you guys so much for reading I truly would not have made it through this last stretch of writing without you. I owe you all a billion kisses or Jell-O shots, please let me know what you prefer!
also dividers by the extraordinarily talented @barnesonly
Bucky's first mistake was taking his eyes off the target.
Eyes straying from his mark across the room, first exit, second exit, and the large window. His eyes sweep the entire room, mentally checking every off every possible escape route. Calculating every possible entrance where someone could sneak in. Call it an old habit, call it paranoia, call it boredom. Bucky doesn't fucking care, it's just what he does. Working or not.
Whatever it is, it leads to his eyes sweeping right over you.
Bald suit, bald suit, gaudy heiress, bald suit, you, bald suit, billionaire-
You.
That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take.
It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you.
Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand.
He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline.
The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you.
Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd.
He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view.
It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.
His fourth mistake is looking at your lips.
Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you.
It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier.
Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection.
Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static.
Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you.
A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie.
When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense.
He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.
It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.
You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word.
Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech.
It hits him all at once.
He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-
He can't understand a word you say.
What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either.
It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.
You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match.
Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty.
You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.
Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?
"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"
Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream.
He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.
Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky.
"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.
His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.
He wants to know yours. Badly.
Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.
He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.
That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere.
Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.
“I see you’ve met Sirène.”
Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?
“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.
“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”
The bald suits, presumably.
“Oh.”
“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.
While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.
You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.
“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.
“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”
Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.
He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something.
Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.
"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."
Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.
Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could.
Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.
"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease.
"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."
"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"
"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."
Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus.
He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in.
With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece.
"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."
You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head.
"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."
Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen?
"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip.
He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response.
"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"
Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for.
"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."
He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.
"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.
One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve.
His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so.
You beam, smile widening with approval.
"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted.
You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."
"He's headed toward you." Sam translates.
You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."
"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor.
"My pleasure." Bucky agrees.
With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.
Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.
Or more specifically, test his sanity.
With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to.
And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French.
They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company.
If he can even call it that.
What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head?
Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees.
What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?
Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.
You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle.
Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find.
Instead he asks you to teach some more French.
Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky.
Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.
Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?
Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?
Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.
That one is probably his favorite.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork.
He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about.
You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence.
Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand.
"I'm not exactly sure how to-"
You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place.
"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod
Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.
At least he's pretty sure that's what it was.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now.
And it hurts his ears.
Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-
What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting.
You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt.
"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."
Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.
He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."
Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice.
"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided.
"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?"
Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?"
Bucky shrugged.
"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned.
The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-"
"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted.
"No."
"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.
Bucky's protest died on his tongue.
"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."
So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club.
He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust.
Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there.
Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you.
He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam.
"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.
You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by.
When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked.
"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder.
Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar.
Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth.
"You look good enough to eat."
Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction.
"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."
Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified.
His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway.
You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"
Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer.
The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting.
Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?
His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.
"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink.
Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night.
As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music.
"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before.
"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't."
By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long.
He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.
It's three songs, maybe four.
Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.
Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper.
Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck.
Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular.
Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.
You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth.
His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest.
He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder.
He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel.
For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak.
Mercifully, he's fluent.
His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose.
The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all.
Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off.
He definitely wants to find out if there's more.
"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room.
He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared.
It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me on."
Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge.
"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper.
Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand.
"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."
You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."
"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song."
You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."
He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself.
His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst.
Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his.
It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.
Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes.
Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.
The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.
When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look.
Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession.
You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it.
When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question.
"Ramène- à ta maison?"
"Can I take you home?"
Both of you are answered with another kiss.
Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox.
Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much.
He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch.
You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.
It makes his head feel warm to think about.
The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it.
He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket.
The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle.
Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you.
You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.
He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.
For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so.
It must show on his face.
"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"
He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."
You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact.
Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you.
Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket.
A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen.
Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes.
Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.
Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up.
The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.
Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare.
When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute.
Then you nod.
It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper.
He throws it so hard it hits the wall.
You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush.
It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead.
A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin.
Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible.
It would make even the worst cowards brave.
Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions.
Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed.
They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.
The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception.
There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail.
He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them.
Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.
"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."
As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands.
Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.
"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.
Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it.
His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin.
He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass.
The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit.
Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in.
The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years.
One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss.
Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly.
"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!"
Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan.
His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand.
Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you.
It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-
"Bucky!"
You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.
His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.
Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.
Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart.
His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs.
Then it all bursts.
His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue.
Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source.
You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name.
As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down.
You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus.
"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"
Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place.
He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away.
"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"
You groan, pulling his lips back to yours.
Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.
"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?"
When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night.
He kisses you again, even harder this time.
Yeah, he thinks, it was.
Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)
i first need everyone to know that this was one of my first reactions to pinky pies fic when i beta'd it. and then i need you to hold my hand when i tell you to grab your vibe bc the tension in this ALONE is insanity
anyhow.....let's do this
You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you.
this is my favorite line in the entire fic. it is so beautifully wrote and adds such depth to who reader is to the fic and bucky i cannot move on
Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?
poor bucky being in love and obsessed with her before he even knows what language she''s speaking and you know what? me too
While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.
-
Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could.
bucky when he learns someone else is on his mission vs when he realizes he is literally in love with this woman
"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"
i'll give her a hand if you wont bucky 😏 😏
What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?
Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.
BUCKY IS SO IN LOVE WITH HER SHUT THE FUCK UP
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?
-
That one is probably his favorite.
"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder.
i have a feeling sergeant isn't the one that's going to be ate tonight😏
You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush.
pink pls i am literally in my ovulation week i can't keep doing this shit!!
"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!"
bucky so lost in the sauce he doesn't even know she speaks english
"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?"
UGHHHHHHHHHHH. im going to be thinking about this fic for centuries to come. genuinely i could write a thesis about whatthis fic did for my brain chemistry. i am absolutely on the floor about how actually insane their dynamic throughout the entire thing was. give me 24 of them right now🥵🫶
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You know your boss likes you. His gestures go well beyond the normal professional relationship, but he’ll deny it all the way to the damn bank. That is, until you play a little game and see just how far you can push him…
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, kinda angst, smut, pretty much PWP, there’s some plot but it’s negligible, NSFW (literally), politics but it’s brief, age gap (reader in her 20s, Bucky is ancient), age-related references (Bucky calls you ‘kid’ once and you internally refer to him as ‘old man’), nicknames (‘doll’, mostly), taboo relationship, mirror-play, fingering & oral (f!receiving), inappropriate use of a desk, high heel kink if you squint, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie (why not), Bucky is sorta mean but also a gentleman, makeshift gag, decryphilia for like a second, semi-public sex, big dick!Bucky, rough sex, reader’s clothes are described, slight objectification of reader, and maybe coercion???
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: A delayed thank you for 400 followers!! This is kind of a rewrite of a prior fic of mine, or at least it started that way. Really just needed to scratch that Congressman Barnes itch. I spent so much time on this and scrapped it like three times. Beta credit to @laufeydottirs-writings . Uhh…And if this flops I’ll just never post again. :) Cheers!
Divider credit goes to @/cursed-carmine!
It wasn’t like you really tried to fall head over heels for your boss, who also just so happened to be one of the hottest politicians in D.C. Seriously, who would do that? Okay, maybe a few people came to mind - but, you swore that you weren’t one of them!
You were fresh out of college and in need of a job - really any job - and he was…Well…Lifetimes ahead of you comparatively. But, lately, he was becoming increasingly less subtle about his preference for you - and, it was kind of hard to ignore. Of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it to your face because Congressman Barnes wasn’t a man of very many words, but it was the little gestures that did all that sweet-talking for him.
It was the way he smiled at you so warmly when you brought his coffee straight to his desk each morning - just a splash or two of cream and a dash of sweetener was how he liked it. It was the way his sparkling baby-blues would flit across your silhouette like a lion sizing up prey - especially when he particularly enjoyed your outfit that day. And, if you were lucky enough, he’d give you a short, “Lookin’ sharp, kid. How are those surveys coming?” And the intense glint in his eyes as he spoke with that low Brooklyn drawl is what gave away the true infatuation hidden beneath his words.
That’s how it all started. Small gestures that were just barely noticeable, unless you were around him as often as someone in your position was - you were, after all, his personal assistant. His one, true tether to the Earth. And, given adequate time, these small gestures appeared to escalate.
A year into your humble employment, it developed into a subtle brush of his warm, calloused hand against yours while you were trying to explain something important. It became the way that same large palm would find the small of your back with such ease and his fingers began to splay across the fabric of your blouse possessively as he started walking you to your car each evening. You quickly realized he wasn’t doing any of it for you - he was doing it for himself. To make sure you were safe because if he didn’t try hard enough, then he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
If you’d been having a particularly hard day, he’d excuse himself a little early for lunch and then return an hour afterwards with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers from the florist just down the street, and your latte made exactly how you liked it. He often referred to it as a ‘morale boost’, but you saw through that excuse after it became less of an occasional treat and more of a frequent one.
You were slowly coming to the realization that this grumpy old man didn’t go out of his way for very much, but he certainly went above and beyond if it involved you.
“Late night, huh?” His gruff voice startled you, even though the only thing you could think about was how the words on your laptop screen were beginning to blur into a mess. Cohesive thoughts and bright ideas had left your brain a few hours before.
You blinked, glancing to your left where he’d entered his office in that scarily quiet way he had a habit of doing.
He’d noticed when you flinched, and he laughed softly. “Sorry, doll. I know. Need to get better ‘bout announcing myself.”
You smiled, tight but polite. “By now I think I should know you have a habit of materializing out of thin air, Houdini,” you teased.
You let out a heavy breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and closed your laptop with a soft ‘click’ - having a short break from the screen would surely do you some good. “Also, it’s not a late night until it’s past midnight, remember? It’s only eleven.”
Bucky’s gaze darted up to the standard-issue clock ticking away just above his desk. “And so it is,” he confirmed, shooting you a half-smile before he walked over to inspect the numerous files you’d left atop his desk. “You still shouldn’t be here so late, you know. You never know who’s roaming these halls.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, your speeches aren’t going to write themselves, and I certainly don’t think anyone nefarious is sneaking about a heavily-secured government office. Unless you’re talking about yourself.”
That squeezed yet another dry laugh out of him. “The only thing nefarious about me right now is my appetite,” he admitted, picking up one of the various navy blue folders you’d set atop the polished mahogany throughout the evening. His eyebrows furrowed and his tongue jutted out just past his blushed lips as he fanned through the top document.
His look of absolute concentration was so amusing to you, especially since most of the time you still needed to explain all of the political jargon to him. But, you appreciated his efforts to learn, in the very least. “There’s something you should take note of on page five,” you piped up.
The stiff papers rustled as Bucky flipped back through the pages, and he appeared even more confused. “Am I blind or…?”
“Oh!” You quickly shifted your laptop onto the coffee table across from you as you jumped to your plush-socked feet. You grabbed a sticky note and pen from the table before flitting over to his side. “My bad, it’s been a crazy day…”
You were wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized tourist shirt you’d picked up from a girls trip to Vegas. You were casual on these late-night stints - and, as long as you got your job done, Bucky didn’t really seem to mind.
You gently plucked the file from his hands and hunched down over his desk as you skimmed through the bill to find the clause you wanted to highlight. As your finger danced over the black ink, your hand was visibly shaking from the sheer amount of caffeine you needed to drink in order to stay awake as long as you had.
You immediately froze when you felt his hand slide up against your lower back - steady, warm, heavy - and then heard his voice, something low and soft that you had maybe only ever heard once before. “You’re shaking, doll. I think it’s time to call it a night.”
You swallowed thickly - your tongue suddenly felt too big for your mouth and your heart was skipping beat after beat…And it certainly wasn’t from the caffeine this time. “I’m fine,” you assured him curtly, trying to keep some level of professionalism alive between you two - but, that was becoming increasingly difficult under the weight of his piercing blue stare.
He hummed, like he was thinking it over but not really. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait another seven hours for you to come back in the morning.”
You sighed, slapping the sticky note down onto the paper and then scribbling out a small notation for him. “There,” you said, like he hadn’t just given you his explicit blessing to stop. You glanced up towards him - his eyes were still boring into yours.
“I’m being serious,” he murmured, his gaze momentarily flicking down to the file and then back up to yours again. “That’s an order. Go home.”
Coming from literally anyone else, you likely would have been offended at how strongly he was coming off. But, this was Bucky. This was…Kind of normal.
You chewed on your bottom lip, pulse hammering loud in your ears. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, he was pressed so damn close to you - and the direct touch of his palm was hot enough to melt away the icy chill of the office on that autumn’s night. Finally, you gave up - you nodded and closed the file. “Alright.”
You turned to gather your laptop and your bag, but he was already doing it for you. You felt your cheeks flush hot. “Sir, really. You don’t have to-“
“Sir?” he interrupted with another laugh - wow, three in one evening. You were on a roll. “Aren’t we way past the formalities?” He cocked an eyebrow as he held your coat out to you.
Neck, cheeks, and ears dusted pink and on fire, you took the coat and shrugged it on before you reached for your bag. “Uh-uh,” he tutted with a small smile. “Let me carry this for you and I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Right. Once again, anyone else and this would have been plain creepy. But no, this was just good, old-fashioned Bucky Barnes who couldn’t stand to let chivalry die.
“Fine. But just so you know, I’m coming in early in the morning just to spite you,” you muttered, giving him a quick once-over.
If you had to be honest, he looked as if he’d just wrestled with a bear and lost. Your lips gravitated into a frown as you took a quick step towards him. You reached up, not hesitating to take the delicate, blue silk of his tie between your fingers. “Did you try to redo this yourself?” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. This pitiful knot certainly wasn’t your workmanship.
Right then, you swore that in the dim, golden light of the ancient desk lamp, you saw dark pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks. “Perhaps…” he mumbled, jaw ticking as he glanced off to the side.
You worked the tie off with ease, and you could feel your heartbeat racing under the influence of his constant stare. He definitely had a problem with that, the whole staring thing. But, you’d learned to not mind it so much. “Next time, come to me first,” you said quietly, making quick work of fixing the knot and then taking a step back to admire your work.
Bucky, who was trying very hard not to be visibly flustered by the gesture, just nodded. “Noted.”
The next morning, your heels were clicking against the polished marble as you marched your way back towards Bucky’s office. The gray light of the dawn was beginning to seep through the dusty window panes, painting the halls in a pale glow.
You weren’t much of a high heel girl yourself, but today was a rather important press conference and you knew that the Congressman always gave you a few more glances than usual when you wore them. Just for the satisfaction of making him hot and bothered, you were willing to set aside your personal qualms with one of the most heinous footwear designs ever invented.
You paused at his door, knocking exactly three times so he knew it was you - this was something you’d agreed upon within your first week once you learned he had a habit of ignoring just about anyone who bothered to knock. “Come in!” You heard faintly through the aged, wooden entrance.
You turned the tarnished, brass knob and shouldered the creaky door open all while balancing his coffee and yours, along with several binders and your purse and laptop bag. You weren’t afraid of multitasking - no, multitasking was afraid of you.
You tossed him a polite, cheery little smile. “G‘Mornin’, Congressman,” you chirped, tossing your purse and laptop bag down on an ornate armchair before you piled the binders high on his desk and promptly held his coffee out to him. “You can take the girl out of work, but not the work out of the girl,” you said as he huffed in annoyance at the binders.
“I take it that you didn’t sleep?” He took the coffee from you as his eyes searched your face for signs of adequate rest - or, the lack thereof.
You shook your head. “Not until a few hours ago. I was really engrossed in those speeches…” You pouted and perched yourself up on the edge of the solid mahogany desk. You crossed your legs over one another out of politeness only, since you were wearing a short, black pencil skirt.
You couldn’t miss the way his eyes tracked the satiny flow of your midnight blouse, or the way they followed the gentle curve of your body downwards to how the skirt hugged your ass so nicely and the lace of your stockings peeked out from just underneath the skin-tight fabric. They settled on your heels, a sharp exhale coming from his nose before his eyes flicked back up to your face.
You tilted your head. “Yes?”
His jaw ticked because he knew he couldn’t say anything. Well, he could but he was risking an HR complaint if he did. “Nothing. You look ready for the press.”
You beamed. “Oh! Do I?” You giggled. “I tried my best. You know I always do.” Your voice was honey and velvet and everything so sweet and tempting to him…
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat and then pushing the new pile of binders aside. “I was reading over the press conference address this morning…”
You cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“Am I…It doesn’t feel right to be taking this harsh of an opposing stance to something that feels…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. Once again, political jargon was not his forte.
“Mostly bipartisan?” You interrupted with that sickly-sweet smile.
He nodded. “Yes, that.”
You took a rather pensive sip of your coffee. “Bipartisan doesn’t always translate to ‘good’, Congressman,” you quipped, and then reached across to flip through the speech pages yourself.
“Mmm, you see here?” You quickly pointed to a clause on the bill he’d be opposing. “This right here is some pretty…Sneaky business.”
He hummed, his gaze flicking between your delicate finger, the words on the paper, and your glossy lips. The tension that settled in the air between you two felt thick enough to cut with a knife…And that’s when you were rudely interrupted by your first phone call of the day.
“Congressman Barnes’ office, how may I direct your call?” you answered, sliding off the desk. Teasing him would have to wait, although as you glanced back over your shoulder to check, you could see his eyes were still making a meal out of you and your little skirt.
The press conference was a whirlwind as you’d expected it to be.
Before all the lights and the cameras, you’d stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing down the sleeves of his suit jacket with careful attention. You could tell from his stiff expression that he was uncomfortable with the level of professionalism he needed to maintain as your hands just so casually ran along his biceps. “I think navy is more your color than black,” you muttered, stepping around in front of him as you moved to fasten his cuff links in place.
He was trying to look anywhere but directly at you, but it was so hard when you looked so pretty and the aroma of your perfume was dancing dreamily about the air. “Are you saying I wear too much black?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
You shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not your stylist. I’m just the one who buffs out the rough edges before it’s showtime.”
You straightened his tie and then took a step back. “Go on and get ‘em, Bucky.” With a satisfied grin, you gave him a little wink and the most chaste, polite peck on the cheek you could give. Then, you left him standing there as you made your way to the media room.
In his office, Bucky stood in a silence that felt too heavy to breathe in. He was…Stunned. Every nerve in his body felt alive and buzzing with electricity - and it wasn’t because of the televised address. No, it was because he could still feel the softness of your lips lingering against his stubbled cheek; and, he could kick himself for just letting you leave after that.
During the conference, you tried to ignore the way he was staring at you more than the cameras, but he was making that awfully hard. You crossed your legs, one atop the other, and squeezed your thighs together as you desperately wished you could disappear. And, before you could even think about making a clean escape from the media room, a gloved vibranium hand was wrapped around your wrist and tugging you back from the double doors. “Prep room. Now.”
He didn’t leave room for protest as he nearly dragged you along to the back briefing room. Once the door clicked shut, he let go of your wrist, mumbling a quiet ‘sorry’ like he’d realized he was being a bit too rough. “What was that?” he questioned.
You blinked. “What was what?”
He sighed. “Before the conference?”
“I…Adjusted your tie?”
“No. You kissed my cheek.”
You couldn’t help the way your cheeks turned crimson and sold you out before you even had a chance to defend yourself. He took that as enough of an answer, beginning to pace the length of the room.
“I should fire you for that,” he said, hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed in thought as his gaze stayed glued to the government-issued blue carpeting.
You leaned back against the conference table and crossed your arms over your chest. “But you won’t.”
That stopped him in his tracks, mid-stride. His eyes snapped over to you, piercing and icy. But the threat fell flat. “How do you know?” he huffed.
“Because if you were really pissed enough, I wouldn’t be standing here alone with you. You have a team that handles anything and everything you could need, myself being one of them. I’d have been sent home from the audience if you so wished.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. He knew you were right. He didn’t really tolerate nonsense, in fact there wasn’t much he did tolerate. A few people. Select members of the press. Last you’d heard he was still struggling to accept therapy. He didn’t deal with things that he didn’t want to deal with, not since being freed from the mental prison of being the Winter Soldier - which, you knew very little about but just enough.
“You’re not one for a power-trip, but you also don’t put up with bullshit,” you continued, eyes meeting his as you cocked an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question about the flowers. The lattes. Walking me to my car-“
“That’s just called bein’ nice, doll,” he said, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.
“Not when your hand is on my back. Not when I can feel you practically eye-fucking me every time I wear something nice. Which, news flash, is almost every day in this industry,” you argued back.
You watched as big, bad super soldier Bucky Barnes’ cheeks turned pink. Bright pink. And there was that tick of his jaw again.
You pushed yourself off the conference table and grabbed him by his tie, tugging him down so close you could smell the coffee and wintergreen mint on his breath. His eyes widened. “You could tell me to stop,” you whispered. “But I know damn well you won’t.”
You released the hold on his tie and walked back towards the briefing room door. “You have thirty minutes before the vote. I suggest you get going,” you called over your shoulder, smile in your voice as you flung the door open and - once again - left Bucky Barnes too stunned to speak.
The days that followed were…Long and dull and irritating. The old man was somehow grumpy all the time, seemingly moping about how you’d called him out on his little stunts. No flowers, no coffees, no offers to walk you out.
The routine was simple - you’d hand him his coffee and he’d grunt out a very half-hearted ‘thanks’. His eyes - the same ones that used to shamelessly stare - would avoid you at all costs, even if it meant gazing into blank space. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and you continued to do your work on your laptop while quietly nestled in the armchair across from him. The tension was heavy.
Finally, you’d had enough. You turned up to work on a gloriously sunny Friday morning in your very best dress, tights, and godforsaken high heels. You appeared to be dressed for the most important press conference of your life, except not even a low-level briefing was scheduled for that day. In fact, nothing was scheduled for that day and that was exactly the point.
You set the paper coffee cup down on his desk, fingers lingering around the cardboard sleeve before retreating. “G’Mornin’, Congressman,” you greeted in your usual cheery tone, not like it mattered that much recently.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, reaching for the cup. And as he did, his eyes caught sight of your dress. For the first time in nearly a week, he gave you a quick once-over that ended in an expression of confusion. “Did I miss something on my itinerary?”
You smiled sweetly and shook your head. “Oh, no,” you assured with a little shrug, batting your eyelashes.
His brows furrowed. “Then…What is all of this?” he questioned, gesturing to your outfit.
You looked down at yourself, playing stupid even though you knew exactly what you were doing. “This?” you asked with a small laugh. “Oh, I have a lunch date. Figured I’d get a little dressed up.”
You watched with satisfaction as his jaw ticked. You’d struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
“First date.”
“Lunch for a first date?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a very good impression.”
“And what is?”
Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “I think a nice dinner would be suitable,” he muttered, and then hunched back over his desk as he pretended to shuffle some papers around. “What’s he like?”
You were a little taken aback that he was so invested in your lie, but you supposed it helped to sell the point. “He’s older. Stubborn. A little hard to talk to, but he’s hot so…”
He huffed. “Good luck with that. You’ll need it.”
Oh, yeah. You’d definitely need it…
Your lunch date ended up being between yourself and a disgustingly healthy salad from the cafe across the street, eaten quietly in the comfort of your car as you watched an episode of a sitcom.
Once the hour had gone and passed, you returned to Bucky’s office. And the second you sat back in the armchair and reached for your laptop, he was questioning you. Prying.
“How was the date?”
“It was…Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Eh…Men. You know how it goes, I’m sure.”
His piercing blue gaze was boring into you, you could practically feel it. But you paid him no direct attention as you navigated to a spreadsheet. “Oh, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure you didn’t actually go on a date.”
You felt your mouth run dry and your heart skip a beat. Your eyes flicked up from your laptop. You cocked an eyebrow. “And how are you so sure about that, Barnes? Don’t think I’ve got a line of suitors a mile long?” You really didn’t, but he definitely didn’t know that.
He chuckled, something dark and low and gravelly - honey flowing over jagged stone. “Doll,” he drawled. If you hadn’t been seated, you were sure your knees would have buckled beneath you. “I’m sure you do. But we need to start being honest with ourselves.”
You tried incredibly hard to play it cool, but you were losing it - especially over the fact he was turning this into a ‘we’ situation instead of a ‘me’ situation. You’d long since accepted that you were in love with him - it was he who needed to be honest with himself.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” you snapped back, arms folding across your chest defensively. “I’m not the one wallowing in denial.”
Bucky’s jaw did that little tick-and-set that you knew damn too well and had become awfully acquainted with over the last week in particular. Except, this wasn’t a tick of defiance. You could see it in his eyes - his resolve was crumbling, slowly but surely.
“It’s not right.”
His words sat in the air for a moment, heavy and hard to ignore. Of course he’d be obsessed over thinking through whether something was right or wrong…You knew him. He wanted to do whatever was right.
“Just because it’s not right, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you replied. “Plenty of wrong things exist that we can’t just ignore and push away.”
He sighed, closing the folder he had opened before tossing it aside on his desk and scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked…Exhausted. Clearly you meant something to him in a way he couldn’t control, and the lack of control was eating him alive.
You closed your laptop, slowly unfolded your legs like you were giving yourself an extra second to back out, and then you made your way over to his desk. You propped yourself up against the corner, a finger hooking just beneath the Congressman’s chin and gently bringing his gaze to yours.
“What do you want?” you murmured, searching his face for answers. “Tell me…”
You didn’t expect it. Not in the very least - not with how conflicted he seemed. But he stood up from his chair, towering over you and leaving your hand hanging in the negative space. Then, his palms were on your cheeks - large, warm, calloused…Comforting. And he stooped down, lips colliding with yours.
He didn’t even need to use words - the kiss expressed it all. It was firm, confident. Reverent and gentle like you were a precious treasure for the taking. He pulled back just briefly, just long enough to whisper, “You.”
His lips were back on yours before you even had a chance to react - rough, claiming, and messy. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, devouring every bit of you that he could. The kiss suffocated you and gave you life in the very same breath, and everything that followed was uncoordinated chaos.
Without breaking the kiss, his hands reached behind you and shoved everything off the desk - he sent papers, pens, binders, folders, paper clips…Everything tumbling to the floor. Luckily, the carpet muffled most of the sound.
His tongue was slipping into your mouth now, entangling itself with your own as you both moaned into the kiss. His hands grabbed roughly at your waist, picking you up and setting you down on the dead center of his desk - cold mahogany bit at the backs of your thighs through your stockings as he impatiently nudged his chair out of the way with his hip.
Although reluctant, he finally broke the kiss and knelt between your legs - he wasted no time rucking your tight dress up over your thighs. He couldn’t help himself - Lord knows he tried. He audibly groaned just at the sight of the silver garter clips biting into the delicate, black lace frill of your stockings, and how they squeezed at the plump flesh of your upper thighs just slightly. “Smart girl,” he murmured, tongue darting across his bottom lip as his eyes traced gradually upwards to where you were already soaking through your matching lacy panties. “You know what I like, don’t you?”
Your cheeks flushed dark crimson - guilty as charged! And you figured you didn’t need to actually answer that question seeing as you were already wearing the bastard child of all the clothing items that had ever gotten his attention.
Looking up for just a moment, breath hitching in your throat, you noticed the full-length mirror set just behind Bucky’s desk - the exact one you’d convinced him to get so he could keep better tabs on his appearance. And, right now, reflected back at you was a most scandalous image of yourself with Congressman Barnes nestled between your legs and your red-bottom heels dangling over his broad, muscled shoulders.
He noticed the way your breath caught and how you tensed beneath his touch, and his gaze followed your awe-struck stare to the reflective surface. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Mmm…I see,” he said, plotting. “Wanna watch while I make a mess of you?” His voice was low, quiet.
You nodded, coming off more eager than you’d intended. “Y-Yes…” you managed to stammer out, brain still stuck two minutes ago on the kiss and the confession.
He hummed in approval, and then you felt his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties - you began to feel the soft, slow drag of the thin fabric as he guided them down your legs and left them hanging off the pointy toe of your left heel - it was like he was displaying a trophy, soaking wet and glistening in the dim light.
You watched as he shifted himself barely off to the side and tugged you closer to the edge of the desk. Now, displayed proudly in the mirror, was your dripping heat. You swallowed hard, throat running dry as Bucky watched your reaction through reflection. “She’s pretty, huh?” he cooed, bringing his flesh hand up and gently spreading your folds apart with two fingers - he was touching you like glass, something fragile.
You saw how you clenched around nothing at just his words - needy and involuntary like your body knew exactly what and who it wanted - no, needed. “She’s cryin’ f’me already,” he drawled, voice slurred in lustful wonder. “Beggin’ for somethin’…Don’t ya think?” He tilted his head, stormy blues flicking up towards you. “Look at me and answer me, doll.” He was almost pleading.
You managed to peel your gaze away from the mirror and gaze directly down at him, seeing those once icy orbs turning dark as blown pupils swallowed nearly all signs of brilliant color. “Y-Yes,” you whispered. “N-Need it…”
“Need what?”
You could feel a shameful heat blooming up your neck and across your cheeks to the tips of your ears. “Y-You…Y-Your fingers…”
“Mouth too?”
You whined and nodded, so eager yet again.
“Greedy…” he muttered, but he didn’t protest any further as he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up your exposed cunt.
You shuddered at his delicate touch, his breath fanning warm against your skin as he circled the tip of his tongue teasingly along your clit and then trailed back down to your entrance. You gasped, hands flying up and finding purchase in that perfect raven hair.
You hung your head back and then felt him pull away, drawing a whimper of protest from you. “Want you lookin’ over there f’me,” he said, nodding towards the mirror. “Don’t you be closing those pretty little eyes on me now.”
He leaned up and kissed you, soft and chaste but just long enough to get a good taste of yourself on his lips. And, as he sat back, you felt him slowly push a finger inside you. You moaned - soft and breathy - while glancing into the reflection across from you and watching as his digit slowly disappeared inside you. Your legs trembled a little as you felt him crook that finger up, burying even deeper against your fluttering walls. “Fuck…” you sighed out.
“That’s it, doll. Beautiful. Think you can handle one more?” he murmured, kissing at the side of your neck - wet and sloppy - as he slowly moved his finger in and out in a rocking motion that was borderline hypnotic.
“Mmm…Mmhm,” you whined, gasping as you felt him immediately slip a second finger in right beside the first. You continued to watch the obscenities play out in the mirror as his fingers stretched you open, pumping in and out of your weeping cunt - slow and deep.
“Got a tight little pussy…She’s greedy, not wantin’ to let me go…” he teased, and you swore you saw stars as he shoved them in even deeper and curled them up right against that soft, spongy spot that had your back arching towards him. He seemed pleased with that reaction. “Is that it? That where ya need me, doll?”
You nodded almost frantically, crying out as he started to bully his fingers into that spot over and over and over. “Yes! Yes! Buck-“ He quickly clapped his metal hand down over your mouth.
“Quiet, doll,” he warned, shaking his head, “Don’t wanna get caught…”
You swallowed hard, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the blinding hot pleasure building inside you. “B-Bucky…” you mumbled against his hand, watching as his fingers fucked in and out of you, curling deep and scissoring apart to stretch you open for him.
“Atta girl…C’mon…Just let go f’me…” he encouraged, pupils blown as he glanced between you and the mirror. “Let me see how gorgeous you are when you cum f’me…”
And so you did, screaming out against the cold vibranium vice across your mouth as you felt yourself clench down tight around his fingers. The rolling tide of your orgasm washed over you - a warm, electric wave that left you breathless and panting and pulsing around his digits.
After coaxing you through your high, Bucky slipped his fingers out and held them up in front of him as he watched your glistening slick drip down the length of them. He licked his lips. “Look at that,” he breathed, not breaking eye contact as he popped the soaked digits in his mouth and moaned as he sucked them clean.
You whimpered. God, he was so fucking hot. The salt and pepper of his beard was also coated in you, shining golden in the lamplight. Watching how his eyes fluttered shut as he savored the taste of you on his skin…
He pulled his fingers out, wiping them dry on your dress before diving in head-first and beginning to lap up all the sweet release that coated your cunt.
“A-Ah~! B-Bucky…” you gasped out, chewing down hard on your bottom lip as he made the most obscene sounds while he licked and sucked you clean - devouring you like it was his last meal.
“Sweetest little pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mumbled against you, voice sending vibrations straight through your ruined core.
As he stood back up, you couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the way he was absolutely towering over you. You were entirely in his shadow and at his mercy.
He shrugged his suit jacket off, tossing it onto the nearby chair and then he slipped off his tie, balling it up in his fist. He looked at you with dark eyes, but there was a softness peeking through that contrasted so heavily with the words he spoke. “Open up, doll,” he drawled, low and slow. “Gotta make sure the whole of Congress doesn’t hear ya now.”
You obediently parted your lips, mouth almost being shoved open as he stuffed the balled-up silk into your mouth. You tried to moan, just to see how you’d sound. It was muffled, but just loud enough that he could still get the satisfaction of hearing it.
Then, metal clinked softly against metal as he slowly undid his belt and threw it over the chair where his jacket lay discarded. He popped open the button on his dress slacks, pulled down the fly, and then unfurled himself from inside his boxers. He wasn’t trying to put on a show, but that didn’t stop you from staring the entire time.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a delicious sight in your life, let alone the glaring fact that he was huge. His cock stood, curved slightly at attention and flushed red - aching and already leaking incessantly at the thought of being buried inside your tight cunt.
Bucky took a step towards you, almost completely closing the gap between his pelvis and yours, save the length of his throbbing dick. Flesh hand wrapping around the base, he teasingly guided the fat tip of his cock up and down your folds, lubing himself up before just notching himself at your entrance.
You whined through the gag, the corners of your eyes already damp with tears.
“Hmm? I didn’t quite catch that, doll,” he murmured as he began to push himself inside inch by agonizing inch.
And it wasn’t agonizing in the sense that it hurt. No, it was agonizing because all you wanted was his entire cock sheathed between your walls, but all he was doing was feeding it to you little by little. The stretch burned, but in a way that once again had your back arching off the damn desk and your toes curling in your heels as you locked your ankles around his waist.
Once he bottomed out, hips pressed flushed to yours, his hands roughly gripped at the flesh of your thighs as he carefully pulled out and then slammed his hips back against yours. You moaned out, voice muffled by the tie. Your eyes screwed shut, tears of pleasure tracking black trails of mascara down your cheeks.
“Uh-Uh,” he grunted. “C’mon, sweet thing. Open those pretty eyes f’me again. Don’t close ‘em now…”
You whimpered at his words, but obeyed like your life depended on it - like you were tethered to him and existing there just to grant his every lustful plea. Your eyelids, although heavy, fluttered back open and you gazed up at him through wet lashes.
The pace he set was brutal and breathtaking, and it had you moaning and sputtering around the makeshift gag as he dragged out to his tip and then slammed back in so your body was flush to his. You could feel the way his cock so perfectly nudged against that soft spot inside of you, leaving your thighs trembling in his grasp.
“Perfect little pussy is takin’ me so well,” he breathed out, head dropping down by your shoulder and soft grunts falling from his lips as he continued to pound into you. “Want me to fill ya up? Hmm?” he growled. “C-Cum f’me, doll. I can feel it…Know ya want to…”
Every merciless intrusion of his cock sent sharp, white-hot sparks of pleasure straight to your core. And it didn’t take very long before you were trying - and failing - to scream his name through the spit-dampened tie. Drool was running down the corners of your mouth and dribbling onto your tits from your chin - and, your cunt clenched down around his cock as your body shook and your fingers white-knuckled the edges of the desk.
Bucky followed shortly afterwards, your name rolling off his tongue so effortlessly and entangled in sweet praises. “That’s it, doll…Mmph~ Give it all to me…” He buried himself in as deep as he could, his cock throbbing and filling you up completely with his thick, warm release.
After a moment where the two of you were catching your breaths in the electrified silence, he suddenly slipped out and tucked himself back into his slacks. You squeaked a little in shock when you felt your combined releases leaking all over the dark mahogany of the desk in pearlescent, white streaks.
Bucky looped his belt back on and then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a large, embroidered handkerchief - of course he had one of those. “You made such a mess, doll,” he scolded softly, taking a corner of the soft, cotton square and dabbing up your hot, inky tears and pathetic drool before folding the hanky over itself and wiping up the cum that was still lazily dripping from your entrance.
Once you were clean enough, he retrieved your panties from the toe of your heels and helped you slip them back on. Only then did he take the tie back from your mouth.
“I expect you to have that speech done by six,” he said, like he hadn’t just fucked you right there in his office. “And then I want you to go home. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
You were shaking as you wobbled on your heels and tried your best to fix your mussed dress and hair.
As you turned to walk back to the armchair, head still floaty and fuzzy and warm in the afterglow, his hand caught your shoulder and you turned around.
“But don’t forget to let me walk you out tonight, okay?”
You could almost laugh. Bucky Barnes, always a goddamn gentleman.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › you tell yourself that isolation is enough. just you, the cottage and the sea. but some storms begin long before the rain starts to fall.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mature themes, character death (readers mother), grief, 5+1 with a twist, five stages of grief + one stage of love, stage two: anger, survivors guilt, emotional rollercoaster, hurt/comfort, semi slow burn, lowkey grumpy x grumpy, not beta read we die like... everything (also edited with the speed of light so soz if theres mistakes.)
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 4.5k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and the plot thickens! well not really, kinda, its starting to boil.
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
Grief, it turned out, was not a single catastrophic event.
It was routine.
That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about funerals, about loss and crying until your chest hurt. Nobody talked about the quiet days afterward. The ordinary Tuesdays, the mornings when you woke up and remembered all over again, the afternoons where nothing happened except the realization that she was still gone.
By the second week, your life had settled into something resembling a routine. Not a healthy one, not necessarily a happy one, but a routine nonetheless. You woke with the sun, not because you wanted to, but because the cottage did. The old curtains never fully blocked the morning light.
By seven o'clock, soft gold beams stretched across the living room floorboards and warmed the couch where you'd fallen asleep. Again. You'd stopped pretending the bedroom existed, the couch had become your bed, the coffee table your desk, the living room your entire world. Each morning began the same way. Coffee, the couch and silence. You'd curl beneath the same knitted blanket while the coffee cooled between your hands. The television remained off, the radio stayed untouched. The only sounds were the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and the distant crash of waves beyond the dunes.
The ocean was always there, patient and waiting. You still refused to look at it most days.
After coffee came chores. Laundry, dishes and sweeping sand from the entryway despite barely leaving the house. Tiny tasks meant to occupy your hands, to keep your thoughts from wandering.
Occasionally you'd make a trip into town, only when necessary. Groceries, hardware supplies, the pharmacy then immediately back home. You never lingered, never stopped to chat, never gave anyone the opportunity. The town remembered you, you quickly realized that, which was unfortunate because you'd been hoping it wouldn't. People recognized your last name, your face. Recognized your mother's eyes staring back from yours. The pity that followed was unbearable, so you learned how to move quickly, how to smile politely, how to escape before conversations could become condolences.
For a while, it worked.
Until you started noticing him everywhere.
The first time could've been coincidence, the second time too but by the third, you were beginning to suspect the universe had developed a twisted sense of humor. You spotted the motorcycle before you spotted him parked outside the diner, the same black motorcycle you'd accidentally backed into, the same motorcycle belonging to the most irritating man you'd met since moving home. You told yourself you weren't looking for it which would have been more convincing if you'd stopped noticing it immediately.
That morning he sat outside the diner with a rag draped over one shoulder, cleaning the bike while drinking coffee. You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.
The following week, he appeared at the grocery store while you were comparing pasta sauces. He was reaching for cereal when you saw him, then he saw you. Both of you immediately looked away. The interaction lasted less than three seconds and still somehow managed to annoy you. A few days later, he appeared at the hardware store carrying what looked like enough lumber to construct an entire neighborhood. You stood in the checkout line watching him load board after board onto a cart. An absurd amount. An unreasonable amount. A suspicious amount.
What exactly is he building? Noah's Ark?
The thought startled a laugh from you, not because it was particularly funny, because it had appeared at all. You hadn't realized how long it'd been since you'd made yourself laugh. The moment passed quickly and the guilt that followed arrived even quicker. By the time you reached your car, irritation had already settled back into place. Irritation seemed to be your default emotion lately. Everything bothered you, the tourists clogging sidewalks with cameras, couples holding hands, families eating ice cream together.
The sight of happiness felt almost offensive, which made you feel like a terrible person. You knew these people weren't doing anything wrong, you knew that. But grief wasn't logical, it didn't care that the world had continued moving after your mother died, continued laughing, continued celebrating. Continued existing as though nothing had happened. You hated it for that, hated how easy happiness looked on everyone else, hated how unfair it felt.
Most of all, you hated the anger, because anger wasn't supposed to be directed at her and yet sometimes it was. The thought would sneak up unexpectedly, while washing dishes, folding laundry, staring at the ocean through a crack in the curtains.
You left me.
The realization would hit immediately afterward, sharp and ugly and followed by guilt. Because she hadn't chosen to leave, she hadn't abandoned you and wanted to die. You knew that, you knew it with every rational part of your brain. But the irrational part didn't care, the irrational part remembered unanswered questions, unfinished conversations, future holidays that would never happen. The irrational part wanted someone to blame, even when there was nobody.
One afternoon you found yourself sitting in your parked car outside the grocery store. Watching a mother and daughter load shopping bags into their trunk. The daughter couldn't have been older than sixteen, she was talking animatedly about something. The mother laughed and reached over, fixing strand of hair that had blown into her daughter's face. Such a small gesture, one you'd witnessed a thousand times growing up.
The sight of it made your throat ache as you looked away immediately. You quickly started the engine and drove home.
The cottage greeted you with the same silence it always did. The same closed curtains, same unopened boxes, the same grief waiting patiently inside. The ocean rolled endlessly toward shore outside, yet you completely ignored it and sank onto the couch and convinced yourself this was enough. Just you, the house and the beach. Nothing more. Nothing else.
Certainly not friends.
And definitely not sarcastic men with motorcycles who somehow kept appearing wherever you went.
Unfortunately, life seemed determined to disagree.
There came a point where you were sure that the universe was determined to laugh at your suffering, specifically on Tuesdays. You were carrying a basket of laundry back inside when your hip brushed the railing, there was a sharp crack, a groan of wood, then half the section gave way. The basket slipped from your hands as you jumped in shock and clothes spilled across the porch.
The carved and smoothed weathered wood laid there snapped in half and scattered on the stairs and ground. It just… broke. There was no heavy winds rocking it from its post, no dramatic accident involving a flightless pelican or raccoon. Just age. Years of salt air and harsh summers finally deciding they'd had enough. For a moment, you simply stared at the broken wood and splintered boards.
It wasn't even that bad. Objectively speaking, it was fixable. A weekend project, just a minor inconvenience. Something your mother would've laughed about.
That thought did it and something inside you snapped right alongside the railing.
"Oh, come on!" The words burst from you startling in the quiet morning air. Your eyes burned instantly. "Seriously?"
The porch, the laundry, the broken wood—it all blurred together. Every tiny frustration from the past few months surged forward at once. The stuck screen door, the leaky faucet. The endless paperwork, the loneliness. The fact that every time something broke, there was no one left to call. Because your mother would've known exactly what to do. She always had.
You could practically hear her voice.
"Don't panic, sweetheart. It's just wood."
Just wood. Except she wasn't here, and suddenly that felt unforgivable. You kicked a loose board, immediately regretted it then stood on the porch and cried angry, frustrated tears that had absolutely nothing to do with the railing and everything to do with the fact that the one person who would've helped you fix it was gone.
Two hours later you found yourself standing inside the hardware store. Still irritated, still grieving, still holding a broken piece of railing like evidence in a court case. The owner glanced between the wood and your expression. A wise man would've stopped there, unfortunately, he chose to speak.
"You'll need something stronger than wood glue."
"I don't."
His eyebrows rose. "You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
Your grip tightened on the broken board. "I just need glue and nails."
"You need replacement wood."
"No, I need glue and nails."
The owner sighed. The long-suffering sigh of a man who'd probably had this exact conversation a thousand times.
"Ma'am—"
"I know how to fix a porch railing."
That wasn't entirely true, the owner clearly knew it, you clearly knew it. Neither of you acknowledged it.
"You really don't."
"I really do."
"You don't."
"I do."
A voice appeared behind you.
"You definitely don't."
You closed your eyes. Of course, of course it was him. Turning slowly, you found the motorcycle guy standing a few feet away with a box of screws tucked beneath one arm.
His expression carried entirely too much amusement.
"You."
"Me."
The hardware store owner looked between both of you. Immediately sensing entertainment. Traitor.
You folded your arms. "What do you want?"
He nodded toward the railing section in your hands.
"To save your porch."
"I didn't ask."
"Good thing."
Your jaw clenched. "You know, some people manage to have conversations without being irritating."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Haven't met any."
The hardware store owner barked out a laugh and you shot him a look that had him suddenly finding a price tag very interesting. Coward.
The irritating man glanced at the wood again and his amusement faded slightly.
"You broke it?"
"It broke."
His gaze flicked toward your face. You weren't sure what he saw there and whatever it was made him pause. The teasing disappeared completely.
"How bad?"
The question surprised you, not because of the words but because of the tone. It came out gentler, unexpectedly so.
You looked away first.
"Worse than it looks."
Something in your voice must've given you away because he nodded slowly, as though he understood the answer had very little to do with the porch. For a second, neither of you spoke, the store felt oddly quiet.
Then he set his box of screws on the counter.
"I can help."
Your immediate response arrived before he finished speaking.
"No."
His eyebrow rose. "You sure?"
"Positive."
"You know how to replace a railing?"
You hesitated, which was a mistake.
His eyebrow rose higher.
"I'll figure it out."
"That's usually code for 'I absolutely will not figure it out.'"
You glared and he did nothing but looked unimpressed. The annoying thing was he wasn't being cruel, just honest, which somehow irritated you more.
"I don't need charity."
"Didn't say you did."
"You think I can't do it."
"I think your porch is going to end up in the yard."
The hardware store owner immediately turned away to hide another laugh and you considered throwing something at both of them.
He leaned against the counter. "I'll help."
"No."
"You'll help me."
You blinked. "What?"
"We fix it together."
His shoulders lifted slightly, a matter-of-fact shrug like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
"You can carry things."
Your glare deepened. "I can do more than carry things."
"Good."
A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Then you can use the drill."
You stared, suspicious, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the typical pity to follow. There wasn't one, just a simple offer. No condolences, no careful expression people used whenever they looked at you now. Just a guy offering to help fix a broken porch. The normalcy of it caught you off guard.
"I'm not going to let you help just to laugh at me."
The words escaped before you could stop them. The moment they did, you wished they hadn't. Because suddenly you sounded exactly as vulnerable as you felt.
Something softened briefly in his expression, then gone almost immediately.
"No one's laughing."
Your throat tightened.
He looked away first this time, giving you space to recover.
"We start Saturday."
"You've already decided?"
"Yep."
"You don't even know if I agreed."
He grabbed the box of screws from the counter and started toward the door.
"You will."
The confidence was infuriating.
"You're impossible."
He glanced over his shoulder, the smallest hint of a grin appearing.
"Saturday. Eight o'clock."
"You don't even know where I live."
"I'll find it." Then he disappeared out the door.
Leaving you standing in the hardware store holding a broken piece of railing and wondering how, exactly, you'd managed to get voluntold into spending an entire afternoon with the most annoying man in town. And the truly irritating part? For the first time in weeks, the thought didn't sound entirely terrible.
Saturday arrived bright and hot. The kind of coastal morning that already carried the promise of humidity before nine o'clock. You'd been awake since six, not because you were excited, because you were annoyed. There was a difference.
The coffee in your mug had long since gone cold by the time a motorcycle rumbled up the driveway.
You watched from behind the living room curtain, like a suspicious raccoon protecting its territory.
He parked beside the cottage, killed the engine and climbed off. No hesitation, no awkwardness. No lingering in the driveway trying to figure out how to navigate you and your dead mothers house. He simply grabbed a toolbox from one side of the bike and headed for the porch. The simplicity of it caught you off guard.
By now most people in town treated you one of two ways. Either they drowned you in sympathy, or they looked at you like you might shatter if somebody spoke too loudly. You hated both. He apparently chose a secret third option, ignoring the issue entirely.
You screen door creaked open to get a better look, he was already by the railing taking in the damage.
"You planning on helping?"
You looked at him, already setting tools down, already working. No good morning, no condolences, no questions. Just work. Something inside you relaxed despite yourself.
"You're early."
"You're late."
You glanced at the clock. Eight-oh-two.
"You said eight."
"Exactly."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
The response came so quickly you almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and stepped onto the porch. The morning sunlight illuminated him fully for the first time as he shrugged off an overshirt and rolled his sleeves above his elbows.
And froze you in place.
His left arm was… metal.
Not a prosthetic, not exactly. Something far more complex. Dark silver glinted beneath the sunlight, gold flecks and intricate plates disappearing beneath his sleeve. For a moment your brain simply stalled, not because it frightened you or because it looked strange. Because suddenly a realization settled heavily inside your chest. Nobody ended up with an arm like that because life had been easy.
Whatever story existed there, whatever pain, whatever loss.
Whatever circumstances had led him here, none of it could've been simple. You thought about the way you'd immediately labeled him irritating, thought about every sarcastic comment, every assumption. And felt a little embarrassed.
He noticed your staring and his expression immediately shuttered. A defensive wall sliding neatly into place. You recognized it because you'd built plenty of your own.
Your gaze dropped away first, not out of discomfort, but respect. The tension eased without comment or explanation. And you became just two people quietly deciding not to ask questions neither was ready to answer.
You picked up a stack of replacement boards. "Where do you want these?"
Something flickered across his face, brief surprise and gone almost immediately.
"Over here."
And just like that, you got to work.
The strange thing was how easy it became. Not the physical labor, that part was miserable. By noon you were sweaty, sunburned, and questioning every life choice that had led you to carrying lumber in ninety-degree weather.
No. The easy part was him. He didn't fill every silence, didn't pepper you with questions or force conversation because he found quiet uncomfortable. He'd told you his name and didn't make a sorry face when you'd told him yours like everyone else did, he'd looked at your weather-worn house not as the pity project for its recently deceased owner, but just as it was. An old ass house with a broken railing that needed to be fixed. Hours passed with only occasional exchanges.
"Hand me that drill."
"Which one?"
"The drill-shaped one."
"You own three drill-shaped ones."
"Good point."
Then silence again, comfortable silence, the kind you'd forgotten existed. Back in the city every moment had required something. Meetings, calls, presentations and constant conversations. Noise. This felt different, just two people working beside one another with no expectations attached. When lunch rolled around, you disappeared inside and returned with two sweating glasses of lemonade.
Bucky accepted his with a nod, took one sip and paused.
"This is homemade."
"Obviously."
He stared at the glass. Then at you. Then back at the glass.
"You made lemonade from actual lemons."
You frowned. "That's generally how lemonade works."
"No." He shook his head. "People buy powder now."
"That's horrifying."
"That's modern society."
You snorted and the sound surprised both of you. Bucky hid his smile behind another sip before getting back to work.
The porch took longer than either of you expected. One afternoon turned into three, then three became nearly a week. Neither of you mentioned it. The project simply expanded, a few loose boards here., a weathered step there, an unstable post that definitely needed replacing. Each day Bucky arrived around eight and each day you found yourself making two glasses of lemonade instead of one.
By Wednesday, he'd stopped knocking. By Thursday, you'd stopped pretending to be annoyed about it. On Friday afternoon, you climbed onto the porch with an armful of supplies.
Bucky immediately took half from you.
"I can carry things."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because this only needs one set of hands."
He didn't even look up from his work, just continued measuring a board.
"You can sit down."
The casualness of it made something warm settle unexpectedly in your chest. Not pity or condescension. Just consideration, a simple kindness from one person to another. The sort your mother used to perform without thinking. You sat for the first time all week, just watching him work. The breeze lifted strands of his hair, the ocean hummed softly in the distance and for a moment, things felt almost normal.
Then Bucky looked up, completely serious.
"Did you hear about the lumber thief?"
You narrowed your eyes immediately. "No."
"That's because I wooden tell you."
The silence that followed was devastating as you stared at him absolutely horrified. Bucky looked immensely pleased with himself.
"That was terrible."
"I know."
"Objectively awful."
"I've got more."
"Oh God."
He ignored you. "What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?"
"No."
"Sofishticated."
The laugh escaped before you could stop it, sharp, unexpected and real. Both of you froze as the sound seemed to echo across the porch, across the yard, across weeks of grief and anger and loneliness. For one brief second, it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Your smile disappeared almost immediately, guilt arriving right on schedule, because laughter still felt wrong somehow. Like betrayal, like forgetting the truth.
But Bucky didn't comment, didn't point it out or make it a thing.
He simply picked up another board.
"See?"
You rolled your eyes. "What?"
"My jokes are growing on you."
"They're not."
"They are."
"They absolutely aren't."
Bucky grinned. And despite every effort to remain irritated, something suspiciously close to enjoyment began taking root between the two of you. Small and unplanned, like a wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. Neither of you noticed it happening, not yet but it was there all the same.
The sound lingered long after it ended. That laugh, short but genuine. You hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant to let it slip past the carefully constructed walls you'd spent months building yet there it was. Hanging in the warm afternoon air, proof, and for a moment everything remained exactly the same. The porch, the ocean, the lemonade sweating against the table. Bucky looking far too pleased with himself.
Then something shifted, a sharp yet subtle splinter working its way beneath your skin. Because suddenly you realized something. That had been the first genuine laugh you'd had since your mother died. Not a polite smile, not a forced chuckle, not something performed because social etiquette demanded it.
A real laugh. The kind that escaped before you could stop it.
The realization hit hard enough to steal your breath and your stomach dropped, chest tightened and the warmth from moments ago vanished entirely.
Bucky was still talking, saying something about how he was obviously hilarious. You didn't hear a word of it because all you could think about was your mother's funeral. The cemetery, the closed casket, the flowers, the dirt.
And you're sitting here, laughing.
The guilt arrived immediately, fast and brutal racketing through every bone in your body. As though happiness itself had become something forbidden.
You stood abruptly, the movement startled both of you.
"I need a minute."
The words came out strange, thin and tight and before Bucky could respond, you disappeared inside. The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and enveloped you in silence. You gripped the edge of the sink and stared at your reflection, waiting for the feeling to pass. Instead it grew.
Your eyes burned and the first tear slipped free. Followed immediately by another.
"No."
You shook your head as though refusing would somehow stop it. This wasn't fair. None of it was fair. The emotions crashed together so violently you couldn't separate them. Sadness. Relief. Joy. Grief. All tangled together. You'd laughed and for one brief second, you'd forgotten and somehow that hurt more than remembering. Because your mother wasn't supposed to be a memory, she was supposed to be here. Supposed to be sitting on the porch criticizing Bucky's construction techniques, supposed to be making lemonade.
Supposed to be alive.
Instead she was buried beneath six feet of earth.
And you were here. Laughing, fixing a porch, living.
Anger brewed fast and hot inside you. You should've been sad, should've curled up against the tub and cried until your ribs ached. But being angry was easy. Too easy. You were angry at yourself, for laughing, for enjoying yourself, for letting someone in.
You'd had a plan. You'd come home to be alone, to disappear quietly with just you the house and the beach. Nothing else. Then somehow a sarcastic idiot with a motorcycle had managed to wedge himself into your routine. And worst of all? You hadn't stopped him.
The irrational part of your mind then shifted the anger towards your mother. You hated that part. Because she wasn't supposed to leave, she wasn't supposed to die yet. She wasn't supposed to leave you standing alone in a bathroom trying to figure out how to survive without her.
The tears came harder and you swiped angrily at your face, furious with yourself for crying, furious with everything.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, low and heavy. A storm moving in from the water so fast that by the time you emerged from the bathroom, the sky had darkened considerably. The sunlight was gone quickly replaced by thick gray clouds gathering over the ocean.
Bucky looked up immediately with concern flickering across his face, not pity. Concern. Somehow that angered you too.
"You okay?"
The question was gentle. You hated it.
"I'm fine."
The lie sounded terrible.
Bucky glanced at the unfinished section of railing, then back at you clearly unconvinced but didn't say anything. You couldn't stand it anymore, the kindness, the patience. The fact that he kept looking at you like you were a person instead of a problem.
"You're done for today."
His brow furrowed.
"What?"
"You can go."
He looked around at the tools, the unfinished work, the section of porch that still wasn't safe.
"We didn't get much done."
"I don't care."
Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The ocean beyond the dunes had turned dark and restless, whitecaps churning against the shoreline.
Bucky set down the board he'd been holding.
"The railing still needs another day."
"I said I don't care."
The words snapped out sharper than intended. You saw the surprise cross his face, brief and then gone.
"It's not really safe to use yet."
"Then I'll fix it myself."
"You don't know how."
The statement wasn't cruel. Just factual, and that somehow made it worse.
Something inside you finally snapped.
"Then maybe I'll learn."
The air between you went still as the storm pressed heavier overhead.
Bucky just stared quietly, waiting. You hated that too. The waiting, the understanding, the fact that he wasn't fighting back.
"You know what?" your voice rose. "You've done enough."
His jaw tightened slightly yet still no argument, no anger, just silence. And suddenly you couldn't stop. Because if you stopped talking, you might start crying again.
"I'm not even paying you."
Nothing.
"You've been here all week."
Nothing.
"You don't have to keep showing up."
The first drops of rain began tapping softly against the porch roof. Bucky remained exactly where he was, steady and calm. You wish he would say something, do something. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry, wanted him to give you something solid to push against.
Instead he simply waited.
So you delivered the only thing sharp enough to hurt.
"Just get the hell out of my house."
The words landed heavily, and immediately you regretted them. Not enough to take them back, but enough. The rain intensified, steady now, the ocean roaring louder beyond the dunes. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Bucky nodded once, a small motion, almost imperceptible.
"Okay."
No lecture, no argument, no demand for an explanation. No reminder that you didn't mean it. Just okay. He gathered his tools, packed everything away, moved with the same quiet efficiency he'd shown all week. You stood frozen, watching and waiting for him to say something. Anything. He never did. A few minutes later the motorcycle engine rumbled to life, then faded into the distance. Gone. The storm arrived fully after that. Rain hammered against the roof, wind rattled the unfinished railing and the ocean churned violently beyond the windows. Dark water crashing against the shore in angry waves.
You stood alone on the porch long after he'd left. Staring at the section of railing still broken, half repaired, half destroyed, caught somewhere in between. Just like everything else. Just like you.
Thunder cracked overhead and just like that the cottage was empty again, not like when you'd arrived. This time you had known a presence, known warmth and something eerily close to friendship, and now you know its absence. And you don't know which feels worse.
➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 7.8k
➴ WARNINGS: college drinking, IT'S HALLOWEEN!, mentions of friends getting high, being at a bar, drunk kissing, drunk!reader (she is not too drunk to not consent — tipsy is the word), SMUT (cowgirl, missionary, couch sex, p in v, pull out method, oral (m receiving)), Bucky actually trying to be good, Dot being a bad friend.
➴ SUMMARY: Your brain is too reliant on technology, so when your phone dies mid-halloween bar crawl, there's only one number you know by heart. Bucky's.
+fran: time to get these two idiots through some more. thank you for all the love on their prom night <3, I meant for this to be like 5k, how did it almost get to 8k? idk special thanks to aluri for being the producer to my director/screenwriter @chateaubarnes
⤷ songs for this: snap out of it - arctic monkeys, twilight zone - ariana grande, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - panic at the disco
CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE!
more
Manhattan had always been where your heart settled.
There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.
It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.
You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.
The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents.
You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"
Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.
"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."
Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."
"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."
He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."
Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.
Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.
When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.
The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.
And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture.
Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.
The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.
There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.
It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home.
Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.
Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.
Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.
Everywhere.
You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se.
Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Sunday breakfasts.
Study sessions.
Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.
You stayed exactly what you'd always been.
Best friends. Forever.
23 blocks apart.
Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.
It was a competitive sport.
By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.
Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.
It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.
Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.
You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.
"I love this city," you sighed happily.
Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."
"Because every five minutes I find another reason."
Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."
"It isn't already?" Dot asked.
Ah, sweet Dot.
She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.
If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it.
Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."
The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.
You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.
"Where'd she go?"
Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."
You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."
"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"
"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over.
Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years.
He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…
Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin.
Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.
"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."
"It found me," you corrected.
"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.
You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"
"Our piña colada."
"You've known me for four months."
"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."
You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."
"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.
Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.
It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter.
Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.
The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.
"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"
You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off.
Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."
You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"
She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again.
"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.
You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."
"No girlfriend?"
"Nope."
"No situationship?"
You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy."
"I might ask him to coffee."
Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin.
You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.
Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.
"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."
Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"
"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"
Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?"
At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"
Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you.
Joaquin nodded. "Oh."
"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."
The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.
Dot smiled. "Even better."
"Better?"
"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.
Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."
You forced a smile. "Yeah."
It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.
He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.
You'd always known that.
You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.
Kate bumped your shoulder gently.
"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"
One drink became two.
Two became dancing.
Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.
Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.
At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.
You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.
Quick.
Easy.
He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.
"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.
"I absolutely will."
"You absolutely won't."
Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.
"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."
"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."
"A hero's death."
By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.
Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.
Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.
Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.
Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.
You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.
Only Yelena remained your constant.
Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.
"You are doing that thing."
You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"
She rolled her eyes. "The blink."
"...The blink?"
"You blink slower when you are drunk."
You faked offense. "I do not."
She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."
"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."
She hummed. "Mm."
"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk."
You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."
You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you.
Dead.
The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water."
She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.
Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.
And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.
He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.
There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."
Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.
So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.
And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.
He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.
The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.
SHIELD.
The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.
Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say.
"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch.
Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.
Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.
You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"
Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."
"Not a thing."
That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation.
"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on."
And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.
Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."
His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.
you look like shit 💩
Was Bucky's reply.
Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night.
You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.
howdy partner 🤠
Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.
nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)
The response from you came with a chuckle.
you're such a hater
He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.
Unknown Caller ID
He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again.
Unknown Caller ID
This time he picked up.
"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line.
"Buck?"
He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone.
Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"
"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"
He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"
"On the floor." You shrugged.
Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"
You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"
"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.
The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself.
"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."
"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing.
"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."
His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."
He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.
"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."
You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup.
"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go.
"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."
He snorted. "...Great."
"It was not holy."
Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."
"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.
"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."
"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."
Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in.
So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest.
"No cutting."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again.
"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it.
"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."
The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"
Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"
And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"
You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him.
His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.
The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."
Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"
At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."
"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.
Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful.
"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"
Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."
"Helpful."
"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"
Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?"
You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."
"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.
You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."
Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."
Bucky can fix it.
Bucky will know.
Bucky always answers.
And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.
The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.
The problem was that neither of you could see it.
It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.
Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.
She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.
Yelena had given up.
She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.
"Where is everyone?"
Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."
Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"
Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."
That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"
Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."
"Like... Bucky Bucky?"
"How many Buckys do you know?"
Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."
"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot.
Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar.
"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories."
There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.
"You have thirty seconds."
Dot grinned. "You're an angel."
"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.
"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.
He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.
The game was back on.
Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.
The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.
He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.
The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein.
And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water.
His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.
You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean.
You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV.
You smiled. "You know me so well."
"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.
Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.
You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.
You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.
He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.
The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.
Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time.
Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks.
He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."
You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."
"You do." He pressed.
"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV.
Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."
"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile.
"You're staring directly at my face."
"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.
He mocked offense, "Wow."
"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him.
"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."
"Give me my chicken."
"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."
"Apologize."
"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."
He moved it again.
You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.
Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his.
Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.
It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.
You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever.
You could always blame it on the tequila.
Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car.
Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table.
Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."
You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now.
He looked at you almost pleading.
Please, don't do this to me again.
"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.
Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."
The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him.
The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips.
His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you.
Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.
Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you.
You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.
His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living.
As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.
The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide.
"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.
He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly.
"Bucky…"
Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.
You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering.
Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest.
When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric.
Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth.
Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.
It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs.
He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"
You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"
Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.
His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable.
The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.
Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what.
And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.
The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you.
Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.
His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him.
Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips.
He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."
You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs.
"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth.
You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."
"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."
You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer.
He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs.
You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.
Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.
"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"
Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."
Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart."
“Bucky, please, please, ah!”
His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"
"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?
Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished.
His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go.
And you didn't.
His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.
Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.
Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth.
“Good girl.” You came around him with a whine, and he gritted his teeth together to starve off his own release until he fucked you through yours.
When he felt you stopped shaking in his arms and squeezing around him, he pulled out quickly, sitting up on his knees, hand wrapping around his slick shaft.
He gave himself fast strokes until his eyes fluttered closed, coming with a groan of cuss words, spilling hot ropes of his release over your navel, catching the light from the TV faintly.
Both of you stayed in silence, catching your breaths, Bucky's vision finally coming back to normal from the tunnel vision a few minutes prior.
He muttered something under his breath, grabbing his shirt from the floor and using it to clean you up.
Morning arrived quietly.
Dark blue that faded into gray light filtered through the gap in Bucky's curtains, turning the bedroom that muted blue-gray color Manhattan seemed to specialize in after a rainy night.
For a few seconds, Bucky didn't move, he wasn't entirely sure what had woken him.
The distant sound of traffic several floors below, the radiator clicking, the faint headache beginning behind his eyes despite the fact that he'd barely had anything to drink.
Then you shifted beside him.
Your back was partially turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the sheets pulled up around you. You looked peaceful.
Bucky felt anything but. He turned his head slightly, looked at you, then immediately looked back at the ceiling.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Before he could spin too much into his own spiral, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.
He knew that name, it was one of your friends, the blonde one from South Carolina, he thought. He'd met her once, briefly, when you'd brought a few people over before going out.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
i got your number and thought i should just text you 🙈
You gave her his number?
Before he could think of waking you up and asking, another message came through.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
I was gonna ask you for it myself but figured this was easier lol
Bucky's jaw tightened and suddenly the night before rearranged itself in his head. Something bitter settled in his chest.
He should've known better.
God, he should've known better.
You were drunk, emotional. Nostalgic. You weren't thinking straight and he felt like a fucking creep for taking advantage of you. Being exactly the type of guy he was trying to protect you from.
It didn't mean what he'd wanted it to mean.
His phone buzzed again.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
anyway i think you're really cute and if you're free sometime maybe we could grab coffee?
And in the kitchen, Bucky moved around wondering why you kept pushing him toward other people when, for one night, he'd thought maybe you'd finally chosen him.
You woke up feeling like the God of Thunder himself was banging a lightning bold against your head. Someone could've told you you were inside a church bell during mass and you'd believe them.
However, the first thing you noticed is that you were alone.
Alone, and very naked in Bucky Barnes' bed.
Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach, like you swallowed a twelve-pack of razor blades.
Absolutely nothing to do with your tequila intake.
You sat up and called his name a couple of times with no answer, looking beside you at his alarm clock that marked 10:13am.
You reached for your phone in the nightstand, seeing he had put it on the charger, and found a glass of water and two Ibuprofen.
When you touched the screen, there was a text from him.
Had to go into work. Your clothes are in the dryer. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. :)
No "we should talk", no "about last night", just that.
You stared at the text as though you could will another sentence to appear. What were you expecting? For him to wake you up with breakfast? For him to confess some decade-long secret? For one drunken night to suddenly change everything between you?
You were being ridiculous.
This was Bucky.
Your Bucky.
As you scrolled down you texts, you opened the groupchat to Dot sending a screenshot of your very Bucky, agreeing to grab coffee. With her. And you wondered why it suddenly made you feel like you'd made the worst mistake of your life.
a little bit of fran in your life: hey y'all.... how are we feeling.... I know, I know, don't quarter me on the town square over this please... my eye was twitching the entire time I had to write Dot. I promise I'll make them even dumber before they actually realize what's right in front of them......
[i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]
summary: After years of no contact, your concern and worry for the man you used to be so close to become too much for you to stay away anymore. And after seeing you again, Bucky only realizes what he could have when he is close to losing it again.
word count: 4.7k
warnings/tags: 18+, brief mentions of smut but nothing graphic, swearing, bucky is the biggest yearner ever, mentions of bucky’s mental health issues, reader is down bad for bucky, alpine is there too, a little bit of angst
author’s note: This was inspired by a TikTok I’ve seen about how Bucky lost his spark again after tftws and I really enjoyed writing this story, but I wasn’t as convinced by it anymore after I edited it. I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this one, but I hope you’ll like it anyway!
Even though Bucky hadn't been on a mission in what felt like forever, he didn't think that the instincts fighting had taught him were something he was ever going to lose.
It was already way past midnight when he unlocked the door to his apartment, the soft click a gentle reminder that the day was over now, that he had a few hours before he had to get back to Capitol Hill, a few hours of peace and quiet he got to spend with Alpine before he would go back to spending his whole day with the kind of people whose rules he'd neither cared about or played by when he had still spend his time on missions instead of long meetings with terrible coffee and even worse opinions.
When he'd first become a Congressman and was so busy navigating this unknown territory, he welcomed all the distractions like an old friend he was more than desperate to see again- a coping mechanism Dr.Raynor wouldn't approve of, but the only one that ever really managed to pull him away from the emotions that threatened to swallow him whole.
At the beginning, it had worked so well Bucky had dared to think that maybe, just maybe, this was his chance at finally having something good.
At finally having a life that brought him the peace he so desperately wanted.
He probably should've known that something that good wasn't something a man like him would ever deserve to have, but rationality had never been something that worked when it came to Bucky's feelings.
So now that he was trapped in the same tiring cicle he had tried to escape from when he decided to leave his life on active duty behind, the life that had included you, he was grateful for the exhaustion weighing his bones down now, because it usually meant that sleep would come to him more easily than it usually did, something you learn to cherish when being asleep is the only time your mind lets you have a break.
When he opened the door, ready to mindlessly kick of his shoes and greet his little girl, a shiver so cold and dreading rolled down his back, he reached for a gun he didn't even carry anymore.
It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet he'd grown so used to, though, not the one that cruelly reminded him the only company he ever got to have was the sound of late night traffic seeping though the window and soft paws padding against the polished floor.
This felt different. The air was still, charged with something Bucky couldn't exactly place yet but definitely implicated that he had company- not the kind anyone ever wanted to have.
He was painfully aware of it when he closed the door behind him, moving through the apartment with a kind of stealthiness you only carried after spending decades of your life as the most feared assasin in the world.
Honestly, with as many enemies he had, Bucky wouldn't be surprised if somebody came here for revenge, wanting to take from him what he took from them, wanting justice for something something as cruel as what Hydra had done to them, paying no mind to the fact that Bucky was as much a victim to Hydra's violence as they were.
Most people didn't understand that, though. He was the one stained by the blood Hydra had shed, the weapon they had used to get everyone and everything out of the way that didn't fit into their system of control.
And actions led by the need for revenge were barely ever ones that cared about logic, about whether or not he had any choice in what his body had been forced to do.
Bucky understood that better than he maybe should. And he was prepared for anything, because there were endless scenarios for what might happen if there was really someone in his apartment, just waiting for the right moment of distraction that made him vulnerable enough for them to charge at him.
That moment wasn't going to come, though. Vulnerability wasn't something Bucky did anymore, which left him prepared for whatever was to happen now.
At least, that was what he thought until he saw you sitting at his kitchen table like you owned the place, Alpine blinking at him like this was a completely normal situation and you didn't just break into his apartment after two years of no contact.
Maybe it would've been normal if the two of you hadn't seperated back then, both of your lives too much of a mess for this thing simmering between you to have any future. Maybe, if you had pushed through all issues and carried the weight both of you had to deal with together, this would be your shared home now, a place that offered the kind of security and comfort neither of you ever had much of.
But this probably was't the right time to think about that.
Some of the tension seeped out of his body, shoulders relaxing when his mind registered that the intruder wasn't one of his old handlers or someone who wanted him dead, but the longer he looked at you, the more he realised that a scenario like that might've been easier to handle than this.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The lazy grin that spread across your face didn't do much to calm his still very much racing heart, his pulse stumbling in a way it hadn't in such a long time, he hadn't thought he would ever feel it again.
You truly were as beautiful as he remembered.
Still, you also were as infuriating as ever as you stretched in your seat, taking your sweet time to answer him like you weren't pulling feelings back up that he thought were long buried under layers of denial and him repeatedly telling himself that you were better off without him anyway, that him missing you was better than dragging you into his life, a place someone as good as you had no business being in.
And here you were anyway, completely unaware of his inner turmoil and as unbothered as ever.
"It's good to see you too, Barnes. Honestly, I expected a little more enthusiasm, but I guess this works as well."
Bucky could only scoff, because of course you would be the one making jokes in a situation like this.
It wasn't funny, though. Not at all.
Watching you here, your features illuminated by the warm light the street lamp provided, that was all Bucky had wished for and still the one thing he'd dreaded the most.
You looked the same, mostly, but there were a few changes he couldn't help but notice, especially not with how well he had every little detail about you comitted to memory.
There was a roughness to you there hadn't been before, the hard lines of your face catching him off guard a little, because even on the toughest missions and in the most dangerous situations, you'd never failed to lighten the mood with the wit and fire he adored so much.
Now, the light in your eyes seemed dimmed, almost like the last years had been as hard on you as they had been on him.
It was unnerving, seeing you look so similar and yet so different, but what really worried him was that you were here, for what reason Bucky didn't know yet, but it couldn't be good if you sought him out, even after such a long time of the two of you not talking to each other at all.
And whatever it was, Bucky was in trouble, that much he was sure of.
Because if you needed his help, he was more than willing to give it to you, no matter what it might mean for the political career he had worked so hard for. And knowing that, knowing just how much power you still had over him, even now?
That was dangerous.
If it was up to him, Bucky would ask you about it immediately, more than ready to go get the duffle bag he kept packed just in case, ready to follow you wherever you needed him to be.
But you didn't work like that. You were terrible at needing help and even worse at accepting it. Calling you out on it would do more damage than good, so Bucky did his best to just focus on the next best thing and let you navigate this, at your pace.
"Already made yourself comfortable, I see." He gestured towards the half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting in front of you, something you used to eat all the time back when the two of you had still worked together.
Bucky didn't even like the combination all too much, but he kept it stocked anyway. Mostly because it helped lighten the heavy feeling in his chest, the one that usually got particulary bad when he was lying in bed at night, exhausted but unable to shut his mind off and painfully aware of how empty the king sized bed felt without you in it.
It was pathetic, eating the food you liked just to beat the lonliness for a while, but you'd always been good at making him feel the kind of things he never thought a man like him would ever get to feel again.
"Honestly, I thought with the amount of money you're making now you'd have all different kinds of fancy stuff stocked in your fridge, but you really don't have anything. What are you living off, coffee and thin air? That's just sad, Barnes."
"I eat out a lot." There wasn't even a reason for him to explain himself, but Bucky couldn't help it. Some part of him wanted you to believe that he was doing okay, that he wasn't as miserable as his apartment suggested he was, but who was he even kidding?
You'd always been able too see past his lies and performances, and with the way you were looking at him right now, it was safe to say that you knew exactly what was going on in his head.
You'd always been perceptive like that, understanding him in a way nobody else ever managed to.
And as infuriating as it was, he'd missed that.
"Sure you do, Congressman. I'm sure that these days, you're too busy for cooking anyway."
You didn't mean it in a mocking way, surely, but it irked him anyway, the way you called him Congressman. Like this version of him, the Bucky that was so lost in politics and running from his own life didn't have time for the things he used to love, that all the meals he used to cook after missions didn't have a space in this life anymore.
And maybe they didn't, now that he didn't have someone to care about and cook for anymore.
"Yeah well, some of us have more important stuff to do than that."
It was a stupid thing to say, unfair as much as it was wrong. What you did was important, even more so than the work he did, but Bucky was too stubborn to admit that the lack of quality his life really had didn't have anything to do with his job but everything with the lack if your presence in his life.
There wasn't any offense on your face, though- the exact opposite, actually. The smirk on your face only widened, an understanding look on your face which told him that you knew exactly what he was doing but didn't call him out on it anyway. Instead, you let your eyes fall onto Alpine and the small bowl sitting next to her, changing the topic for Bucky's sake more than it was for yours.
"I fed your kitty, by the way. The little thing wouldn't stop screaming at me." A chuckle slipped past your lips. "Guess you never lost the habit to surround yourself with stubborn women, huh?"
"I guess not, no."
The implication was more than clear and Bucky shouldn't engage with it, he shouldn't, but-
"There's just her now, though."
He didn't owe you anything, but it was important to him anyway that you knew there wasn't anyone in his life right now.
Not that there could be. Bucky was certain that there wouldn't ever be anyone else but you for him.
Your cocky expression turned into somethingg softer, something he hadn't seen in such a long time seeing it now felt as painful as it was refreshing. "Well, I'm sure she keepy you busy well enough."
"She sure does," Bucky agreed, also looking at Alpine now because that was easier to handle than looking at you. "You here for anything else than just the snack?"
You just shrugged, but the motion was jerky, too tense to actually count as casual. "I was in the neighborhood, figured I might as well say hi. I have to say, your security system wasn't as bad as I expected it to be but also really not as good as it should be, considering the amount of people who have a problem with you. Mediocre at best, if I had to rate it. You aren't getting sloppy, are you, Congressman?"
Hearing you call him that again was another poke at his already bruised heart, but Bucky forced himself to laugh anyway. "Well, mediocre for you is impossible to get passed for anyone else, so I think I'm good."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, but I'll take the compliment anyway," you shrugged, not letting him distract you with the praise and instead keeping your eyes trained on him, almost like you were… studying him. And that usually never meant anything good, especially not with how exposed he felt under your gaze. He was stripped raw, his emotions written in a language only you could understand, like it was the easiest thing in the world and you could read him like any other book.
It was impressive, really, but right now, he really didn't want you to be able do that.
"Talking about compliments, though- the suit looks really good on you, Barnes. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit before-"
"You did." The memory of that mission came crashing down on him immediately, the night that had followed something Bucky still thought about more often than he wanted to admit.
Dreamed about it, too, which usually ended with him waking up hard as a brick, the sight of your naked body almost glowing in the moonlight burned into his mind and usually leading to him taking a much needed cold shower immediately afterwards.
He couldn't tell you that, though, so he just watched as the confusion on your face was replaced by realisation as you understood what he was hinting at.
"The black suit you wore on that mission in Portugal, right?" You smiled at the memory of it, a mischievous look in your eyes. "Didn't really stay on for long thouh, did it?"
Apparently, you were thinking about the exact same thing he was.
"Not really, no." It was weird, discussing suck an intimate part of your relationship so intimately even though nothing about it had ever been casual.
But that was so typical for you, Bucky couldn't bring himself to be surprised about it. You'd always been terrible at expressing your emotions , quick to cover them up with a snarky remark or a witty joke so nobody would ever really pay attention to the mess going on inside of you.
But Bucky knew you better like that, he always had.
"Look, I really don't want to sound like I'm not glad to see you again, but-"
"That kinda sounds like the kind of thing you would say before telling me to leave."
Honestly, Bucky could've phrased that a little better because he could already see the first signs of you backtracking again. It was subtle, how you were trying to seem relaxed whilst tension coiled tightly in your shoulders, but so painfully obvious how prepared you were to bolt again, depending on what he would say now.
Again, it was really fitting for the woman he got to love all those years ago. Always ready to leave at the slightest chance of getting hurt, all the times you've been hurt before sitting in the back of your mind like a reminder you could never really seem to get rid off.
"I wasn't gonna say that. You know you're almost welcome here- you know that." Bucky wasn't sure if you really did know that, but he hoped that you did. All he ever tried to do was make sure you knew that no matter the situation, no matter what had happened or what you'd done, he would always have your back. "I don't mind you being here, I really don't- I just have a hard time understanding why exactly you would break into my place two years after we last talked to each other with your only reason being that you were in the neighborhood. I don't get that. Did something happen? Do you need my help?"
Bucky really didn't know how this could be funny in any way because he was being serious, but you chuckled anyway.
"Trust me Barnes, if I was desperate enough to seek you out for help, I wouldn't be this calm about it," you joked, but the humor seeped out of your feautures a moment later, your expression turning more serious than it had been ever since he'd first walked in on you.
When you got up from the chair, Bucky had to physically stop himself from backtracking. Not because he didn't want to be close to you-thatt wasn't it at all- but because he didn't know if he could stop himself from doing something stupid when you stood so close to him like that.
Now, with only a few inches of space between you, Bucky could see details he had missed before when you'd still been so far away, and for a moment, the two of you just… looked at each other,almost like you needed to see how much the person you used to know so well really had changed in the ast couple of years.
"I'm happy for you, you know that right?" It wasn't much more than a whisper, like saying those words too loudly was going to break something that was way too fragile to even begin with. "I really am. And I have to say, it's quite the impressive life you built yourself here. A steady job, a cat, a fancy apartment-"
"You know I never cared about that kind of stuff."
Maybe you didn't understand it, but Bucky coudn't just let you say those things, couldn't just listen to you counting off all those things that were supposed to show just how much of an amazing life he had right now, because it wasn't like that at all. Sure, he cared about Alpine, but not about the rest of it.
A good life meant absolutely fucking nothing if the loneliness ate at you so much, happiness didn't even have a chance to form with how rotten you felt most of the time.
"Well, maybe you should care. Maybe this is the kind of life you can finally enjoy, with the work you do now. Must be a lot more enjoyable than what we used to do, isn't it, Congressman?"
Again, hearing that term come out of your mouth like that was all he was to you now, a Congressman who switched his life of being an agent for this becauese he was searching for something better, for something more than what you used to have- it hurt more than he cared to admit.
"Quit calling me that." Maybe it shouldn't bother him as much as it did, because technically, that was his title now, but it just wrong to hear it come outt of your mouth.
He didn't care about the opinions other people had about him, he just cared about you.
He might be a weapon to some and a monster to others, but as long as you knew who he really was, whatever anyone else said didn't really matter to him anyway.
"What am I supposed to call you, then? You are a Congressman now, aren't you?"
God, you were such an infuriating, stubborn woman.
And Bucky couldn't be any more in love with you, not even all these years later.
"I was always just Bucky to you, wasn't I? You've never cared about that kind of titles before, so what is this about all of the sudden?"
It bothered him, how much of a distanc you were trying to put between the two of you with your words alone, but Bucky couldn't help but think that it was for a reason a little more complicated than just you trying to rile him up.
"I don't know, Barnes. Honestly, I don't even know what the fuck I am actually doing here, I just-" You ran a hand through your hair, a nervous habit he recognised immediately. "I'm glad that you got out of the bullshit Sam and I are still so stuck in, alright? I'm happy that your life doesn't consist of just fights and missions and waiting for the next job anymore, because you deserve this. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone else I know, there is no questioning that. And I know that this might not be my place anymore, but I know you, Bucky. And with all the stuff Sam has been telling me about how much you've been ignoring him again lately, it really doesn't seem like you're doing okay."
With every word that was coming outt of your mouth, the tightness in Bucky's chest only got worse, the concern on your face so visible now it was almost too much to handle for him.
With all the things you could've said and everything he might've wanted you to say, this really wasn't something he would've expected.
"I guess with all the things that have changed, that's a pattern that stuck, isn't it? You pulling away from the people you love when you're struggling?"
Again, Bucky had to stop himsef from taking a step back, from putting some distance between you as a desperate try to keeo you from seeing through him without him being able to do anything about it.
Damn you for seeing through all his pretense of wanting to seem okay in a time like this, when he was so fucking alone and miserable he didn't have the strength to pull himself out of the hole he felt so trapped in, because he didn't actually have anyone in his life to try to be okay for in his life, and doing it for himself?
Yeah, that really wasn't worth the effort.
The only constant people Bucky used to have in his life were you and Sam, but with how long he hadn't talked to you and how much of his time Sam spent in New York or Louisiana, it had been easy enough for Bucky to avoid him without seeming too suspicious.
Well, at least that was wht he had thought, but it wasn't like any tricks he tried to pull on others ever worked on you, anyway.
"Look, Buck, maybe we aren't as close to each other as we used to anymore, but I think it is safe to say that I know you. And whilst this is technically a very good life, with a routine you can rely on and nice company." Your eyes found Alpine for a moment, a small smile tugging on your lips. "You don't seem to be happy, Bucky. And that's all we ever wanted you to be- that's all I ever wanted for you. You've had enough years of your life taken from you, please don't spend even more trying to proof yourself to people who don't even care enough to stick around for the real you."
Your hand reached up, slow enough to let him pull away if he wanted to, but he didn't. He just watched as your fingers reached his cheek, so gently brushing against his skin, his knees almost buckled with how nice it was to feel it again.
"You're right, Bucky. I don't care about titles or whatever you might be to others- I care about you. And even though you might not believe it yourself, you are the best person I ever got to meet in my life, and you deserve to be happy, Buck. You really do."
Your touch was gone as quick as it came and Bucky knew that this was probably the time where he should say something, anything at all, but he couldn't bring himself to.
There just wasn't anything to say.
And before his brain could properly catch up, you already stepped away from him again, back to the window you've probably entered through, slipping through his fingers once again.
He could try to convince you to stay, just for a night so the to of you could maybe figure this out together, but Bucky knew that it wouldn't actually lead to anything.
Unfortunately, you'd never been good at staying when things got just a bit too real,and Bucky didn't have the strength to fight for someone he didn't believe he deserved anyway.
"Look, I'll be off your back now, you should probably get some rest," you said, pulling him out of his trance again, your hand already resting on the window frame.
"Just… take care of yourself, alright? That's all I'm asking for, James. And if you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me."
And with the echo of a name long forgotten echoing off the walls, the only thing Buchy could focus on was the space you'd been standing in mere seconds ago, before you vanished into thin air and left him in the state he'd been in ever since he'd brought you to that airport two years ago.
Confused, alone, and so utterly in love with you he was sure it was going to kill him one day.
Time passed again like it always did, after that night. Bucky got up the next morning, fed Alpine and made his way back to work, almost convinced that he was actually going insane now, that he'd just imagined you, his sleep deprivation and heartache so bad that his brain came up with the only thing that ever managed to bring him some comfort.
He knew that couldn't be what had happened, though, not with how much your scent ws still lingering in the air even though almost a month had passed already since you'd payed him that visit.
Your words had been playing on a loop in his head ever since, but he couldn't bring himself to act on them yet.
Not really, at least, but he also didn't decline his best friend's call when Sam's name popped up on his screen one evening, which Bucky would defintely count as progress.
"Buck?" Sam's voice sounded almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite grasp that his best friend had actually picked up, but there was also something more urgent underneath it, something that made his heart beat faster immediately.
"Holy shit man, I thought you weren't going to asnwer-"
"Sam, what's going on?" Maybe interrupting him like that was rude, especially with how avoidant Bucky had been for months now, but he really, really didn't like how upset Sam sounded.
"Look, just- how fast can you be in New York, Bucky?"
Not at all would've been the correct answer with all the workload he was facing right now because of the upcoming vote, but even though Bucky could be a really shitty friend sometimes, he knew that Sam wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
And he would be damned if he ever let his friends hanging like that.
"Two hours, if I push it. Sam, you're really scaring me- what the hell is going on?"
The silence that followed was enough for Bucky's heart to nearly beat out of his chest, but what followed truly made his blood run cold, filling him with so much dread and panic he felt like he was going to throw up.
"She's at the hospital, Buck. A mission went wrong and- it's bad."
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp, straight porn, missionary, d/s dynamics, softdom!bucky, sub!reader, slight brat!reader, slight dumbification, oral fixation, sweat/spit/teeth kink (idk maybe lol), the aftercare is fucking again, creampie, bucky has a bush . . .
word count: 1.8k
a/n: this is me trying to get some requests finished :") i have a whole bunch, some of which i accidentally turned into long fics, some i hate the things i wrote and am trying to start again and some im figuring out, but this one came to me when i woke up horny for bucky barnes lol
thank you anon for the request !! <3
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The mattress creaks and the frame knocks into the wall, chipping the paint, denting the wood where the two meet.
Forehead to forehead, sweat accumulating with torrid breaths and aching muscles, Bucky's hips caught to yours. Pressing, slamming, holding down as he clenches his glutes and humps, elongating the pleasure, taunting.
But the light chime of his tags kept ringing. They keep batting across your chest, cold and moist, patting your chin and dragging across your skin when you were right there.
It was just as your legs fell open, knees laying up as his dick dragged in and out, and he willed his noises to stay at a minimum, when the tags flittered to the dip of your neck. Your lips parted, sighing, rolling your eyes as it tap tap tap's and sings against your hot skin. You move, careful not to ruin the precision, pressing the chain against his peck, holding them firm to his chest.
At first, Bucky almost sat up, almost paused to ask if you were okay — pushing at his sternum, brows taut and eyes glassy, whining with every breath. Instead he pushed deeper, metal fingers drawing up your body until they held your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.
"What's the matter?" His breath sticks to your face, bumping his nose to yours. "Pushin' me away? C'mon, speak to me."
You can't. That's the problem. It feels like with each pull and push, each pulse around his cock, and every kiss his tip grants your cervix, he drives all linguistic knowledge out of your brain, spilling it from your lips in garbled nonsense and breathy moans.
A whiney hum spills out as you tighten your lips into a line, keeping your jaw firm. You lean back into the pillow, shutting your eyes trying to find any semblance of words, but his hips keep moving. Slower now, yet still as effective, still holding you rigid and perfectly, and tauntingly precise. Rutting the length of himself inside of you while the fuzz of hair that littered the base kept grazing your clit. It isn't until one hand claws at the meat of his shoulder, and the other, the hand that pushed at the chain, leaving tiny dents in it's wake, fisted at the metal.
It clinks as the tags stay dangling from your palm, bumping to and fro.
"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky soothes, the warm metal of his thumb strokes against your bottom lip, slicked with spit and salty with sweat. "We're they botherin' you?"
You nod quickly, leaving a sharp smile on his face, dipping down to leave gentle kisses against your jaw.
"My smart girl," you keen into the praise, leaning deeper into his hand, letting his voice rasp and vibrate into your skin, leaving more room for him to lick and kiss. "Thought you wanted me to stop."
Ardently, you shake your head, ruffling your hair into the pillow behind you.
"No, no stopping. 'M not gonna stop." And he doesn't. His flesh hand replaces your own around the tags and he slots them between his teeth.
Salt and iron cover his tongue, sweat that had dripped from his down body, and your own that had mixed in as it had laid against your own skin, or tapped annoyingly your neck. It makes a dull sound as they sat firmly between his teeth, braced to the side, just where his molars start and his canines dig into the printed letters of his name.
It shouldn't be hot.
The sight of his mouth full, his teeth bared, carrying something precious with an iron grip of his jaw, made your walls pulse. You almost wanted to swap it out, to reach up and take the tags in your own mouth, enveloped in the debauched taste of century old metal, skin and spit.
But its hedonic. You love how he looks. Skin slick, chest heaving, drool already pooling at the edges of the tags, at the corner of his mouth right where his lips met. Animalistic in a way.
"There we go, there we go," his speech muffled, yet still affirmative and firm as he brings back the pace. Making your head drop back and mouth hang open on a gasp, arching your back. The warmth of his palm glides up your torso, leaving goosebumps as he drags up and down, before pulling your leg up by the thigh to latch onto his waist and holding you firmly at the hip. All while holding himself up on his forearm, vibranium fingers holding the top of your head reassuringly, grazing his thumb on your hairline.
He hums, unable to speak with his mouth full, unable to gather the spit about to fall. Your hands claw at the contorting muscles of his shoulder blades, moving to capture his hair between your fingers.
The tug you force has him stuttering, hips pressing to your own, the hair surrounding his base tickles again, right against your nub.
"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, jaw slack and tight all at once, the light feeling of release easing up your back as your thighs begin to tingle and tremble around his torso. "Bucky… Bucky, please."
The rivulets of spit drop, coating your neck and chin, and he follows them down until his hot, wet breath finds your temple. His chest caves with each inhale, keeping his hips up, holding down the pace that has you throbbing up his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulder and thighs shaking. He can feel the ring around the root of him, creamy and white, mixed in with the dark patch of hair.
The tags tinkle dully, let go from the cell of his teeth to lay wet next to your neck. You pay no mind to the slurping sound of him gathering spit from his lips; only staying in the blissed out haze of Bucky's body atop of yours and his pretty cock slapping in and out of you.
"C'mon, c'mon…" he repeats like a mantra, whispering under his breath, heated on the shell of your ear. "You got it, fuck, you feel so good. Wanna cum—cum inside of you, wanna push it in deep, n'keep fuckin' it in… Please, please, please…"
As your nails print crescents into his skin, your mouth holds a jumble of 'yes's to his shoulder. Balm and torrid to the meat of his shoulder, your body locks and a sweet ache begins to release around the stretch of him. Your lips press to his collarbone, muffling the shudders and whines and gasps that release as he fucks you through it, wet slaps and mumbled grunts chorusing together while you jolt and pulse.
It isn't long until he follows through, finishing deep inside, pressing and holding himself as his cock twitches with each spurt of cum. As if awoken from his daze, he keeps his hips moving.
Splatterings of white coat both of your pelvises and thighs, shuddering with overstimulation, muscles limp from overexertion, eyes half lidded and lips parted and red.
Bucky slowed himself as your jerking lessened and your teeth bared to hiss at the mild pain, and his dick softened. He watched, holding himself up with his knuckles to the pillow, guiding the softer limb to stay inside of your full warmth, uncaring about the mess that now coats his fingers — absentmindedly licking them off like candy residue.
Sighs and soft groans alike leave you both as he slips out. Your nails caress his torso, gliding gently up the red marks you printed on his back, down to the sensitive muscles of his ass, making him twitch and press his hips to yours again with a stifled laugh to your jaw.
"Careful, might get hard again before I can clean you up." He kisses and breathes you in, holding you into his body as your fingers hold their gentle rhythm.
You huff a lazy version of a laugh, nosing against the sweet smell of sweat where his neck meets his shoulder.
"Oh no, how awful," You croak sarcastically. The weakness in your voice makes you both laugh fully, rumbling chests pressed against one another, cheeks tight with smiles, and eyes watching with warm fragments. After a short moment of silence, of lungs catching up, you follow down the column of his neck to where his dog tags laid lopsided on your chest, and hummed. "I liked that thing you did."
"'That thing'?" He pressed, smirking, lowering his voice. "I've got many things goin' for me, sweetheart, be specific."
Another laugh breaks, crinkling your eyes at the corners, playfully pushing at his chest.
"That dog tag thing, you know, putting them in your mouth."
"You liked that?"
You nodded, fervently. "Uh-huh. Very much."
His lips move into a soft smile, catching the slick metal cards between his fingers to bring them up.
"That so?" He teases quietly, dragging them across your bottom lip, leaving the dewy residue to sit, sliding them just between the seam of your lips only to jut it out with a pop. "Maybe next time you can hold them for me?"
With your tongue poking out, you get a taste of the flavour that pooled alongside Bucky's own tongue. Musky and sour, tangy with body heat. And with a soft press on your thigh, you know that you're under a limit.
"Next time meaning five minutes?" You prod, tilting your head innocently. "Haven't even gotten cleaned up and it seems like little Sergeant Barnes is reporting for duty."
With a tut, he holds your chin, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, fuck that and your smart mouth. Open wide, hold tight."
You obey and bite down as he slots the tags between your teeth, tugging at the chain twice to test out your grip. You scrunch your nose and furrow your brows, playfully pulling back at the chain. The grotesque brackishness of the tester you got grips you fully and drips down your throat.
"'Little Sergeant Barnes'," he repeats, sitting up as far as he could to grab ahold on himself. Sticky, wet and just as hard as before. He strokes himself, groaning as he fists tighter at his ruddy tip, coaxing a pearl of precum. Defiantly, he taps his heaviness on your clit. "Keep that up and making sure every inch of you aches with me the next day, understood?"
A giggle bubbles up before you could force it down. He slaps his cock against your clit again, holding and coating it down and between your lips, still creamy and dripping his own release, bullying your button with his tip. Your whine is muffled between your teeth as you bear them down.
"Understood?" He pushes, voice firmer, harsher, and you nod, heart racing, ribs already quivering. The sounds of your joint bodies squelch louder and louder, as your head lays dizzier and dizzier, but his voice whispers so soft and the way he terrorises and hounds your insides brings stars to the corners of your eyes.
✧･ﾟ:bucky doesn’t waste time after sex with cuddling. You’re spent and tired, he’s got the serum pumping through his body, and he’ll do everything that needs to be done. Water and some food, using the bathroom, cleaning up, he puts it all on himself with methodical precision, until you catch his elbow and ask him to rest. He tells you that he is resting, but folds under your stern glare, kissing the back of your hand before trailing after you into the shower. You wash his hair, if he lets you. You lead him back to bed and make him rest as well, because you know he won’t if you don’t make him.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:it takes Bucky a while to see any part of his body as good, but he could list everything about yours for a million years without stopping. Soft lips and pretty eyes and gentle hands that feel right in his. Every single curve and dip is perfect, because it’s yours, and you’re the best thing he has. If you make him chose one thing about himself, he’ll dodge around the question for as long as he can manage, before muttering he doesn’t hate his mouth. It’s useful on your body, and that’s all he needs.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:the serum had some… side effects. At first he’s embarrassed by them, worried that he might hurt you, or you’ll find it disgusting. It’s a lovely surprise, the way your eyes get blown out and glossy with desire the first time he cums in front of you. It’s endless, shooting out of his cock until it’s raw and sore, almost drowning you when it’s on your face and stuffing you up when you convince it to keep it in. He’ll moan in your ear and double over, giving shallow micro thrusts as you milk him dry, and your eyes roll back in your head with the sheer, thick, beautiful volume of him.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He doesn’t like to ask for things, but that doesn’t stop his head from running wild with lewd, obscene images that almost make him blush. He’s got a vivid imagination, and he’s spent more showers and nights than he’ll admit indulging in it. The images of you on your knees, ass up and cunt exposed—or folded in half beneath him, or riding his cock and crying his name—seep into his dreams, until he can’t close his eyes without being haunted by the idea of how gorgeous you’d be, coming apart for him. Even after you get together the dreams won’t relent. You’ve woken up many nights to Bucky almost humping you in his sleep, his eyes fluttering and your name falling from his lips. You indulge him, and pretend you don’t notice the dark stain on the front of his sweats in the morning. It’s hotter than he needs to know, anyway.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Back in the 40s he might’ve been called a womanizer, but the standards were different. Fooling around wasn’t too kinky, and often didn’t really even go past second base. And after Hydra, intimacy was mostly forgotten. Bucky knows what he’s doing, but with your body more than his own. He’s good at the hand and mouth stuff—so good you sometimes still can’t believe it—but penetration takes a while for you both to build up to. Sometimes he still blows it a little early when you put your mouth on him, not used to that kind of warmth and care. He’s a quick learner, though, and it doesn’t take long for you both to find a nice, shared rhythm in how you fuck.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
At first, when you’re still learning each other, he says there’s nothing better than some good, old fashioned missionary. It’s the good, Christian boy in him coming back out, taught well by his Ma that rough is no way to treat a lady. But then you talk him into doggy, and he’s a goner. The way he gets to hold you up with a single arm and play with your clit with the other, the way your arms give out from how well he’s giving it to you, the vision of your ass in the air, it’s enough to drive a man mad. Combine that with how you moan when he forces your back to arch—giving him an even deeper angle, making your walls clench down around him like a sin—and he never stood a goddamn chance.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He might’ve been playful before, and after a while he starts to find it again, but sex is mostly something serious. It’s close, vulnerable, impossibly intimate. He doesn’t do casual, and it shows. A single smile might not be cracked some days, but the worship of your body more than makes up for it. His brow gets furrowed in concentration, his mouth hangs open with awe, and if you’re lucky, his lips twitch slightly when you shiver under his touch. He calls you perfect, and you’ve never believed anyone more.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
The military training doesn’t fade away. Bucky keeps himself clean and neat, more for himself than anyone else. He lets a little hair grow out as he settles into an easier life, but it’s well-groomed and clean. When his chest hair comes back he thinks about keeping that shaven as well, but you just manage to talk him out of it. He lets you have that. It’s another thing he learns to love about himself, just because of you.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
While reserved at first, Bucky quickly becomes the most romantic man you’ve ever known. Random gifts are frequent, too the point that you’re so spoiled as to expect them. It translates smoothly into sex, where he gives and gives and gives until you almost can’t take it anymore. Praise is showered down like flower petals, affection whispered into your skin and kissed onto your lips. You can almost feel his love in every single touch, and even if you couldn’t, it falls from his lips like a prayer when he’s buried inside of you. He kisses you almost every second, everywhere he can reach, every inch of you that he wants you feel.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Before he met you, it was something he did quick and fast in the shower when he needed some release. An itch he needed to scratch, a way to quickly relieve stress before moving on with his day. But then you’re there, and it becomes another part of his devotion. It starts with shame—his head bowed, his hand braced on the wall, his cum slipping down the drain while he pretends it’s on your face—but quickly evolves into something more. He whispers your name into countless pillows and sheets before he has you, then discovers his favorite part of this century. Calling you while he’s away, and moaning your name into the phone while you gasp his, and he hears your pussy, wet and ready for him in the background.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Bucky loves your voice. How it gets breathy and high for him when he’s got you on the edge, how it whimpers and calls out his name like a song, even how it scolds him when he gets on your bad side. You could say anything to him, and he’d find his pants getting tight and his hands flexing to touch you. You notice, and whisper sweet nothings in his ears when you want to work him up. He grunts and forms a fist on his thigh, trying to stop himself from tossing you onto the table and giving you something to really moan about.
He’ll never admit it, but there’s nothing he loves more than wrapping around you like a shield. Than—even if he’s not—feeling bigger than you, like a protector rather than a weapon. When you’re cradled in his arms he feels almost worthy of it, when your little pussy tightens around him, he’s sure this is exactly where he needs to be, and when your hands tangle together and his envelopes yours, he’s sure he’s never going to let go.
There’s nothing more he loves more than a mouthy girl who can tell him off and boss him around, half because you’re never sexier than when you’re confident, and half because that’s a confidence and sass he gets to fuck right out of you. The one place he wants you dumb and babbling is below him, trusting that he’s taking good care of you, blinking up at him with doe eyes and a blown out, cockdrunk expression. You get the attitude right back when he’s done, but he just chuckles and rolls his hips just right, making you stutter and whine. His girl is nice and stupid for him, and just him, and that’s exactly what he wanted.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Bucky doesn’t know how good it can feel to take you against the wall or in the kitchen until he does, and suddenly he wants to fuck you in every corner of the apartment. There shouldn’t be a place that you haven’t felt good in, a spot in this home that doesn’t know how perfect you are. And after testing every single surface and edge, he finds that he might be in love with taking you on the floor. There’s something desperate and dirty about it, that you can’t wait for the bed to crawl all over him and bed. He gets to cradle you in his arms and keep you safe from the low windows of your apartment, or hold you above him and protect you from the ground. You’re even more of a mess after, when he takes you like that, and that’s just how he likes it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
At first it’s small things. Touches and flashes of bare skin that make him feel like a teenager again, a kiss on his cheek that makes his cock twitch or a squeeze of his shoulder that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut for control. Then you get more comfortable together, and you start sassing him, and he’s never realized he could be this fucking horny. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying or how you’re saying it, if you’re talking at him—rolling your eyes or bossing him around or huffing about something silly—he wants to crawl over you like a tiger and kiss you until you’re giggling and starry eyed. There’s nothing better in the world than his smart girl, and there’s no one better to deal with it than him.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
The lines are harsh and clear, grooved into the bedrock of your relationship, along with Bucky’s trust. Nothing with binds, nothing where he can’t see you, nothing in public and nothing that might really hurt you. His metal hand doesn’t go around your throat, you tap out immediately if anything is too much, and you tell him exactly what you want so he can give it, and nothing more. And he gives it. Over and over with ease, but only as you ask. And you ask. He’s too good not to.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Bucky likes eating you out, a little more than he thinks he should. It’s easy to him, a simple way to get on his knees and show you just how good he can make you feel. You get whiny, when he’s got his head between your thighs, and that’s just how he likes you. Writhing and squirting on his face, pulling at his hair until he groans your name against your cunt, and you let out a strangled gasp of his name. It makes him feel more human, more grounded, and so impossibly real. You’re softer than anything else he’s ever known, and tasting you is the closest he can get to being drunk. When you get on your knees for him, though, he sometimes tries to pull you back up. He never wants you to feel like you have some kind of obligation, and it can take a while to convince him you’re there because you want to be. He always comes apart embarrassingly fast, when your warm lips wrap around his cock. It’s hard to blame him. You just have that effect.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He can go fast and rough, but you have to beg him for it. He never wants to go harder than he has to, and there’s a low fear under every movement that he’s going to snap you in half. He prefers to kiss every inch of your body and draw out the time he’s buried inside of you, losing himself in your heat and dazed, adoring expression. He can be mean like that, if you want him to be. The pace has nothing to do with teasing you like you deserve, with slow, lazy thrusts that bully against your g-spot, giving so much and not enough, all at once. Making you cry for him, perfectly safe and wound tight enough to burst beneath him, just how he likes you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Sex is important enough that Bucky doesn’t like rushing it, but sometimes you get to him—bending over in a little dress, sitting on his lap and rolling your hips in the way you know drives him mad—and his cock gets so hard he can’t help himself. If there’s no one around he’ll hitch up your skirt or shove his hand into your pants, playing with your little pussy until you’re dripping for him and begging. When he decides you’re ready he thrusts in brutally, rutting up into your cunt with his face pressed into your neck and his moans low and desperate. You both cum with gasps, and Bucky slaps your sensitive clit. He’ll nip at your neck and warn you not to tease him again. You never listen. You know he likes it too much.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Maybe when he was younger, Bucky might’ve let a pretty girl talk him into something crazy, but now he’s old. Tired half the time, itching to get out of his skin the other half, sure what he likes in bed and—more importantly—sure of what he doesn’t. You’re the only one who can get him to take the small step outside his comfort, because he knows you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really want it. And there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for you. A small experiment that makes you cum all over him is a small sacrifice to make .
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
The super solider serum has it’s benefits, and this might be the only one that Bucky never regrets. Before he was batting a strong two or three with proper recouperation time, but now he can go up to ten without flinching. He’s more than grateful for it. He’s worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you, if he didn’t have that extra leg up. Your appetite for him is so great that you push him to his limits, and he didn’t know that was possible, but he still lets you every time. You seem determined to find out exactly how long he can go for. He’d be worried about it, if he wasn’t having the time of his life.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
A lot of things have changed in the past century, and toys are a one of the things Bucky hasn’t really gotten yet. He doesn’t need one for himself, and he’s of the mind that—with how expensive vibrations are—there’s no need for you to have one either. He’s got a mouth and cock that can go all night, and a metal arm that can work like a toy if you’re that needy and desperate. You’d never thought to throw out your vibration until you had a massive super soldier next to you in bed. Metal fingers can fuck you until tears are springing to your eyes, and he can move his thumb so fast across your clit it basically feels like you’re at the mercy of a toy. A toy with soft lips, that drawl low praise and look at you like you’re an angel. Who could need anything else?
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Bucky doesn’t like to be too public or obvious—another roll over of 40s sensibilities—but if you’re begging for it, he won’t stop himself from landing a sharp, teasing slap on your ass or tracing his fingers up your inner thighs. Never enough to make you do anything rash, but that’s not his goal. He wants to see you squirm and flush, to smell that sweet arousal pooling between your legs. He’s making sure that, when he finally does get his hands on you, you’ll be more than ready for him. Just how he likes it.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He’s not too loud unless you really get him going. Most praise and dirty talk is whispered in your ear or against your skin, and his own grunts and moans are low and controlled. But then you get your mouth on him, or clench down on his cock just right, and a deep, loud moan rumbles through his chest. You toy with his balls in a trembling hand, and he doubles over with lidded eyes, almost shouting your name for the whole of New York to hear. You smile at him, kissing every roar off his lips, and his control starts to slip, only for you.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Phone sex is something he never wants to give up. He has to leave frequently, for missions and meetings and work, and the knowledge that you’re still thinking of him like he’s thinking of you almost gets him there all on its own. A lewd part of him likes the idea that someone might hear him calling your name through the thin hotel walls, so everyone knows how well you’re worshipped, how thoroughly he adores you. He likes just the sound of your voice calling his name. He thinks he could make it off of phone sex only, for at least a month. He’d need you back eventually, but this is almost enough.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Bucky was packing before the serum, but it didn’t neglect his cock when it made everything bigger. The first time you see him, you’re worried you’ll barely even be able to get the head in. He’s got a cock so big it makes your mouth water and your eyes prick with tears from just sliding between the lips of your pussy. Once you tried to talk him into a dildo because it would’ve been smaller and easier. He always kisses your brows and coos that you can take it, and you can, but barely. The stretch hits places inside of you that you didn’t know you had, and Bucky has the nerve to be sweet and humble about it. It just makes it easier, though. So, so much easier, when that monster cock is attached to that perfect man.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Before you, it was more of an itch that he really couldn’t ignore, no matter how he tried. He had a drive, but it was more mechanical. Then you strolled into his life, and suddenly he’s something akin to an animal. You can walk around the apartment in pajamas and slippers, and Bucky feels his dick twitch to attention. He wants to be as close to you as he can, all the time, and if that means bending you over the closest surface and showing you just how much he loves you, than so be it.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He might not need it like most people, but Bucky loves his sleep. He’d keep you both in bed all day, just cuddling and napping and having mindblowing sex if he was allowed to. Once you’re both settled and cleaned up, you’re not allowed out of bed for at least a few hours so Bucky can get some rest. He sleeps better after sex, and better with you in his arms, and the two combined can even work to keep the nightmares at bay. He tells you that it’s all you, but you think it’s him. Working to get past it, to stay with you, to find slices of peace and hold onto them, with you laying right where you belong, at his side.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: he's such a soft lil guy i need him✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
Welcome to my Bucky Barnes directory, full of all the stories I love! Each work is credited to their amazing author, and if you enjoy a story as much as I do don’t hesitate to reblog or comment to encourage and show them some love.
masterlist ● marvel
⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪ rec list
✪ ruin the friendship ┃@mcrdvcks
The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged.
✪ manchild┃@houseofhyde
bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
✪ flour┃@geminiwritten
sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him... but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?
✪ (I only came to this) party 4 u ┃@street-smarts00
For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
✪ dead of the night┃@bruisedboys
bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no.
✪ Jesse’s girl┃@geminiwritten
natasha encourages you to date one of the new recruits in the hopes that it might provoke bucky to confess his feelings for you
✪ don’t you ever end up anything but mine ┃@flowersforbucky
everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
✪ Let it happen┃@flowersforbucky
"So that's all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?" Undercover marriage trope
✪ pressure points┃@crybabycabin
bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✪ His and his only…for 24 hours┃@salem-s
The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
✪ hair┃@magicaloneandmystery
bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you. [written from the pov of Sam.]
✪ all we know of heaven, all we need of hell ┃@flowersforbucky
you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.
✪ on the subject of marriage┃@salty-tang
It was supposed to be simple: plan the wedding, survive the vendors, don’t strangle Bucky Barnes. But perfection cracks when an unexpected disaster hits, and in the quiet aftermath you discover the last thing you'd expect - that falling in love isn't exactly what friends do.
✪ we won’t not in a million years on ao3 by ┃buckybossanova
nobody in the ton could have expected lord barnes to take interest in a certain bachelorette. it is undeniable that there is passion between them, but there is one question that i'm certain we all have. is it love or lust?
✪ I told my therapist about us pt2 ┃@snowleopardkisses
In a court ordered therapy program, Bucky Barnes— the haunted former Winter Soldier— finds himself doing something harder than facing his past: talking about his developing feelings for his best friend, Y/N. When Dr. Raynor discovers he’s been avoiding you and an impromptu session lands you face to face…all hell breaks loose
✪ bad idea right┃@starburstbarnes
Bucky Barnes can totally handle an undercover mission with his ex. It was his idea to ask for her help, after all.
✪ blind deaf and mute┃@aderna01
you are hired as the avengers’ new public relations specialist, a sunshine‑bright force dropped into a tower full of exhausted superheroes and one very grumpy former assassin. bucky barnes wants nothing to do with you, and you seem determined to befriend him anyway. what starts as mutual annoyance slowly shifts into something softer as the two of you stumble through awkward teamwork, unexpected moments, and one disastrously chaotic baking challenge that proves the avengers might actually be a family after all.
you let out a small shiver, when you step out of your work building.
tightening your jacket more around you, you start to make your long walk home.
sometimes you wish you had a car, so you don't have to do that much walking, but on the other hand, you're glad that you walk a lot since it helps your brain relax after a long day at work.
plus there's nothing better than reconnecting with nature.
just as you're a couple blocks away from your apartment you hear a whine. you stop in your tracks, wondering what that small, weak sound was.
another whine, similar to the first one has you looking down a dark alley.
you bite your lip nervously, knowing that you, a young woman shouldn’t go down an alley at this time of night but you can’t help the way your heart clenches at hearing those sounds.
you close your eyes, wondering if this will be the worst idea you’ve ever done and you might get abducted but before you can psych yourself out of it you hear another whine, louder than the last. it sounds like a… puppy.
damn it, if it's a puppy then you definitely can’t bring yourself to stand here and do nothing. especially with how it's so cold outside and it's raining. the poor puppy, is probably scared or even worse, injured.
you'll never forgive yourself if you walk past this alley, thinking that this whole thing was a trap for you or another person, but instead there was in fact a puppy sitting there, waiting for someone to come and help them.
you huff, throwing your hands in the air. you must look ridiculous to all the cars going by but you know what, what's the worse that could happen? i mean you could end up abducted or... dead but at least you died with the intention of helping a helpless animal.
you take a deep breath, wrapping your coat tighter around you, and then start walking down the alley to see if you can find whatever is sounding so hurt.
little do you know, something or someone has been watching you this whole time.
bucky sighs, running a hand down his face. today has been a long day and all he wants to do is get home, maybe call one of his regular women that will drop anything just to please him and go to sleep.
the soft sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car calms him as he looks out the window. his eyes squint when he catches a glimpse of a woman standing at the opening of an alley far up ahead.
he can’t exactly see her face until he gets closer but when he does, he sees that she’s utterly stunning.
probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life. even with her face slightly wet by the rain.
“stop the car.”
“sir?” the driver asks, looking back and seeing that bucky near enough has his head pushed up against the window.
bucky gives his driver a glance, raising his eyebrow slowly.
“yes sir.” the driver says, practically folding without bucky even having to repeat himself.
the driver quickly parks at the other side of the street to which you’re on. giving bucky a perfect view of you.
you snuggled up in your coat, standing smack in the middle of the side walk, with your eyes closed and face titled towards the dark, cloudy sky. it’s like you’re talking to yourself in your head.
what on earth are you doing?
and why is he so entranced by you that he asked his driver to suddenly park on the side of the road, when he’s meant to be on his way home after a long night of handling business?
he narrows his eyes at you, watching the way the cold air trickles out of your mouth when you huff and throw your arms in the air, and the way your mouth moves softly like you’re trying to talk yourself into doing something.
“um sir, are we waiting for someone or—”
“shh.” bucky snaps, seeing you take a deep breath, wrap your coat tighter around your body, and walk into the random, pitch black alley.
what the fuck? bucky says in his head. what is genuinely wrong with this strange but beautiful woman. without thinking, bucky opens the car door and steps out.
“sir—”
“just wait here till i get back.” bucky grunts, fixing his cuff links before slamming the car door and following you.
he doesn’t know who you are, or why you’re deciding to walk into an alley by yourself at near enough ten in the evening. but he sure is about to find out.
bucky watches you carefully.
keeping a safe distance behind you so you don't notice that there's someone in this alley with you.
he wants to know what you're doing, but for the life of him he can't figure it out.
all he's seen you do is walk slowly, your hand pressed against the rough brick wall, to help you lead your way through the dark alley. he's seen you trip over your heels a couple times, and he's also had to stop himself from lunging out to catch you.
he doesn't know why he has this sudden urge to not only follow you but to make sure that you don't get yourself hurt.
he doesn't even know you... yet.
his thoughts are interrupted when he hears a small yap. it's so small that if he wouldn't of had enhanced hearing he probably wouldn’t of heard it.
“where are you hiding?” you coo.
bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as he keeps his slow stride behind you, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his slacks.
is this the reason why you decided to walk down here?
because you heard the noise of an animal?
do you not know how easy it is for attractive women like you to get ambushed in situations like this.
bucky shakes his head in disbelief.
because if you so easily caught his eye, imagine how many eyes you’ve caught from men that walk past you on the street daily.
too bad that that’s not going to happen anymore.
you’re his. no one else is having you.
bucky’s possessive thoughts get interrupted yet again when you let out a yelp, jumping back.
bucky can’t help himself but step a bit closer to see what scared his girl and if he needs to intervene.
his concerns cease to a stop when you suddenly kneel down and stand up cradling a small, dirty and damp puppy.
you don’t think you could’ve ever forgiven yourself if you ended up stepping onto that puppy, even though it would’ve been accidentally.
you didn’t think that it would’ve ran across your heels, and because you’re basically covered in darkness, you never even saw it coming.
you thought it was just a rat or something.
it was only when you kneeled down that you was able to catch a glimpse of its big brown eyes and its wet nose, and then you knew you found it.
and you’re so happy you did.
“oh look at you, you’re filthy.” you whisper to the small puppy in your arms.
“how can someone be so cruel to just leave you here.” tears start to cloud your vision, at the thought of someone dumping this poor, helpless animal in an alley to die.
you don’t get how some people can be so mean.
you shrug your coat off, wrapping the material around the puppy’s small frame. not even caring about the harsh chill that comes to your arms.
you stand up with it bundled in your arms and start to make your walk back through the alley.
you keep your head down, even once you’ve emerged from the narrow alley. your eyes focused on the precious bundle in your arms and not even noticing the figure that is walking straight towards you.
you gasp when you bump into someone’s chest, and you gasp again when you feel the warmth of a palm settling on your arm to stop you from toppling over.
“oh i’m so sorry.” you apologise, sidestepping the tall man and not even giving him a second glance.
your priority is getting home and calling the nearest vet immediately.
pairing: boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x girlfriend!Reader
summary: It starts as a harmless prank. It ends with Bucky Barnes having a full-blown existential crisis over the possibility of you having a Tinder account.
word count: <1.5 k
warnings: domestic fluff, established relationship, Bucky Barnes being dramatic (and dumb), kissing, light suggestive content.
a/n: pretty sure this counts as a crackfic, but it's based on this Tiktok prank where you tell your boyfriend you saw X person on Tinder. thank you to my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes & @buckysdecaflove for beta reading this! | dividers by @viviansturns
read on AO3
The rain had started a few minutes ago. You were sprawled across the couch, your legs were thrown over Bucky's lap, half-watching some old movie he'd put on while he mindlessly ran his hands up and down your calf.
This had become your routine after work for a few weeks now. You were acting like an old couple and you knew it, but you didn't mind… except today, you wanted to add some fun to the mix.
You'd been holding it since your lunch break, waiting for the precise moment when he was relaxed enough to be off-guard. You glanced down at your phone—still on the Home Screen, but he didn't know that— and cleared your throat.
"Babe."
"Mm?" He didn't look up from the TV.
"I think I just saw Sam on Tinder."
His fingers stilled completely against your skin. His head turned slowly, like a door hinge that needed oil. Then without warning, he burst out laughing.
"Sam?" He wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Oh, that actually tracks."
You blinked. That… wasn't the reaction you were expecting. "It does?"
"Sweetheart, it's Sam. He'd been waiting his entire life for an app that lets him judge people by a single photo and a witty one-liner." Bucky shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, fully delighted by the image. "I bet his profile picture is a picture of him with Redwing, shirtless at the beach, holding a fish he definitely didn't catch."
"He did have a fish," you said, scrambling to keep up. "And sunglasses."
"Of course he did." Bucky wiped at his eye, wheezing. "His bio probably says something like 'Former Air Force, current Captain America'. Or maybe just 'Looking for someone to do the talking at parties.' He's definitely got that smirk in his pictures, the one where he thinks he's being mysterious."
You were biting your cheek so hard it hurt. This was going off-script. "You're not… worried about him?"
"Worried?" Bucky scoffed, waving a hand, settling back into the couch with a smug grin. "Sam's a grown man. If he wants to swim in the shallow end of the internet, that's his business. I'm just saying—" He leaned back, hands behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself. "—the man's got the charisma of a used car salesman and the ego of a fighter pilot. He's probably out there collecting matches like Infinity Stones. I bet he swipes right on everyone to see what he catches."
He was having the time of his life, roasting his best friend, eyes bright with mischief, there was no shred of concern in sight.
"I bet he opens with some line about his wings," Bucky continued, warming to his subject. "'Hey baby, ever been with a guy who can literally sweep you off your feet?' Or maybe he just sends a picture of Redwing and says, 'He's trained, but I'm not'."
You lost it. A laugh escaped before you could stop it, and Bucky took it as encouragement, turning toward you with a boyish grin.
"And you know he's got his Spotify linked. It's probably all early 2000s R&B and one patriotic playlist he made ironically but listens to unironically."
He threw his head back and laughed, loud and open, completely unbothered and thoroughly entertained by the mental image of Sam Wilson navigating modern dating. And then, it was like a record scratch moment.
Bucky froze mid-sentence, his mouth still open on some joke about Sam's courting. His eyes narrowed, shifting from distant amusement at his best friend's expense to something much more immediate. He turned to you slowly.
"Wait," he said. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Why are you on Tinder?"
Oh, there it was.
You looked up at him with your best innocent eyes. "What?"
"You're on Tinder," he said, pointing at you like he'd just discovered a new form of betrayal. "You're sitting there, on my couch. In our apartment, wearing my clothes… and you're swiping?"
"I'm not swiping right now."
"That's not the point, sweetheart!" He was gesturing wildly, all his earlier smugness evaporating into panic. "The point is you've got an account. You're out there, in a database where other men can see you."
"And women," you added helpfully. "It's very inclusive now, you know?"
Bucky looked like he might swallow his own tongue.
"Who else did you see?" he demanded, taking a step closer. "Did you match with anyone? Did you talk to anyone? Is that why you've been on your phone all week? Have you been— chatting?"
"Bucky—"
"I thought we were exclusive!" He was fully shouting now, but it was the most wounded shout you'd ever heard. "We live together! I always buy your favorite cereal!"
"I know, but—"
"What does your bio even say?" He lunged for your phone, and you had to scramble to keep it out of reach, which only made him more feral. "Let me see it! Did you mention me? Did you use a good picture? If you used that one from the beach I took I'm gonna lose my mind, you know the one, the one with the—"
"Bucky!" You were laughing now, couldn't help it, curling into the corner of the couch with your phone clutched to your chest. "Bucky, stop!"
"Why should I stop?" He shifted closer, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind you, all his looming energy collapsing into pure, wounded-puppy devastation. "You're out here, marketing yourself to the entire—"
"It's a prank!"
He stopped dead.
The rain kept hitting the window, the movie was still playing on the TV. And Bucky stared at you, chest heaving, his t-shirt was askew. He looked like a man who had just run an emotional marathon.
"What?" he said, very carefully.
"I'm not on Tinder," you continued, fighting your smile. "I don't have an account, I just saw this Tiktok and wanted to see your reaction."
The silence that followed was thick. Bucky's expression cycled through approximately twelve different emotions—relief, betrayal, confusion, more betrayal, grudging admiration.
"You are the worst person I have ever met."
"I thought it would be funny."
"You thought—" He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I was right there, about to text Sam about it. I had roasts prepared… and you were— you were pranking me."
"It was really funny, though."
Bucky looked at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength. Then he moved.
You shrieked as he grabbed you, hauling you off the couch and over his shoulder in one smooth move. The world tilted upside down—your hair falling toward the floor, his vibranium arm locked tight around the back of your thighs, his flesh hand swatting your behind with a satisfying smack that made you yelp.
"Bucky! Put me down!" You were pounding on his back, but you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, kicking your legs uselessly as he straightened up.
"Nope." He started walking toward the bedroom, purposeful and unbothered by your squirming. "You wanna prank me? You wanna make me think you're out there swiping through the entire population of New York while you're wearing my clothes? Fine. But you're gonna make it up for me."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you gasped out, not sorry at all, giggling into the fabric of his t-shirt.
"No you're not, not yet at least," he muttered, but you could hear the grin in his voice. He bounced you once on his shoulder to adjust his grip, and you squealed, clutching at his waist.
"I will be good, I promise I will be good!" You said breathless with laughter.
"Will you?" He laughed, swatting you again just to hear you yelp. "You're not gonna keep running around, giving me heart attacks?"
He kicked the bedroom door shut behind him and dropped you into the mattress. You bounced, trying to scramble away, but he was already climbing over you, caging you with his arms. He tried looking furious but instead he looked absolutely smitten, with that boyish grin that made your heart jump.
"Just so we're clear," he said low, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "That phone is mine now. Consider it confiscated by the century-old boyfriend whom you just tried to give a heart attack. And you're gonna make it up to me, starting now."
You were still giggling as he leaned down, but the kiss shut you up pretty quick, his fingers threading through your hair. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.
"No more doing pranks on me, okay? You can't go around giving me prank-induced arrhythmia for views."
You laughed, while your fingers traced the line of his spine. "I won't, I promise."
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Ouch! Your boyfriend cheated on you! What’s there to do other than day drink and text stale Hinge dates? That is, until your best friend’s dad enters the picture (accidentally) and shows you how a real man should treat a lady.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, alcohol use, bad decisions in general, kinda proofread and kinda not, porn with some plot, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Bucky is 40s) Rogers!reader (on accident), kinda dbf!Bucky too???, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie, mating press, kinda belly bulge for just a second, brief choking, some overstimulation, slight praise kink, Bucky is a gentleman, and (of course) big dick!Bucky
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: I have been lost to the void for two months and only recently felt the urge to let the muses take over me once again. Thanks to Sabrina for the MBF album because honestly I’m obsessed and need to write a fic for every song but we all know that won’t happen. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is and I guess I’m back?? Thanks to my wifey @laufeydottirs-writings for beta reading part of this because I am insecure in my writing abilities and crave validation - ily <3.
Divider credit to @/cursed-carmine & @/squirrelstone!
You honestly couldn’t blame yourself for sending the text. After all, you were already buzzed off a few dirty martinis and it was only 10 A.M. What else were you supposed to do when Gossip Girl reruns no longer held your attention and your vibrator just wasn’t doing it for you?
You had scrolled through the backed-up list of numbers in your phone, most not even named and countless stale conversations having died after a horrendous first date. You never actually expected to receive a text back from any of them - so, when your phone finally buzzed against the stained wood of the coffee table, a fistful of popcorn halfway to your mouth, you froze.
The fluffy, white kernels slowly fell back in the bowl as you set it aside and you leaned forward to grab your phone. Your hand was shaking, and your heart was pounding. Who in the hell was crazy enough to text you back?
Someone horny enough, you supposed.
You sighed, opening your texts and staring at the grey bubble longer than you needed to, the white letters slurring together from the excess of alcohol.
Everything okay?
You laughed - like, actually laughed aloud. The sound, sharp and sudden, echoed off your living room walls. Why the fuck did this man care if everything was okay? You were looking for a hookup, not therapy. You texted back, autocorrect doing the heavy lifting for you.
I just asked if you wanted to come over. Could use the company.
It marked ‘read’ instantly and your heart stopped for just a second. And then he was typing…For a long damn time. Finally, a little ‘whoosh’ came across as his response popped into the chat.
Why don’t I, instead, take you to dinner while Becca is at volleyball practice?
You blinked. Your brain was running on booze and a crippling fear of meeting God. You had to reread it a few times. Becca…Becca…Becca…What the hell did your best friend have to- Oh. Oh no. No, no, and hell no. You panicked, instantly sobering up at least halfway. Your fingers were quick to type.
Oh! Wrong number, sorry!
Okay. Deep breaths. Maybe that would work. Ping. Or not.
What’s going on, doll? You and Becca not friends anymore? She was just talking about you the other day and finals…
Oh god. Yeah. No way to ‘wrong number’ this one. Okay, no problem. Just another deep fucking breath…Ping.
I insist. Dinner. I’ll pick you up. You still live just off campus? Birch and 44th?
You let out the bundle of oxygen you’d been hoarding in your lungs. You had just wanted a good time and now your best friend’s dad was offering to take you out. On what? A date? How old was he again?
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard so long your screen shut off. You looked at yourself in the dark reflection of the glass - hair messy, cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and dark. Fuck. Maybe you did just need to get out of the house for a little while.
You tapped your screen back awake.
Yeah, that’s still the address. What time?
Your finger was shaking as you hit ‘send’.
He started to type.
Be ready by 6 P.M. Make yourself feel pretty :)
Your heart fluttered a little. Oh. He wanted you to make yourself look pretty. Well…Alright then! You had quite a lot of work to do so you switched off the TV and headed straight for your bedroom. It was time to put yourself first and have a hell of a time doing it.
6 P.M. rolls around. A steady knock on the door.
You were just securing your final diamond earring and slipping on your last heel. You felt very…Nice. Cocktail dress, stockings, heels, and the only diamond set you owned. Makeup and hair done to the nines with a spritz of your favorite perfume. As you grabbed your clutch, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a little too much.
You opened the door, eyes widening a little as Becca’s father, Bucky, stood there just outside the doorway looking mighty damn fine. Gray slacks, white dress shirt unbuttoned in a casual yet polished manner. Gray sport jacket slung over his shoulder and that beautiful salt-and-pepper hair brushed back. You’d never really given him much of a second thought before - I mean, how could you? He was your best friend’s dad, and you and Becca had been friends since senior year of high school.
But, you just couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on every part of him - his strong facial features, stunning blue eyes, and the way his stubble danced along his chiseled jaw. Then there was the way his dress shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that should have been a sin - tight in all the right places to show off the work he’d always put into his body since his Army days. It felt a little aggressive to say, but you wanted to chew on this man.
“Hi there, doll,” he said, voice sweet and low with something you’d never heard before. Something akin to the floral sweetness of honey dripping across cragged gravel.
You tried not to melt right then and there as he held out his hand to take yours. “Are you ready or do you need a minute?” He smiled and you felt your world tilt and your stomach churn. No one had the right to be that attractive. No one had the right to look this good and smile at you like that.
“O-Oh I…I’m ready,” you said, clearing your throat a little before giving him a polite smile and daintily placing your hand in his. His palm was practically twice the size of yours and you had to really put effort into not thinking about how good they’d feel inside you right about now…
The thing about Bucky, which had always been the thing about Bucky, was that he was a proper gentleman through and through. You often thought about how Becca ended up with much better men than you did - and it was probably because she was raised by such an exemplary man to begin with. He was the ultimate blueprint.
He walked you to his car, never a pace ahead nor a hair behind until he took a few strides in front of you to open the passenger side door for you. Your dress was a little on the short side, so as you dipped into his car, he used his sport jacket to shield you from prying eyes - he even looked away himself. How chivalrous!
The ride to the restaurant, itself, was great. A little awkward considering how the situation had manifested, but he was skilled at moving the small-talk along and making you feel like the center of attention. You discussed the weather, finals, and after-college plans with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times over with someone his age. It was the typical experience, just with far less lecturing and more mutual understanding than you’d come to expect.
Once you were pulled up to the valet, it wasn’t the valet worker who opened your door for you. No, it was Bucky shielding you again with that damn sport coat until you’d adjusted yourself and grabbed your clutch off the seat. You wobbled a little in your heels against the uneven cobblestone ground and his hand left the car door to catch your waist.
Your breath hitched, his touch so gentle and warm. Your gaze immediately flitted up to his face where he smiled in amusement. “Careful there, doll. Ground’s got teeth,” he murmured, making sure you were steady before he closed the car door and then slipped his sport coat on before offering you his arm. Of course, you obliged.
He lead you to up the little stone pathway to the restaurant door - the inside was dimly lit but you found yourself met with opulence beyond anything you’d experienced before. Crystal chandeliers gleaming and twinkling against candlelight that buzzed from the white clothed tables. You swallowed thickly. This place was expensive and you weren’t so sure you were worthy of it.
“Table for two, should be reserved under James Barnes,” you heard him say to the hostess at the stand.
“Says here you’d prefer the balcony view. Is that still correct?” the hostess inquired.
Your brows furrowed a little as you looked up at him. That sounded…Pricey. Exclusive. “Bucky…” you started to protest.
In the most polite way possible, he shushed you and spoke instead to the hostess. “Yes, please. Should you have anything available.” He gave you a sideways glance, one that silently read as ‘shut up and watch’. Watch what?
The hostess lead the two of you to a semi-private table on a balcony overlooking the city. It looked beautiful from this far away - so quiet and so peaceful. The air was crisp, but not at all too cold and the fireplace lit beside the table added a nice bit of coziness.
Bucky pulled your chair out and you took a seat after only a moment of hesitation. You weren’t used to this kind of treatment and couldn’t recall the last time a man ever gave this much of a shit about chivalry. He pushed you in close to the table and then seated himself politely across from you. That was just the thing wasn’t it? He was so polite.
The hostess left you two the wine menu and the prix-fixe menu detailing the night’s exclusive offerings before disappearing back inside the main restaurant. Outside, it was just you, Bucky, and one other couple seated several feet away. For the most part it was…Quiet. Peaceful. All except for the incessant pounding of your heart.
You picked up the wine menu, still trembling. He cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up at you over the top of his menu. “Why don’t you order a bottle, sweetheart? Seems like your nerves could use it.”
Your eyes flicked up from the tiny booklet, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’m not nervous,” you defended.
“Mmm…” he hummed, blue eyes focusing back on the menu. He was reading it for far too long for something so short. It seemed maybe he was nervous too.
“Mmm what?” you asked, setting the wine menu down and then mirroring his prior expression - cocked brow and a sharp gaze.
He didn’t look back up at you as he answered. “You’re awfully shaky. It’s like you’ve never had a real man take you on a proper date.”
You scoffed. “I’ve been on plenty of proper dates.”
He chuckled. “Doll, Olive Garden doesn’t count and neither does splitting the check.”
Your cheeks continued to bloom red. “In my defense, I’m a broke college student. We all are.” You bit your bottom lip as your eyes flicked down towards the prix-fixe menu.
Bucky finally set his own menu aside and leaned forward, his large, warm palms finding your forearms and resting there. You looked up. His gaze was almost too much and not enough in the same breath. “And that’s why we’re here tonight,” he said, voice low again in that tone that sent heat pooling straight between your thighs. Shamefully.
“So that I can show you how a real man treats a lady.”
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking down towards his hands and the only thing you could think of was how he could easily hold both your wrists above your head with no issue. Back pressed to the wall. His lips on yours. Fuck, where was your goddamn mind at?
He smirked. “Doll, where’s your head at?” Like you were an open book and he was reading it faster than you could write it.
You about choked. You cleared your throat. “Nothin’ just…You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never been on a proper date,” you mumbled, still avoiding contact with those beautiful blues that had you feeling like you were losing your mind - which, in your defense, you sort of were.
To your relief, your waitress for the night appeared to take your drink orders. For him, it was a glass of scotch. For you, it was a bottle of rosé because he’d insisted. She ran you two quickly through the courses on the menu before whisking away to work on the drink orders. And then there was an awkward silence that fell between the two of you. Him staring at you and you fidgeting with the bottom hem of your cocktail dress like if you rubbed the ruby fabric enough times it would send you home.
“You’re staring,” you muttered, deciding it was time to say something. Anything.
He laughed. “People tell me I’ve got a problem with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. You could feel his gaze boring into you. It was like you could sense he was on the verge of saying something but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.
Hell, was any of this appropriate at all? Probably not. The age gap screamed very much not. But, part of you really wanted this. The older man. The experience. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.
“So, why are you trying to hook up with your best friend’s father?” His voice cut through your thoughts - the dreaded question that you’d been waiting for him to ask.
You blinked. “I’m sorry?” You tried to play dumb.
He smirked again. A slight tug at the corner of his lips but it was there. “You heard me, doll,” he said, voice dripping sinful honey that had your tongue feeling too big for your mouth and your thoughts racing beyond a speed you could comprehend.
“I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t know it was you,” you choked out.
Bucky’s expression turned puzzled. “You didn’t know it was me?” He almost sounded offended. Well, at least the night had gone halfway perfect.
You sighed. “I was just…I was buzzed. Okay, maybe a little drunk…”
“Uh huh…”
“And I…Well…I just texted a bunch of numbers hoping someone would answer…”
He hummed, expression still puzzled like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your confession. His voice was…Concerned, though. As he spoke again, “Why are you drunk at ten in the damn morning and texting men who you don’t even know who they are?”
And then it all came crumbling down and the only thing left to do was pray your mascara was going to hold on tight. “Brad…I…I caught Brad cheating on me last week…” you said quietly, your eyes beginning to water. You fanned yourself with the menu, hoping you could hold it together and not seem like an absolute mess.
Bucky’s expression softened. All he could do was reach out across the table, palms up and inviting your own to meet his. Slowly, you set the menu down and placed your palms in his. Once again, his hands were twice the size of yours, practically swallowing them whole as he held them firm and gentle.
You sniffled, a tear falling down one cheek and then the other. Oh great. The waterworks. How lovely. But…He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he pulled one hand away, grabbed the linen napkin from across his lap, and brought it up to gently dab the tears away.
“Doll…” he started slowly, softly. “That doesn’t mean you go searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and texting men who aren’t any better for you than him…”
As if on cue, the waitress brings back your bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice. She places a glass on the table, thin and dainty and made for sparkling wines. She popped open the bottle and poured your first glass to a perfect height. “Enjoy. The first course will come out shortly,” she said, leaving Bucky’s scotch at the end of the table before whisking off again.
Once she was gone, you blinked. “But…But you’re better than him.”
He laughed as he swirled the scotch around in the beveled crystal - amused. “Oh, I know I am. But what if one of those other boys had responded, hmm? Where would you be at now?”
You sighed. Not at a fancy dinner, that’s for sure. Probably getting drunk in your apartment and letting Jake from Hinge hit it from the back. And this was far better than that.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, voice breaking through your loud, mess of a mind. “Now, let me show you how a real man should treat you, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt like this, doll. You’re too good for that.”
And so, you sat across from him and let Becca’s dad, Bucky Barnes, show you how wining and dining really worked. You let him lead the pleasant conversation. He complimented you tastefully, reaching across the table to brush a hand across your cheek but not daring to move an inch lower. His gaze was respectable, kind. The warmth of the rosé was flowing through your veins and while you tried to flirt with him, he was always so polite. So reserved.
When it came time for dessert, a stunning display of comforting bananas foster, you two had decided to share the course. His spoon would clink against yours occasionally, a red flush covering your cheeks and your heart doing somersaults like a high school girl on a first date.
You hadn’t even noticed, but some of the caramel sauce that had come atop the ice cream was dribbling down your chin after a misguided, wine-drunk bite. He was quick to the rescue before it soiled your ruby dress.
He carefully leaned across the table, napkin outstretched in his hand as he very gingerly wiped the caramel from the corner of your mouth with a gentle smile upon his lips. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty little dress.” You felt like you could swoon, like your eyes would turn to hearts at any given second.
Bucky hovered there for a moment, over the table, hand outstretched and his face just close enough to smell the warm scotch and the sweet caramel on his breath. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to those piercing blue eyes that you swore would be the death of you.
You watched as his eyes mirrored yours now, flicking down once and then up almost too quick to catch. But then he was retreating, sitting back in his chair and quickly throwing up his hand as the waitress passed by. “Check please, ma’am?”
Bucky drove you home. He made sure to shield you again from prying eyes, although you caught it this time when he glanced down once to see the curve of your ass peek out from beneath your dress as you lowered yourself into his car.
He walked you up to the door, taking you by one hand and leading your waist with the other as you were very clearly drunk. Once you got to the door, you fumbled in your clutch for your keys, fingers trembling and causing you to drop them onto the welcome mat.
You moved to stoop down, but he stopped you with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, if you bend down right now, I’m not gettin’ ya back up off that concrete.” Yeah, he probably had a point there.
He bent down and grabbed the key - and, as he stood, his shoulder brushed against your arm and your breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes met yours, inches away from your face, and he took the key and pressed into your palm with a close-lipped smile. “Careful, doll.”
You felt like a deer caught in headlights for a good fifteen seconds, although those seconds felt like years. You blinked and then turned your attention back to the lock.
The world was spinning as you lined the key up and pushed it in, turning it over with a thump that nearly echoed the frantic pulse of your heart in your ears. You pushed the door open and he stuck one foot in to follow before you turned around, shocked.
He tilted his head. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ sure you make it past the threshold. Honest,” he said with a light chuckle.
And you let him. You let Bucky Barnes walk you to your couch and sit you down. You watched as he kneeled in front of you and very carefully guided your heels off your blistered feet - in your defense, you didn’t wear heels often.
Bucky fluffed up one of your decorative pillows that had seen better days, and then gently helped you lay down. The ceiling was swirling around and around, and in the same breath it felt like your body was on a boat rocking back and forth. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling ten seconds away from turning green.
The next thing you felt was the weight of his sport coat as he laid it across you, a makeshift blanket to ensure you didn’t go cold - or, a cruel souvenir for you to remember him by. For you to stare at every day from now on and think about his face. The way he bit his lip if he stared you up and down for a moment too long. The way you could feel his lips linger, dying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but then retreating cowardly.
“I gotta leave, doll,” you hear him say through the fog. “Next time, call me.”
And the click of the door closing behind him was the very last thing you heard before you blacked out.
The grey morning light is what woke you, streaming in through the sliding glass door all cheery and bright as if you weren’t currently crawling your way out of rock bottom. You groaned, the weight of his sport coat still on your body. The scent of him lingered there on the woven fabric. Sharp, woodsy, masculine. Driftwood and gunmetal.
You slowly sat up, bringing the collar of the coat to your face and inhaling deeply. Had you not had this tangible piece of evidence, you would have thought the prior night was nothing more than a drunken dream fueled by a bottle of Malibu.
You saw your clutch placed on the coffee table and you opened it, pulling your phone out. No new texts. You sighed.
You moved to start the routine you’d gotten in the habit of the over the last week. Tylenol, number one. Shower, second. Booze, third. Except, as your head pounded and your stomach growled with the craving of something other than liquor, you could hear Bucky’s voice in the back of your head. The one telling you not to drown your feelings in a bottle. The one telling you to call him.
So, you put the bottle of vodka down and picked up your phone instead. You tapped on his contact, which you made sure to actually label that morning, and called him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you waited for him to pick up…
No answer.
You huffed and threw your phone down onto the table. Not like you expected an answer anyway. Just then, you heard a knock at the front door. Brows furrowed in confusion, you quietly padded over and peeked through the peep hole. All you saw was a rather stout man holding what had to be an entire bush of bright red roses.
You opened the door and the man set the bunch of roses down on the ground. They were in their own little golden vase, fanned out and pretty for display. “Got a delivery here from a Mr. Barnes,” the man said with a smile, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Enjoy your morning, miss.”
You ran your fingertips across the heavy weight of the cardstock envelope, a gold wax seal holding closed all its secrets. You hauled the roses inside before sitting at your kitchen table and fumbling with the envelope as your fingers trembled.
You slipped out a short letter, hand-written with a good pen, paper, and ink. Thoughtful.
Doll, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. Take care and I’ll see you tonight at 8:00 P.M. You don’t need to be fancy, and you know the address.
Your heart stopped dead in your chest for what felt like minutes, but in reality it was only a second or two. Your head was reeling now. Why did he want to meet you at his house? Your best friend’s house? Was she even going to be gone this evening?
You quickly checked your texts. Becca had been fairly MIA for her finals, which tracked considering she took her schooling so seriously. You scrolled up, glanced at the date on your calendar, and then your cheeks flushed crimson. Becca would be gone. Most of the night, actually. Her boyfriend, Cole, had his last baseball game of the school season and it didn’t start until seven.
Was he inviting you over for…? No. No, he couldn’t be. Even with the tension between you two the night before, you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t like that. You knew he didn’t think of you like that. Not at all.
As you folded the letter back up and tucked it neatly inside its envelope, you turned to take in the magnificent sight of the multiple dozens of roses that were bloomed as red as your cheeks as they sat there on the kitchen counter like a neon invitation. An invitation to see how far you could push Mr. Barnes that evening.
The house wasn’t anything special. A quaint little brownstone in Brooklyn that screamed home sweet home in the midst of corporate chaos and brightly lit billboards that never slept. The street was quiet, lined with old street lamps that gave it a sort of charm that felt captured in a different time.
You knocked at the deep red door, nervous as you tugged your coat in tight around you. You heard the deadbolt unlatch and then the door creaked open. There was Bucky, in blue jeans and a blue Henley with his hair messier than the night before - he looked much more lived-in and casual and less like a posh Ken doll fresh from the box.
“Come on in,” he invited warmly with a smile, stepping aside.
You gave him a curt, polite nod and a mirrored smile as you ascended the last two steps and crossed over the threshold. You were immediately greeted by the sobering smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of the TV playing the local news at a low volume. You jumped slightly when you felt his hand rest against the small of your back as he came around your left flank. “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at you with irises that reminded you of endless blue skies on a clear June afternoon.
You glanced nervously between him and the television a few times before you decided you were much too jittery to drink any level of caffeine - so, you declined. “No, thanks,” you said quietly.
Your eyes widened as he moved to take your coat off for you. A red-hot blush flooded your cold cheeks with crimson as his hands brushed along your arms - the cool autumn air didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the heat of your own embarrassment. “O-Oh I-“ you stuttered, watching as he placed your coat on the rack just beside the door.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’?” Bucky quipped teasingly, beckoning for you to follow him into the kitchen.
You followed, leaning against the kitchen island while he poured himself a cup of coffee into one of those cheesy ‘World’s #1 Dad’ mugs. He leaned back against the dark granite countertop across from you, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the brim of his mug as he took a sip of the piping hot liquid.
You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here with a bush of roses just for me to watch you drink coffee,” you said, breaking the tensioned silence that had fallen between you.
He laughed a little, setting the mug to the side. “Guilty as charged,” he said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands before his expression shifted to something more serious.
“I asked you over because I wanted to tell you, in person, that this-“ he gestured from himself to you “-cannot be a…A thing.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his jaw ticked, clearly nervous.
You laughed. “Bucky, this was never meant to be a thing,” you said, mirroring him as he crossed his arms over his chest. You got the feeling he was backpedaling, like he realized something at the restaurant the night before and was now trying to build a wall to keep it out. “I was looking for a hookup, not a boyfriend.”
“Well, maybe since you’ve seen how a proper man treats a lady, perhaps you’ll rethink that.”
“I’m really not ready to get back in the dating scene…”
“Then wait.”
You paused. This was your life. Not his. Why in the hell did he care so much? “What’s it matter to you if I wait or not?”
His jaw ticked and his eyes briefly darted to the side, fixating on a point in space you couldn’t quite locate. “I don’t want you playing with fire so much you burn yourself,” he muttered, gaze going downtrodden.
“Why do you care?”
“Seeing you hurt, hurts me.”
“And why do you care that fucking much?”
Your question lands on him like a bullet to the chest. He picks up his coffee, mug trembling a little, and takes a sip like it’ll magically cure the ache in his chest. “It’s what Steve would have wanted me to encourage you to do.”
You sighed. Steve was your father, a military vet and close friend of Bucky’s who’d been killed in action many moons ago. You only found out about their connection to each after about a year of being close friends with Becca - at your high school graduation when Bucky gifted you a letter your father had left for you.
“He isn’t here and he doesn’t get to dictate what I do,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze because it’d only remind you that he was doing this to isolate himself.
“But I can still try to fulfill his wishes,” Bucky said, taking a couple steps forward and inserting himself into the awkward little bubble you’d built. It felt like he was taking up too much personal space but not enough at the same time.
Your breath hitched as he reached forward and pressed his metal palm to your cheek, something cold and shocking against the constant flush that reddened your skin. “And it’s so I no longer want what I can’t have.”
Your heart was pounding. You. He meant you. You were what he couldn’t have. You were the guilty pleasure, the reason he probably answered your text in the first place. And you were right - he was trying to build a wall. A wall between your heart and his.
You nuzzled against his palm, eyes fluttering shut. The touch felt holy. “What if I want it too?” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking up at him. “What about my own wishes?”
“It’s not the right thing to do…”
“I don’t want to do the right thing, Bucky!” you exclaimed, frustrated. You pushed yourself off the counter, standing closer to him now - almost chest to chest. “You don’t understand that all I want right now is something wrong! I want to feel something, Bucky. Anything. Anything other than this pain.” Your voice was beginning to crack and those beautiful blues of his were starting to well up with tears.
“I…” Bucky’s hand lingered on your cheek. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched that he was thinking. That he was trying to figure out if he had the strength to go against his own morals. “I…I can’t…”
You reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek with your own palm, thumb running along the plane of his cheekbone. “You can.”
He looked like he was about to break, about to shatter completely. The tension was thick enough to feel, heavy and suffocating. His eyes flicked from yours and down to your lips. Back up to your eyes. Back down to your lips. “This isn’t a good idea…” he murmured, leaning in close enough now that you could smell the mix of coffee and whiskey and mint on his breath.
You took a shuddering breath, eyes closing again because you couldn’t stand the weight of his gaze. “I don’t want it to be good. I just want to feel…” you breathed, shaky hand coming to rest against his muscled chest. “I just want to feel you.”
You could see it in the way his jaw ticked - you could feel it in the way he wasn’t sure if your hand burned him or comforted him. Bucky was trying so hard to resist the temptation in front of him. “Please, doll…I can’t,” he pleaded brokenly, but it was weak and he made no attempt to pull away from your touch.
You leaned up, nose nudging his and lips so close to brushing as you murmured, “Then why are you still here?”
It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn’t hold back. And suddenly, both of his hands were holding your face - one metal, one flesh. The way his lips smashed into yours would be forever imprinted in your mind. You could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have you.
The kiss was everything - teeth, tongue, breath, and heat. He nipped playfully at your bottom lip and you growled, which elicited a deep chuckle you’d never heard before - amused and pleased. His tongue explored your mouth like it was trying to map it, and yours did the very same to his. Nothing about this was normal. But you didn’t want it to be.
When he broke the kiss, it was only because one of you needed to fucking breathe or you’d both be dead on the floor. Panting, he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”
You nodded wordlessly and pulled him right back in, trying to drown him under the weight of how much you craved him. His hands found your hips and gripped at the soft flesh, picking you up like you weighed nothing and perching you atop the granite.
His flesh hand snaked its way up your blouse, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease that shouldn’t have turned you on but it did. He pulled the garment off and tossed it on the kitchen floor, the silk of your blouse cascading in cool puddles across your tits. You shivered, only cold for a moment before his palm was kneading at the mounds of flesh like he’d been dreaming of how good they’d feel.
You moaned out, breaking the kiss as you tossed your head back when his thumb and forefinger began to tease and roll your nipple between calloused skin. “Fuck,” you groaned, hands scrambling from purchase at the edge of the countertop.
You barely had time to react before Bucky was ripping your blouse from your torso, a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “Bucky!” you scolded, but he remained unbothered and on a mission.
“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, stooping down and taking your neglected breast into his mouth as his hand continued to work the other.
The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across your nipple was enough to have you keening up off the counter and further into his touch. It felt so fucking good that you were convinced you’d cum just from the way he worshipped your tits.
He pulled back, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown as he glanced up at you. He looked feral - hungry and ready to feast. You watched as he dropped to his knees and rucked up your pencil skirt to reveal the lacy panties that clung to your dripping wet core.
“This what I do to ya, doll?” he breathed, practically drooling at the smell of your arousal as it assaulted his senses. He just needed to taste you. Devour you.
You whimpered and nodded. “Y-Yes,” you nearly whispered, brain short-circuiting as you felt his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and peel them away.
He watched, mesmerized by how your glistening folds clung to the lace, groaning as he could now see how drenched and pretty you were for him. He tossed the panties somewhere in the same direction as your bra, and then his hands were prying you open to make way for his head as he leaned in and licked a slow, warm stripe straight up the center of your heat.
You felt your toes curls and your back bow a little as the tip of his tongue traced devastating circles around your clit before diving back down and straight past your entrance.
“Bucky!” you gasped out, head thrown back as your hands found purchase in that gorgeous salt-and-pepper mane of his. “Fuck-“ you groaned, listening as the sounds he made were so obscene they had you blushing. Licking, slurping, sucking…He was like a man starved and you were the best damn meal he could’ve been served.
Bucky hummed against your core, sending vibrations straight through your clit as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and began to suck. You were already trembling from the overload of pleasure, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he needed you screaming for his mercy.
You felt as he teased your entrance with his forefinger, just barely pushing it in and then retreating. Nothing he could’ve done in that moment would have prepared you for when he plunged two fingers deep inside you and curled them with such ease it was almost second nature.
You could feel yourself clench around his digits with his name on your lips as you let out a whorish moan. Between his mouth and tongue working your clit and his fingers quite literally beckoning you to cum for him, you were in pure, blissful heaven.
That burning coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind tighter and tighter, and he could tell. He hummed in approval, fingers bullying into your g-spot now with a precision that was, frankly, unfair.
“C’mon, doll,” he urged as he lapped at your clit. “Cum f’me. Lemme have it all…” The way his voice was so deep, so smooth…It was like silk over gravel. And it had you coming undone the second he begged for you like that.
Your body arched forward as you moaned his name, nails digging into his scalp as your toes curled and your entire body felt like it was trying to levitate off the damn counter. But he didn’t stop - even as you pulsed and gushed around him, he kept on fucking going.
“B-Bucky,” you whimpered out as it was bordering on overstimulation. “B-Buck please…” You were pleading with a man who was too damn happy with where he was. If you’d let him, he’d live there between your thighs and die a very satisfied man.
“One more f’me…Please,” he begged softly, warm breath ghosting across your core before he dove back in and began sucking at your clit again.
You could feel tears blurring the edges of your vision, and you weren’t even sure if your first orgasm had ended before the second begun - but, you still felt it all the same. The overwhelming tidal wave of bliss that caused your body to clench around his fingers like your cunt was trying to trap him there. You let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as your body collapsed back against the shockingly cold granite.
Your head was spinning, vision blurred and hearing muffled. You weren’t sure you’d ever cum so hard in your whole goddamn life.
“So, so good f’me, doll,” you heard him praise you through the haze. He slowly pulled his fingers out, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing at the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release you’d rewarded him with, earning a very fucked-out groan from you. “Tastes like heaven and ya sound like it too when you’re cummin’ f’me like that,” he drawled, getting to his feet.
As he rose, you could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled you with a new wave of want - of craving.
A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed you were staring - not that you were trying to stare, it was just there. “Not right here, doll,” he murmured like he could read your mind, a finger hooking under your chin and gently bringing your lips up to his as he kissed you with the remnants of your release still glistening on his skin. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, a drug that you only wanted more of…
But then he was pulling away and you were left pouting. “Hey, don’t you pull that with me,” he teased, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead before you found yourself being lifted into his arms - bridal style - like you weighed no more than a feather. “You’ll get what you want. Just gotta be patient, sweetheart.”
The sickly sweet kindness in his smile was almost cruel in this scenario, but you silently snaked your arms around his neck as he carried you through the narrow foyer and up the short staircase to the second floor. The house wasn’t cramped, necessarily. But, with him carrying you through the tight halls, it felt rather cozy with just the two of you alone.
His foot nudged the door open to the master bedroom, old brass hinges creaking softly. You found yourself being laid so gingerly onto the mattress you could almost feel the tears welling again in your eyes. He treated you like something special, something fragile. It made your heart swell a little.
“May I?” he asked, nodding to your skirt. It was your last remaining article of clothing. You nodded back in permission, cheeks flushed crimson in the low lamplight that streamed through the window and illuminated everything in a heavenly, golden glow.
Bucky shimmied your skirt gently down your legs and tossed it aside before he made zero show about stripping down himself - but, it was a delicious sight to you all the same.
Watching as the layers of clothing were peeled away, revealing nothing but rippling muscles and silvery scars. The scar where metal met man was particularly bad, but still beautiful it’s own devastating rite. His dress shirt the night before hadn’t left much to your imagination, but even then, this was far beyond what your mind had conjured - he had the appearance that God himself carved him from the finest marble. An aged artwork that only grew finer with the weather and the years.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured lowly, crawling over top of your body and caging you in with solid forearms and beefy biceps you swore one day you’d take a bite of.
Heat rushed across your cheeks and you brought your hands up to rest against his biceps, fingers gripping flesh one side and brushing across whirring metal plates on the other. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” you whispered.
“Well, it’s not polite to stare, doll,” he said, dipping down so your lips were brushing dangerously close.
“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” you quipped back, feeling your breath hitch a little just feeling his bare chest pressed so intimately to your own.
“See? You’re learning,” he chuckled softly, ducking down and beginning to kiss and suck at the suppleness of your neck. “Good girl,” you heard him mumble against your skin.
You arched up into his feather-light touch, lips trailing from neck to collarbone to breasts to torso as soft purple bruises began to bloom in his wake. And then he was sitting back on his knees and you took another unashamed moment to fully appreciate him. To admire his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed, leaking precum like he’d been edged for hours.
He opened his mouth and you interrupted him. “Yeah, yeah. Staring again. I get it, Barnes. Just let me eye-fuck you, yeah?” you muttered, and that got an actual laugh from him.
Reaching his flesh hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his aching length. “You like what you see?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his precum dripped along your thighs like a sinful, pearlescent trail that lead to your core. “You imagining what it can do to ya, doll?”
You nodded, more than eager. “Wanna feel it inside me…Please,” you pleaded, practically drooling as you watched him rub the head of his cock through your slick folds. “Please…”
“Mmm…Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to your face as it was contorted in desperation for him.
It took you a split second to think about what he might’ve been asking. And then it popped into your mind and you couldn’t help but giggle a little. “You’re a dirty man, Barnes,” you purred, only to feel the grip of metal meet your throat. Your eyes went wide.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the gravelly rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt as your walls fluttered around nothing.
“Yes, Sergeant,” you said, pushing your throat up further into his hand and smirking.
Bucky groaned, swearing in the back of his mind that you were going to be the death of him. He squeezed at your throat one last time before posting the same vibranium palm right beside your head. “That’s right, doll,” he muttered, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your skull as you felt him begin to push inside you.
The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate - let alone the way you could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along your walls as he eased in inch by brutal inch. He paused about halfway, concerned by how your features were twisted. “Doin’ okay there, doll?” he asked, flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. The way his thumb ran along the high plane of your cheekbone was tender, loving.
You nodded, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes and wet eyelashes. “More than fucking okay,” you managed to choke out with a small laugh. It was hard to put into words just how good he felt buried so deep inside you that you swore he was pushing the very oxygen from your lungs.
Bucky let out a soft grunt once he was fully sheathed, already appearing wrecked. “Fuck, doll,” he breathed, nearly panting as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “So fuckin’ tight, ya know that? Squeezin’ me…Milkin’ me dry already and I haven’t even started…” He let out a small, breathless chuckle.
You let out a laugh just as breathless as his. “Sounds like you’re not gonna last very long, old man,” you jeered playfully.
His cheeks flushed bright red, but he didn’t reply. He only slowly began to pull out, groaning raggedly as he felt the way his cock dragged along your walls - the way your body was actively trying to pull him back and keep him in.
He pulled out nearly all the way and then pushed himself back in all at once. You moaned so loudly when he bottomed out that you were certain the neighbors three doors down heard you. And that wasn’t the last time they would, unfortunate enough as it was for them. Because he pulled out and then pushed back into you again, forcing the same exact whorish moan past your lips before you could catch it.
“You like what I do to ya, doll? Like when I give it all to ya? When I bury my cock so deep ya feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his flesh hand pressed down against a small bulge in your lower abdomen and you just about levitated off the goddamn bed.
The pace he set was steady and calculated. One that allowed for him to achieve the same depth of penetration each and every time - the same devastating attention to making sure he hit all the right spots. It wasn’t brutal because it was fast - no, it was brutal because he took his time and holy fuck it was a borderline religious experience.
It felt as though you had no idea where your body ended and his begun as he rucked your legs up over his shoulders and you found yourself with nails raking down his back as your ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of your head. The position was passionate, intimate. Sweat began to pool where your bodies were melded, chest to chest and forehead to shoulder. You couldn’t help the way you moaned his name, and he couldn’t help the way he panted yours like he was begging for mercy.
“Takin’ me s’well…Atta girl,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to your cunt. “Gonna fill ya up, doll…Claim ya…Make ya mine like I shoulda done a long time ago…”
You whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as you clung on for dear life. “B-Bucky~” you moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as your mind was actively being fucked stupid. “Please…” you begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.
“You sure, doll?”
“If you don’t fuck me into this goddamn mattress-“
He cut you off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. And another. You could feel the head of his cock bullying into that soft, spongy spot inside you and you cried out. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you exclaimed with each thrust, eyes lolling shut and your head hitting the pillow as the pleasure began conjuring stars across your vision.
Bucky groaned, something deep, guttural, and primal - something you hadn’t expected from someone who seemed so…Quiet. “It’s like you were made f’me, doll,” he whimpered, his rhythm beginning to falter. “Ya gonna cum f’me? Can feel ya grippin’ me…Know you’re close, sweetheart. Need ya to give it to me…”
He was begging for you in the same way someone would pray for forgiveness - reverent and wrecked and desperate. You could feel that coil in your lower abdomen tightening, pulling taut until your orgasm snapped through your body unyielding and violent.
“B-Bucky! A-Ah~!” you barely managed to squeak out as you felt your spine arch off the mattress and your body seize beyond your control. He groaned again as your cunt clenched down around him, and you could feel as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside you at the exact same time.
“Shit-“ he grunted out, stilling inside you and partially collapsing his weight on top of you as his chest heaved and gleamed with sweat.
Your head was fuzzy, warm. The afterglow rolled over your body like something soft and comforting - floaty like you were resting on a cloud of your own pleasure. “Mmm…Bucky?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Is that how a man should fuck me proper?”
He laughed, turning his head to pepper soft kisses on your cheek. “Yeah, doll. I’d say so.”
He slowly pulled out and then flopped onto the bed beside you. The loss of him inside you felt almost great enough to mourn, but his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close quickly filled that void. “And now I’ve ruined you for all the boys,” he teased, kissing your forehead before gathering you in close to his chest - he was like a furnace, and he held you like his greatest treasure.
You giggled. “S’okay,” you mumbled against his skin, lazily tangling your legs with his. “‘M yours now anyway.”
Bucky smiled to himself, squeezing you tight. “That’s right, doll. All mine.”
summary: When Bucky had trouble falling asleep, he sought you out for some company and comfort. What he didn’t expect was that between fatigue and vulnerability, feelings had a way of coming through.
word count: 4.1k
warnings: Very brief mentions of Bucky’s past and nightmares, Not exactly smutty but it’s hinted at, Other than that just a whole lot of fluff and comfort
author’s note: Honestly kinda nervous, this is my first tumblr post ever! I edited this a few days ago but couldn’t really bring myself to proofread it because my own writing always cringes me out, so I’m sorry for any mistakes! I’m planning on posting a small sequel sometime next week and really hope that you enjoy this part, comments and feedback would be highly appreciated!
I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or used for AI in any context.
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Bucky Barnes wasn't unfamiliar with sleepless hours and restless nights.
As a matter of fact, they were a common companion by now.
Not one he necessarily liked, but he couldn't exactly do anything about it. He just pushed through the restless nights filled with nothing else but tossing and turning and the occasional slumber which never really held on long because nightmares and memories didn't give him any peace to actually rest.
Getting three hours of sleep wasn't unusual for him, but Bucky highly prided himself in being able to function well, despite whatever fatigue and exhaustion that little of sleep usually brought.
He was a super soldier, after all. Surely, it would need a little more than that to knock him off his feet, right?
Wrong.
During the last two weeks, Bucky had gotten even less sleep than he normally did. He was constantly on edge, his memories not giving him a break for even a second, reminders of what his life used to be seering through his brain like lighting.
It was exhausting, sure, but he figured he'd tough it out, that it was just a phase that would fade again eventually.
What he didn't expect was just how much it would really get to him, both physically and mentally. His body ached with the need to sleep, muscles so heavy it took him a great amount of strength to even get up in the morning.
It didn't help that everything around him felt too intense and dull all at once. His headache hadn't left him once during the last fourteen days and neither had the haze that was clouding his brain, the one that made it difficult to even think properly.
Bucky was used to hiding his issues, though. He'd survived worse than this, for fucks sake. A little sleep deprevation wasn't what was going to break him. He wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't let it happen. He didn't want to tell the others about it, either. The last thing he needed was anybody fussing over him like he and his sob story were something that needed pity.
But he was so, so tired.
And that tiredness made him desperate, which was exactly why he was currently standing in front of your room, still contemplating if he should knock or if you'd think that he was pathetic for letting a little lack of sleep get to him so much.
He should just pull himself together.
You wouldn't say that, of course. He knew that better than anyone, but that knowledge unfortunately didn't stop him from overthinking this.
A part of him, the one that got him through seventy years of torture and pain, was currently screaming at him to keep his distance, to not allow any vulnerablity.
Vulnerability meant weakness, and that always led to punishment.
That's how it used to be, at least.
But this wasn't Hydra and you weren't anything like his old handlers. In fact, you were one of the nicest people he knew. You got along with everyone, constantly filling his days with your bad jokes and stupidly beautiful smiles.
Your laugh was even worse. The sound was like music to his ears, making him feel lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with his sleep deprivation and everything to do with you.
It was his fucking favorite sound in the world, just like you were his favorite person.
He couldn't tell you that, of course.
The two of you were friends.
And even though his feelings for you had stopped just being friendly a very long time ago, that was a fact he had to remind himself of every day. You didn't see him as any more than what the two of you were, which was very close, but still painfully platonic friends.
You had told him, though- multiple times- that whenever he needed something, you would be there. No matter how big or small, you had promised him that he could always come to you.
And right now, all he really needed was one of your hugs that never failed to make the world around him go quiet, giving his mind the kind of break it barely got anymore.
It would solve all his problems, he was sure of it.
He knew that you were still awake. With his kind of hearing, he could clearly make out the sound of your favorite show still running on the TV.
Taking one last deep breath to hype himself up, he carefully raised his hand and scraped his knuckles against the door, loud enough for you to hear, but still gentle, so he would hopefully not startle you.
For a moment he was sure that you probably didn't hear him, but then he could make out the quiet rustle of sheets and bare feet lightly padding against the floor.
The door opened and there you were, your hair a mess, a sleepy expression on your face and clothed in an old tshirt and red flannel pants.
God, you were beautiful.
"Buck?" A small crease formed between your eyebrows as you took him in and he winced, realising that he probably looked awful. His short hair was standing off in messy strands and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy from exhaustion. The dark bags under his eyes probably didn't help, either.
Bucky knew that you'd noticed that something was off, of course.
All week, you had watched him with those observant eyes of yours, checking in on him whenever you could.
You didn't push, though. You just let him approach you at his own pace, which he appreciated.
"What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" He hated how concerned you sounded. He didn't want to be the reason for your distress, not ever. Actually, he'd rather get shot than make you upset, but thinking about it, that might be a little contradictory.
Admitting that he didn't come here because of something serious but solemnly because he couldn't sleep felt even pathetic out loud than it did in his head, if that was even possible.
"I can leave again, though. I know it's late and I really don't want to bother you-"
"Hey, no. None of that. You're always welcome here Buck, you know that," You interruped him gently, keeping him from backtracking before he could even properly start. He wanted to protest again, of course, wanted to apologize for coming to you with his issues this late, but you quickly ushered him inside, like you knew exactly what was going on inside him and scared that if you let him stand in the hallway for a moment longer, he'd bolt again.
Which wasn't too far off the truth, if he was being honest.
When Bucky stepped into the room, he felt the effect it had on him immediately. The smell alone was enough to soothe him, something sweet and flowery and so you his shoulders lost some of their tension immediately.
His skin tingled where you placed your hand on his arm and he was painfully aware of how close you were standing to him right now, looking up at him with the most breathtaking eyes he had ever seen.
They were bothering him right now though, because you still looked so goddamn worried. You didn't need to worry. He was fine, now that he was with you.
"I'm okay," He tried to reassure you, but he wasn't sure how convincing it sounded. "Really."
"Mhmm." The hum was noncomittal at best, your thumb rubbing soft circles over the soft fabric of his shirt.
"Please don't get me wrong, Buck, I don't mind you being here. I really don't. But it's also not common for you to show up at my door at-" You quickly glanced at the clock behind him. "One in the morning. What's actually going on?"
He hated that you were right. This wasn't normal, no matter how much he wanted it to be.
And he wanted it so, so badly.
He wanted to be in your space without having a reason to be there. He wanted your attention more than anythig else in the world and, most importantly, he wanted you.
But he couldn't say any of that, so he just shrugged, swallowing thickly. "I can't sleep. Like, at all. Haven't been able to in a couple of days."
It was more than just that and you both knew it, but he was grateful that you didn't call him out on it. "I just didn't want to be alone today, that's all."
The admission hung between you and Bucky had to suppress the urge to physically backtrack. He barely let himself be this vulnerable, too scared of what the consequences might be.
Somehow, you still always managed to reassure him that he never had to be scared with you.
"Oh, Buck." If anybody else would've said it, he most definitely would've taken it for pity. The only thing he could hear in your voice was raw and honest concern as you pulled him down, right into your arms.
He took his chance immediately, of course. Bucky couldn't help how pathetically touch starved he was when it got to you. Wrapping his arms around you as well, he couldn‘t help the hitch in his breath, his physical reaction mirroring just how crazy you were driving him right now, hugging him like that.
"Shh, it's okay. I got you," You reassured him softly as you cradled the back of his head, your hand soothingly moving up and down his back. The sensations running through his body were almost too much for him to handle, every single nerve in his body hyperaware of how close you were to him.
He didn't know how long the two of you stayed like that- time always did that whenever he was with you.
Wether it was seconds, minutes, a lifetime, he wouldn't know.
Didn't care, either.
He would be content to just be with you for however long you'd have him.
A lifetime did sound pretty damn good, though.
Only when you pulled back did he come back to reality again.
You brought just enough distance between the two of you to be able to look at his face-not that you would even be able to step back completely. Bucky'd hands were fisted tightly in the fabric of your sweater and you were pretty sure that he didn't even notice he was holding onto you so tightly.
When your eyes found his, your heart squeezed uncomfortably in your chest again. You had barely ever seen him this vulnerable; The lines on his face seemed to be carved more deeply than they usually were, but somehow, it didn't make him look older.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It was such a raw kind of exhaustion, it almost looked boyish on him.
And even though that part of him, the one that didn't hold onto his guard as much as he usually did was something you wanted to hold onto forever, thre was also nothing more that you wanted to do than make that horrible heaviness his eyes held vanish again.
Preferably right in this goddamn second.
How about you stay here tonight, hm?" You tried to make it sound like a question more than an offer, wanting him to have the choice to decline even though all you really wanted to do was keep him here until he was feeling better again.
You didn't want him to feel preassured or trapped with you- never that. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay anyway.
"Not too sure I'll be able to sleep."
And there it was.
This wasn't unusual for Bucky. Wether it developed because of Hydra or even before the war you didn't know, but he always did this thing were he didn't take people up on their offers because he was too scared of not living up to their expectations.
What he didn't seem to understand was that you didn't have any expectations.
You just wanted him, no matter what that might include, or, in this case, didn't include.
You'd never sleep again if it was to keep him company.
"We don't have to." You slowly raised your hand, giving him more than enough time to pull away if he wanted to, before you gently ran your fingers through his hair, a touch he immediately leaned into.
"We can just listen to music, watch a movie, whatever you want. If you fall asleep, you fall asleep. If you don't, we'll just have a good time anyway. No preassure, alright?"
Bucky was having a hard time registering what you were saying with your nails scratching his scalp like that, but he nodded anyway. "Alright."
He had to actively stop himself from letting out a sound of protest when you removed your hand from his hair, immediately missing the feeling of it but also not willing to show you just how much you were getting to him.
When you guided him over to the bed and the two of you sat down together, backs resting against the headboard, Bucky was mindful of keeping at least a little distance between the two of you.
If it was up to him, you'd be wrapped up in his arms by now, but his ma raised him better than that. He was still a gentleman, after all. The least he could do was be respectful, especially with how kind you were being to him.
"So, what do you think. Music or a movie?" Bucky would've been fully content with you just keeping to watch your show whilst he kept you company, but he had a feeling that you wouldn‘t take that for an answer.
"A movie sounds good, if that's okay."
You smiled at his response, because you'd fully expected him to hit you with an "I don't care, you decide." or "Whatever works best for you. I'm not picky.", so the actual choice, even if he still phrased it like he was asking for permission, was definitely progress.
"Yeah, of course. Anything in particular you wanna watch?"
You were only met with a shrug. "Whatever works best for you. I ain't picky."
Well, that much about progress.
You couldn't help but chuckle at the predictability of the statement, which was just a tad too cute for you to actually be irritated by the cryptic response. "Alright then, my choice it is."
It didn't take you long to find exactly what you were looking for.
It was a black and white movie from the 50s- not old enough for Bucky to know it, but just enough for it to feel familiar.
And again, his predictable reaction was almost too cute for you to handle.
His shoulders relaxed more and more with every minute passing, chest rising and falling evenly as his eyes were glued the the screen. You were glad that he seemed to enjoy it, that he was comfortable enough in your presence to actually allow himself to be captured by it.
Before you could think better of it, because you barely ever possessed the ability to think around Bucky at all, you slowly wrapped your arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer until his head was resting against your shoulder. He went willingly and you raised your hand again, going back to running your fingers through the short strands just like you had done a few minutes ago.
A deep exhale followed almost immediately and you hat to bite your inner cheek to keep yourself from laughing. There was no way that James Buchanan Barnes, ex Winter Soldier and Seargent, was that responsive to something as simple as touch. "Comfy?"
"With you? Always." Your heart stumbled a little in your chest, feelings flaring up that you refused to acknowledge right now. Instead, you pressed a gentle kiss against his soft hair, the gesture alone saying more than any words ever could.
You were so, so fucked.
"Glad to hear that, Buck."
You didn't know if it was the intimacy of the situation, but something felt different between you and Bucky. It wasn't what you were feeling, exactly. No, this was how you always felt around Bucky. There was nothing new about the affection that went way beyond friendship alone.
Right now, it just felt like you were accepting it instead of pushing it away all the time. There was no careful distance anymore, no akward attempts to keep the line of being friends carefully drawn.
There was no dramatic love confession, either. Just a man who carried way too much weight on his shoulders and you, the one person he trusted enough to help him with it.
Not Sam or Steve. Not even Nat, who might understand better how he was feeling right now.
You.
It didn’t catch you off guard because it was big or life changing, but because you didn't expect it to feel this… natural.
It felt like something finally shifted into place, somewhere it had always belonged.
Like the intimacy and closeness you were experiencing right now were how things had always been supposed to be.
About halfway through the movie, most of Bucky's weight was resting against you, his head lying fully on your chest.
His breathing had turned slow and shallow too, and you could see his eyelids drop every few seconds before he forced them open again.
"Go to sleep Bucky. You're tired."
"Don't wanna."
Even though thick with sleep, his voice was still laced with stubborness. It made you chuckle a little, because he was very obviously on the brink of passing out.
"Any reason for that?"
For a long moment, the only answer you got was a grunt, so you figured he must've actually fallen asleep.
"Don't want this to end."
And there he went, catching you off guard once again.
"Nothing's ending, Buck. I'm not going anywhere."
Now he tilted his head a little, angling it so he could properly meet your eyes. "Still, it'd be different when I wake up."
He wasn't sure what exactly possesed him to actually say this, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe it was proximity between the two of you, because usually, these would be things he'd take to his grave.
"We'd be back to pretending again, sweetheart. And Im not sure if I could handle that. I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't wanna act like I don't feel this way about you, because I do. So much it actually hurts sometimes." Bucky's eyes didn't leave yours for a second and he figured that if he already started, he might as well go all in now. "I don't want this to end. As a matter of fact, I'd never sleep again if it meant that I'd get to keep you like this forever. And I think the sleep deprevation is really getting to me right now because I would never actually say it like this, but I'm tired. And not only the sleepy kind of tired, but tired of pretending like my feelings aren't real. Like this is what friends just do- because it isn't, is it?
Your heart was racing so quickly behind your ribcage now, you could hear it pounding in your ears. There was no way this was actually happening right now.
He was right. This wasn't what friends did and you couldn't be more relieved that you apparently weren't the only one feeling like this.
"And call me crazy, but I feel like this hasn't been friendly for a very long time now."
Bucky's words were slightly slurred because of how tired he was, his accent thicker than what you were used to.
"This ain't up fo me to decide though, darlin'. The only thing I can tell you is that I know what I want and it's sure as hell not being your friend. I wanna be yours, the only question is if you want that, too."
For a five very long seconds, neither of you said anything.
Bucky was just about to pull back, to put some distance between you because he realised that this might've been the entirely wrong situation to confess feelings like that. He was sure that he must've said too much, because that was about the biggest hard launch he could've gone for.
That much about wanting to be gentle.
What Bucky didn't understand was that you weren't not saying anything because you didn't want him like that, but because you were so overwhelmed with your emotions, talking seemed impossible right now.
So instead of giving him the rejection he was already bracing for, you did the best thing you could think of and reached for his face, carefully cradling his cheek as you leaned down just close enough to push your lips against his.
It was barely even a kiss, but Bucky still felt like his whole universe rearranged itself and now circled around that moment alone. Fuck the sun and any other planet that might be important for the solar system to work. Why the hell would he need that if he had you?
"Does that answer your question?"
You still hadn't pulled back and your lips were moving against his with every word you spoke, which was driving him absolutely insane.
He was the one to lean in now, more than ready to give you a proper kiss instead of responding.
This one wasn't soft or careful like the first one had been. No, this kiss was desperate and hungry and everything the fog in his brain allowed him to feel right now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers curling in his hair tightly, causing heat to coil low in his stomach.
Just as he was about to pull you on top of him, very eager to keep going despite nearly falling asleep a few minutes ago, you pulled back again.
This time, he couldn't help the embarrasingly desperate sound that escaped his mouth.
He could feel heat creeping up his neck, but you only smiled.
"As much as I want to," You murmured and pressed a soft kiss against his forehead, one he greedily leaned into, fucking on seeming needy now, because he was.
And he was also pretty sure that you‘d noticed too by now.
"You need rest, my love. You're running on fumes."
He was feeling dizzy again, butt he was almost completely sure that it was because of the petname now, not because of the exhaustion.
Damnit, what the hell were you doing with him?"
"This isn't a dream, right? This is real? I'm not going crazy, am I?"
Again, he might sound pathetic, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted this so badly, he couldn‘t even stand the thought of not having you, especially now that he got a taste and knew exactly it could look like.
"Not a dream," You confirmed, smile widening as you pressed another kiss to his face. "This is very real, I promise."
"You sure?"
"Very sure, Buck."
He still wanted to pull you down on top of him and kiss you senseless until neither of you could breathe anymore, but you were being reasonable. He did need sleep, wether he wanted to admit it or not.
He decided to do the next best thing and still pulled you into his arms, just without the kissing part. Bucky embraced you tightly, almost like he still didn't believe that any of this was actually happening.
If he was being honest, he didn't. Maybe he had died from all the goddamn exhaustion and somehow ended up in heaven. Even though he wasn't sure how that would be more realistic than this happening in real life, it seemed to be the most reasonable conclusion to come to.
Your head was resting on his chest just like his had when you were watching the movie, arms loosely wrapped around his torso.
He let himself enjoy the view just a moment longer, eyes on your beautiful face as you smiled up at him.
In that moment, Bucky came to the conclusion of exactly three things.
First, you were the most breathtaking sight he had ever laid his eyes on in his whole life.
Second, he would go through every single second of his 109 years of living if it meant that this was where he would end up.
And third, it might actually not hurt to close his eyes for a bit.
For the first time since way before the war, Bucky Barnes managed to sleep through the whole night without nightmares, pain or gunfire interrupting his sleep.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) BUCKY BARNES doesn’t use his metal hand during sex with you… unless he’s jealous.
he knows you can handle his metal arm, you love it so much that he knows you would love it if he used it during sex— but he never does. he never uses it because he doesn’t want to risk anything. he’s been told nothing will happen, maybe be gentle but he never pushes it…
until bucky sees your pretty little self flirting with some other dude at the bar you two were visiting— he didn’t even know if you were flirting, but you were smiling hard enough and the other dude was looking at you too flirty for him to handle. he doesn’t make a scene in public, only wrapping his arm around you… but at home, he breaks.
your legs were spread out on the bed as your forearms kept you up; watching as bucky spit on your cunt.
“you wanna flirt with him, mhm?” he challenges, leaning in and presses kisses to the inside of your thigh— his right (non metal) hand rubbing up and down your sobbing folds. “so wet f’me but so fucking happy to be around him.”
you whimper at feeling his hand, legs shaking as his body kept them open. “buck— buck— i-i wasn’t flirting with him… just k’keeping conversation— oh!” your words get cut off when he presses two of his normal fingers into you— not completely, but just the tips, just to tease you.
he frowns, leaning in again and finally pressing a kiss on your cunt. “i know you weren’t flirting and that makes it worse; your poor pretty self being flirted with because men can’t handle themselves…” he whispers, licking a strip in between your folds while at the same time, his fingers don’t go any further, in fact they retract, his right hand implanting on the bed right by your forearms.
moans fill the bedroom as he licks up and down, bringing his left hand up as you moan for him. “b-bucky! oh fuck!”
bucky looks up at you as he puts the metal hand close to your cunt— and you can immediately feel the difference in coldness at the sensation— it makes your eyes snap open and look down at him. fuck. no he wasn’t. “let’s see if this pussy can handle my other hand…” he whisper.
you shudder as your right hand reaches down into his short hair, watching with both anticipation and nervousness— it’s just fingers… just a pair of metal fingers. “buck— baby, i-i don’t think i can handle it.” you try to say but the moans of him licking your cunt again break it up again.
he frowns in between your thighs, glee in his eyes that only comforts you. “oh but baby, you always tell me you want ‘em… always asking me to use them… so why not? since this pussy needs a reminder on who she belongs to.”
oh fuck him. your mind internally tells itself. you try to not encourage it... but your pussy flutters at just the right time as he lines up the first finger— his middle, with your folds, feeling your slickness against the cold grey metal of his finger.
he looks up at you as he presses another kiss to your clit. "i'll go gentle, promise, sweetheart." he says; a tonal difference from how he was just speaking— even when this dickhead is jealous, he still is checking to make sure.
you nod your head in understanding, threading your fingers through his brown hair as you begin to feel his slow metal finger insert inside of you. instantly; your body feels the coldness. his arm always ran cold for some reason, he never felt it but everyone who has touched the outside has always said it was cold as fuck... and you fucking shiver the moment his finger presses into you, each inch of his finger disappering into your cunt.
"there you go... good girl, good fucking girl taking my finger... taking it like a champ." he moans, watching with almost awe as your pussy sucks his finger right in.
"it's- it's 'o-so cold, buck." you moan, throwing your head back as your fingers can't help but tug on his hair in response, your other hand grabbing his right forearm.
he chuckles, licking your cunt again, from his finger to the top and back down, moaning at the taste of you. "don't worry baby, it will warm up in this pretty pussy... now, let's see if this girl can handle more than just one."
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ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
