My life is so much more interesting inside my head
@darling2411
||she/her|| 20|| I talk to much and dream to big|| I write sometimes :)||Request something if you like|| Taglist || On the darkest night, the stars still shine ||
He pulls you into an empty room. His lips find yours. His hand is at you neck cutting off you air supply lightly the other one wanders your body as if trying to commit every curve to memory.
His touch feels like salvation.
His lips feel like home and you canât help but moan.
Your hands find themselves in his hair and you tuck until he presses you closer, the wall effectively pushing himself closer to you too.
You love the feeling of his body on yours. But you want to feel everything of him.
His lips seal over yours with hunger and when is tongue enters your mouth you canât help but pull him even closer and meet him at every turn.
âI need youâ he murmurs into you neck â I need you so much right nowâ
It takes everything you have not to pull down his and your pants and make him thrust into you.
Gosh even having him in your mouth sounds more than heavenly.
As much as you need your next breath of air you need him even more.
You want nothing more than to literally jump him and make out with him forever but you can hear his family in the other room.
âFuck we need to go back but Iâll promise Iâll make you beg next time baby.â He smirks devilishly and you know youâre in for a good night.
Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be⊠this.
A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.
She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.
A slow-burn, fated-mates romance filled with witty banter, embarrassing public incidents, and the undeniable pull of a bond neither of them can fight forever.
For fans of enemies-to-lovers, reluctant soulmates, and the most exasperated Shadowsinger in Prythian.
Part 1: The Meet Cute
Part 2: Fate is a Menace
Part 3: The Art of Avoidance (and the Shadowsinger Who Outplayed It)
Part 4: This Isn't How I Die⊠Right?
Part 5: Azriel, PleaseâThere Are Easier Ways to Say You Like Me
Oh wow, this is amazing!! I definitely need more of the readers chaotic behaviour in my life. I loved how you made their relationship feel and I love the suspense and drama!!! ( please donât stop writing this đ)
Summary: The New Avengers start a full-on investigation when you and Bucky look a little too comfortable in your ''fake'' relationship.
Warnings: thunderbolts, fake dating trope (kinda), a lot of bickering and chaos, thunderbolts groupchat (!!!), a little suggestiveness, some russian (courtesy of google translate, so probably not 100% accurate)
A/N: this is definitely not my best work, it's just for fun :) nobody can stop me from carrying on the legacy of silly avengers tower fics. btw i giggled at how perfect that third photo is for this story. enjoy x
Word Count: 2,257
...
The assignment was supposed to be simple.
Valentina had announced her new idea like she'd been reading the weather report, strategically disguising her immorality with diplomacy. ''You have to appear to be dating to the public. It's good for optics.''
She doesn't add I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable, because that part is implied. She doesn't add do it or I'll make you regret the day you were born, because that part is implied too.
You and Bucky had stared at each other for a long beat, neither of you thrilled, sighing in synchrony before begrudgingly agreeing. You knew better than to argue with Valentina when she has her mind set.
You spent the last few weeks performing the part like soldiers on cue, sharing calculated smiles during press conferences, Bucky subtly but effectively leaning into you in front of the photographers, the choreography of a relationship that only exists on paper.
The change was easy to miss, at first. A fleeting look that held too much meaning, relentless teasing during sparring sessions, Bucky's hand lingering on your back just a second too long while guiding you through the Watchtower. Both of you had noticed it, of course, but refused to admit it aloud, too stubborn to face the truth.
The team noticed, too. You knew they did, even without peeking into their phones, because certain actions carried certain questions.
John, especially, had been watching a little too closely, catching your laughter echoing down the hall or the moments when Bucky's hand landed on your knee while you told a story. Bob had been quiet but observant, the corners of his mouth twitching in delight when your interactions strayed from strictly professional. Alexei⊠well, he lacked Bob's subtlety, his gaze often piercing through you with that wide-eyed curiosity that made Bucky stiffen in irritation.
Weeks have passed, the small moments having grown, imperceptibly but unmistakably, into an obvious pattern. Inside jokes on the Quinjet. Protective touches when navigating unstable terrain. A proximity Bucky usually doesn't allow anyone.
It was during one of the peaceful evenings, when the team had retreated to their quarters after a long day of training exercises, that it all began to stir. You and Bucky had gone to your room again, ostensibly to ''review mission intel'', though the way he had guided you to the door with a brush of his hand suggested otherwise.
''They are absolutely doing it.''
''That is not confirmed.''
''It is confirmed. I am confirming it.''
You don't turn around. Bucky definitely hears it too, but he keeps walking, the picture of stoicism.
From the hallway, you can hear the faint buzzing of phones, the unmistakable notification chime of a new groupchat message.
Mission Shipwatch they had called it, the team's space to dissect, speculate, and overanalyze every small interaction between the two of you. Obviously, you and Bucky weren't in it.
Messages flow in quick succession, each member contributing observations and suspicions.
Mission Shipwatch đ”ïžââïž (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: Did you see the way he touched her arm?
RED GUARDIAN: YES!!!!! he touch her like⊠lover đŠ
former child assassin: DAD PLEASE STOP USING THAT EMOJI.
Captain Discount: He opened the door for Y/N earlier.
former child assassin: Okay?
Captain Discount: And HELD IT.
former child assassin: That is a simple act of chivalry, Walker. You do not do this?
former child assassin: This is why your family left you.
RED GUARDIAN: i ship them.
Ghost: I am not a willing participant of this groupchat, but I did see this earlier today. đ[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: CAUGHT RED-HANDED HAHAHAHAH.
Captain Discount: Well... That is pretty damning evidence.
former child assassin: THEY HOLD HANDS NOW???
bob: They look lovely together :)
...
Bucky hates when you patch him up.
Not because he doesn't trust you, but because he doesn't know where to look when you're right in front of him, his skin crawling with a bashfulness he hasn't felt since 1943.
Right now is no different. He's sitting on the edge of your bed, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, a deep gash across his stomach that you're carefully disinfecting. He smiles sheepishly when you give him a look that says don't you dare downplay this. His breathing is shallow, but it's not because of the wound. You're kneeling between his legs, cotton pad in one hand, needle kit open beside you.
''Hold still,'' you mutter, even though he already is, ridiculously so. It's almost suspicious how obedient he becomes around you.
His voice is low. ''You're mad.''
''I should be mad,'' you say, threading the needle. ''You let a guy with a boning knife get close enough to do this.''
''He wasn't supposed to have a boning knife.''
You roll your eyes. ''Shocking twist.''
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but the door suddenly bursts open with all the grace of a landslide.
Your heads snap up.
John Walker stands frozen in the doorway like he's just walked in on a murder. Or something much, much worse.
You're kneeling in front of Bucky, your hands on his bare stomach. His chest is flushed, his breathing heavy. It⊠looks bad.
Very bad.
John blinks. ''Oh my god. Okay. Wow.''
You immediately lift your hands like you're being arrested. ''Walker, this is not what it looks like. I'm just patching him up.''
Bucky closes his eyes like he's praying for death to come take him.
John is already backing away, scrambling for his phone. ''This is not what Val meant when she said to pretend to be dating.''
''Jonathan, get your ass back in here. Don't you dare takeâ'' You stare at him, betrayed, after being temporarily blinded by the flash of his phone. ''I know you did not just take a picture.''
He's already halfway down the hall, sprinting toward the elevator. ''It's for evidence! The people need to know!''
''What people? Hey, who's ''people''? Walker!'' You step into the hallway just in time to see him frantically pressing the button to the 91st floor, and the elevator doors closing pitifully slow.
''I hate this team,'' Bucky announces, deadpan.
Mission Shipwatch đ”ïžââïž (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: EMERGENCY. CODE RED.
Captain Discount: LOOK WHAT I JUST SAW.
Captain Discount: đ[Photo]
former child assassin: OH. I NEED TO BLEACH MY EYES.
Ghost: The one time I open this groupchat, Bucky and Y/N are fornicating on my screen.
RED GUARDIAN: YA ZNAL ETO!!! I KNEW IT!!! THEY ARE DOING THE BOOMBAYAH.
former child assassin: Oh my god.
Captain Discount: Y/N SAID SHE WAS ''JUST PATCHING HIM UP''.
bob: Oh no! Is Bucky okay? :(
former child assassin: I would never have believed you if you had not caught this on camera.
bob: Maybe Y/N really was patching Bucky up.
bob: He does look like he's in pain in the picture.
Ghost: Oh wow. Who's going to tell him?
Captain Discount: Not it.
RED GUARDIAN: HAHAHAH NEVINOVNYY. INNOCENT BOY.
former child assassin: Bob, it's not pain that Bucky was feeling.
bob: Huh?
bob: Oh.
bob: o_o
Ghost: Here's an idea. Maybe you guys shouldn't jump to conclusions.
RED GUARDIAN: NO! WE JUMP. WE LEAP. LIKE SIBERIAN MOUNTAIN GOAT.
Captain Discount: Uh oh.
Captain Discount: I can hear Y/N and Bucky.
Captain Discount: They're coming after me.
Captain Discount: GUYS HELP.
Captain Discount: GUYS???
Captain Discount: pls senf helpdhksbpppppppppp
...
Mission Shipwatch đ”ïžââïž (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: They're doing it again. Door closed. That's like the fifth time this week.
bob: Y/N said they were just going to prep for the next mission.
former child assassin: They are either kissing or plotting murder. Maybe both.
RED GUARDIAN: i tell you, barnes is smitten like little puppy. he follows her with eyes like lovesick idiot đ
Captain Discount: Pics or it didn't happen.
Ghost: We are not spying on them like creeps.
former child assassin: No, we are not. John is.
Captain Discount: No thanks. Not after last time.
Captain Discount: Thanks for backing me up, by the way.
Captain Discount: I enjoyed being put into an armlock by Y/N.
former child assassin: Eh. Most action you've gotten in months.
bob: Maybe they just became friends?
Ghost: No one likes being around Bucky that much.
Captain Discount: THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING.
RED GUARDIAN: he smiled at her yesterday. ZIMNIY SOLDAT. THE WINTER SOLDIER SMILED.
former child assassin: And she brushed hair out of his face.
Captain Discount: She WHAT?
bob: It was cute :)
Captain Discount: Adding this to the spreadsheet.
Ghost: You have a spreadsheet?
Captain Discount: Don't judge me.
Ghost: Too late.
...
It's 2:17 a.m. The tower is silent. The only movement is you and Bucky, swaying in the dim kitchen light like two idiots who forgot they're supposed to be emotionally repressed.
There's no music to guide you, but Bucky has one hand on your waist, the other loosely holding your hand. His hair is a mess, your shirt is wrinkled, and he's smiling. Actually smiling.
He twirls you lazily, and you bump into the counter and laugh quietly. ''The kitchen's small,'' he mutters, rubbing your hip soothingly.
You jump and whip your heads around when you hear a loud crunch.
John Walker is standing there, barely hidden behind a pillar like a man who has never stalked anyone convincingly in his life. He's holding your bag of chips under one arm and his phone in the other. His eyes are wide like he's witnessed yet another homicide.
''Jonathan,'' you say sternly, putting on your best don't you dare face.
''Don't you 'Jonathan' me,'' John whisper-yells. ''Bucky doesn't dance. You don't smile. This is unprecedented. This is history.''
''You're being a tad dramatic,'' you laugh nervously.
''Oh, am I?'' John says, holding up his phone. ''Because I have visual evidence of emotion.'' You all stare at each other blankly for a long moment, and then John bolts out of the kitchen like a toddler about to tell the teacher someone said a bad word.
You groan. ''He's sending it to the groupchat, isn't he?''
Bucky sighs. ''Yep.''
Mission Shipwatch đ”ïžââïž (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: WAKE UP. WAKE UP.
Captain Discount: THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Captain Discount: THE PROPHECY HAS COME TRUE.
Captain Discount: đ[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: HOLY MOTHER OF BABUSHKA.
former child assassin: IS BARNES SMILING??? I DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD THIS MANY TEETH.
Ghost: I don't know why or how I've become invested in this, but I just spit out my water.
bob: I feel guilty. They probably kept it quiet for a reason :(
RED GUARDIAN: INTERVENTION.
RED GUARDIAN: SEYCHAS.
RED GUARDIAN: NOW.
Captain Discount: EVERYBODY TO THE LIVING ROOM.
Captain Discount: YOU BETTER NOT LEAVE ME STRANDED AGAIN.
Ghost: I'm bringing popcorn.
RED GUARDIAN: i'm bringing camera, cuz i am historian first and foremost đ
bob: I'm bringing good vibes :D
former child assassin: Bob, we're all waiting for you.
bob: WAIT YOU'RE ALL THERE ALREADY???
bob: DON'T START WITHOUT ME PLSPLSPLS.
bob: THIS ELEVATOR IS TAKING SO LONG.
Five minutes later, you and Bucky walk into the living room to the New Avengers arranged in a semicircle like a very poorly organized intervention.
Yelena clears her throat. ''Sit.''
You don't sit.
John scoffs. ''Fine. Have it your way.'' He points dramatically at the screen where the team has projected the photo he took mere moments ago like crime evidence. ''Explain this.''
''Y'know, we were there. The photo is unnecessary,'' Bucky grumbles.
''Right. This happened five minutes ago,'' you point out.
Alexei slams his fist over his heart. ''But this is love! I know love when I see it!''
John points at you like he's pointing at a war criminal (he is, by the way). ''You two brood. You don't giggle or dance.''
''I was not giggling,'' you protest, offended.
''Don't gaslight me, woman. You were. You're hiding something.''
Everyone nods like this is an airtight, scientific conclusion.
You exchange a look with Bucky that says ''do we tell them?''.
He sighs in resignation.
You take a deep breath.
''Okay, fine,'' you say. ''We're dating.''
For a moment, the room goes completely still like the air has been punched out of it, before the entire team erupts at once. It's a tidal wave of gasps, accusations, triumphant ''I knew it!''s, and stunned disbelief, every voice overlapping and getting louder by the second.
When the team finally calms, Yelena is the first to speak up. ''Real dating disguised as fake dating disguised as real datingâ My head hurts,'' she mutters, rubbing her temples.
Bucky clears his throat, reluctantly clarifying the situation. ''It started out fake. Then it became real. A few weeks ago.''
''A few weeksâ And you didn't tell us?'' Yelena gasps.
You gesture broadly. ''No, we didn't. This. This is why.''
''I'm really happy for you guys,'' Bob says cheerfully.
Alexei wipes a, likely imaginary, tear from his cheek. ''My children... they grow up so fast.''
''Dad, Bucky is significantly older than you.''
John blows air out of his mouth. ''Wow. Didn't see this coming.''
You squint. ''We literally caught you all stalking us.''
Ava snorts. ''Not successfully.''
Alexei claps his hands together, energized. ''We have to celebrate!''
''No, we don't,'' Bucky groans, but they're already fighting over the champagne Valentina keeps in the fridge for ''special occasions''.
Bucky bumps his shoulder into yours when the others aren't looking. ''Told you they'd lose their minds.''
You smile. ''Are we going to tell them they accidentally added you to the groupchat and we've been reading along this whole time?''
You hear a scandalized gasp behind you.
''WHAT?''
...
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@buckysgirl-12
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! đ
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss
Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Buckyâs truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.
Thereâs one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your âenormousâ weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.
Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.
A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.
Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.
They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how youâd catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.
They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and youâd stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.
Now youâre both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.
Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone elseâs lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.
This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.
Bucky 9:56am
Hey. Iâll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?
Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.
You didnât tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.
The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.
Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.
Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. Itâs sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.
The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying âdonât-â youâre already leaning halfway out the passenger window.
Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like youâre flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and itâs just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.
âJesus Christ!â Buckyâs voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like youâre about to tumble onto the road. âYouâre gonna fall out! Get back in here!â
You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. âBuck, itâs fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!â
He canât stop looking.
Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.
âFuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,â he stutters, voice pitching like heâs sixteen again. âYouâre- Jesus, youâre killing me here.â
You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.
âWhat? Itâs hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.â
âYeah,â he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, âwhen you were eighteen and flat as a board.â He swallows hard. âNow youâre⊠youâre not.â
You blink at him, teasing edge softening. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing. Forget it.â He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.
You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.
âBuck?â Soft, teasing but gentle. âYou okay?â
âYeah. Fine. Just- roadâs bumpy.â He clears his throat twice. âDonât do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.â
You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.
Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.
The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.
You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driverâs seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.
He tells himself itâs nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.
But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.
You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesnât feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesnât catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.
Pretending he doesnât already know whatâs coming.
Because he does.
Heâs felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. Heâs ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.
But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.
And something inside him is finally starting to crack.
The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last nightâs humidity.
Buckyâs side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldnât sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache thatâs been building since the truck ride yesterday.
You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Buckyâs scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.
Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Buckyâs mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.
Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Buckyâs sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.
âItâs already pushing ninety out there,â Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her momâs swat. âLake time before lunch? Come on, we canât waste this weather!â
Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. âIâm in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.â
Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Buckyâs dad claps his hands together. âAlright troops, suits on, towels ready. Letâs make it happen.â
You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. Itâs silly, youâve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe itâs college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering ânightâ like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.
The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summerâs clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.
Youâve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.
The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.
Buckyâs already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like itâs the most important task in the world. Heâs in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.
He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.
âUh⊠looks good,â he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. âI mean- the suit. Itâs⊠new?â
You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. âNot new. Just havenât worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.â
He nods, Adamâs apple bobbing. Doesnât meet your eyes fully. âRight. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.â
The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. âLast one inâs a rotten egg!â
The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Buckyâs dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.
It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. âOh, itâs on now!â
You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.
At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.
You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. âTruce?â you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.
âNever,â he says but heâs grinning, that real, boyish smile you havenât seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, itâs just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.
But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. âCome on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?â
Buckyâs still in the water. Staring.
Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like heâs forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.
You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didnât notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush thatâs not just from the sun blooming across your chest. Whatâs his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. Itâs just a swimsuit. Just me.
He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. âSorry,â he calls over, voice strained. âThought I saw a fish or something. Big one.â
You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. âSmooth, Barnes. Real smooth.â
The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. âCome on, you two! Foodâs ready!â
You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.
Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, heâs shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like heâs holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, thatâs what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.
You donât think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.
Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. Youâre on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Buckyâs stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.
Thatâs when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.
Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.
Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, heâd snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.
He shouldnât do this.
He knows he shouldnât.
Heâs done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.
But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and thereâs that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude thatâs been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.
With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.
âFuck,â he whispers, voice cracking on the word. âFuck, Iâm sorry. So goddamn sorry.â
The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.
He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. âIâm so fucked up,â he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. âYouâre right there⊠my best friend⊠and Iâm doing this⊠smelling you like some creep. Iâm sorry, Iâm so fucking sorryâŠâ
His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.
When itâs over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like itâs evidence. Sheâs outside reading, trusting me, and Iâm⊠this.
He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.
The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyoneâs clothes from the day. No oneâs around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.
But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesnât fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.
And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesnât care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.
Something that just wants more. And itâs only the first full day at the cabin.
The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.
Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.
The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like itâs protesting the climb.
Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.
You tell yourself itâs just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. Youâve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.
You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones youâve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.
The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesnât. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.
You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Buckyâs scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. Itâll be gone in the morning.
Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like itâs the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.
He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.
Itâs not the full force of heat yet, but itâs close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.
His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.
Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend youâre drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like theyâre not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step heâs known since he was ten. To the attic door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers youâre trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.
He opens the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. Youâre curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like youâre trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.
You donât look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. âBuck?â Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.
âYeah.â He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. âCouldnât sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.â
A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. âLiar.â
He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize itâs him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.
âI can smell it,â he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. âYour heat. Itâs⊠starting.â
You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. Theyâre dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. âI know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But itâs not going away. Itâs getting worse.â
He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. âMine too.â
Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. âYouâre-?â
âFirst rut.â He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. âFigures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.â
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.
You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. âIt hurts,â you whisper, voice trembling. âNot bad yet, just⊠constant. Like Iâm burning from the inside out. Empty. I donât know how to make it stop.â
He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until heâs dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.
âI⊠I can help,â he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. âWith the scent thing. If you want. It⊠calms it down. A little.â
You hesitate, brows furrowing. âScent thing?â
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.
âYeah, uh⊠like, close contact. Nuzzling, or⊠licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less⊠frantic.â He pauses, swallowing hard. âI, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without⊠without going all the way. Said itâs safer, especially for first times.â
The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Beccaâs door last summer, frozen when he heard his momâs voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. âJust scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.â Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.
You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. âOh. I⊠didnât know that was a thing.â Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. âDoes it really help?â
He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. âFrom what Iâve heard. Yeah. But only if youâre comfortable. I can⊠I can go back downstairs if-â
âNo.â The word slips out fast, desperate. âStay. Please. I trust you.â
He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. âOkay. Yeah. Okay.â
He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like youâre something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.
You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. âThat⊠that feels better already.â
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. âTell me if itâs too much. Or if I should stop.â
It isnât too much. Itâs exactly what you need.
He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.
He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.
You donât pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.
His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.
But itâs not one-sided.
Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.
His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what heâs doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. Itâs clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.
You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. âIs⊠is that okay? I just- I thought⊠maybe it works both ways? Like⊠fairness?â
He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. âYeah. Yeah, itâs- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.â
You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.
âFeels⊠weird,â you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. âGood weird. But I donât- I donât know what Iâm doing.â
âMe neither,â he admits, voice cracking. âNever done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.â
You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.
He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.
âBuckâŠâ you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.
âMmm?â He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. âYou okay? Still good?â
âFeels⊠so goodâŠâ Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.
He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.
You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alphaâs presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.
Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.
He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.
âOh fuck,â he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.
He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.
Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that heâs this close, this immersed in your scent.
âBabyâŠâ he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. âNeed more. Just a little more. PleaseâŠâ
No answer. Of course not.
He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.
His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.
âJust gonna touch,â he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. âWonât wake you. Promise. Iâm sorry- Iâm so sorryâŠâ
Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
âSo wet for me,â he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. âEven when youâre dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, donât you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if youâre asleep-â
He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.
The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. Sheâs asleep. She trusts you. Youâre disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way heâs always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. Sheâs your best friend. What kind of monster are you?
But his body doesnât listen. The rut doesnât care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.
He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows itâs him and wants more.
He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like itâs trying to escape his chest.
Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what heâs done.
You donât stir. Peaceful. Claimed.
He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where heâs been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.
âLove you,â he whispers, voice cracked and raw. âSo fucking much. Iâm sorry. Iâll make it right. Somehow.â
He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.
You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way heâll allow himself tonight.
Buckyâs chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.
Itâs not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasnât pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.
He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.
Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.
But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that youâre his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin whoâs never even kissed anyone properly, the one whoâs been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.
Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way heâd excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.
Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and heâd saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?
His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where youâre even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.
The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.
He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like heâs afraid to taste but canât stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.
A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesnât stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. âF-Fuck- fuck, you taste like⊠like honey⊠so sweet⊠so good⊠how are you this perfect? Even asleep, youâre dripping for me⊠like⊠like you were made for thisâŠâ
His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesnât know what heâs doing (because he doesnât).
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. âIâm a monster,â he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. âTasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now⊠saw me like this⊠youâd hate meâŠâ
He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.
âS-See that? Even dreaming, youâre gripping me⊠pulling me in⊠like you know itâs me⊠like your body wants me to⊠toâŠâ He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.
âBeen perving on you for years⊠that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved⊠showed everything⊠jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you⊠tasting you then⊠stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat⊠came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name⊠and now- now Iâm here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I canât control myself⊠because I canât⊠Iâm disgusting, baby⊠so sorry- love you-hate myself- canât stop- been holding back forever, but the rut⊠itâs breaking meâŠâ
Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and heâd held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and heâd kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. âYou think Iâm the good guy,â he chokes out around his fingers. âThe best friend who protects you. But Iâm not. Iâm this. Always have been.â
His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.
Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like itâs his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. âYouâd hate me. Wake up and see the creep Iâve always been, the way Iâve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much itâs killing me. Thatâs why, thatâs why Iâm like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.â
He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.
Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like heâs breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.
When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rutâs haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.
âOh god,â he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like itâs a lifeline. âWhat did I do? What the fuck did I just do? Iâm sorry- Iâm so sorry- how do I fix this?â
Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.
âIâm gonna tell you,â he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.
âTomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way Iâve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldnât. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, Iâll take it. I canât keep this secret anymore. Canât keep hurting you like this, pretending Iâm just your friend when Iâm⊠this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please⊠please donât hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.â
He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.
The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. Heâd even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now heâs awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.
His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until heâs dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.
He still feels like a monster.
But the rut doesnât care about guilt. It only cares about claim.
His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You donât stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly whoâs touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until theyâre bunched at your thighs.
He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.
âIâm sorry,â he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. Heâs shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. âIâm so sorry⊠I canât stop⊠canât-â
He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like heâs never done this before (because he hasnât). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesnât know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.
âF-Fuck- baby, youâre so⊠so tightâŠâ he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. âIâm sorry⊠Iâm trying to be gentle⊠I donât wanna hurt you⊠youâre so warm⊠so fucking warm⊠feels like coming home⊠Iâm disgusting⊠shouldnât be doing this⊠shouldnât be taking you while you sleepâŠâ
He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.
âCâmon, sweet girl⊠itâs just me⊠you know me, baby⊠itâs Bucky⊠just Bucky⊠open up for me, honey⊠please⊠let me in⊠Iâll be so gentle⊠promise⊠youâre so tight⊠so perfect⊠like you were waiting for meâŠâ
He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like itâs a shy thing heâs trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.
âThere you go⊠good girl⊠thatâs it⊠just like that⊠you know me⊠you trust me⊠let Bucky in, baby⊠pleaseâŠâ
Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.
âSo good⊠so sweet⊠like honey⊠fuck, youâre letting me in⊠youâre so tight⊠so warm⊠feels like home⊠Iâm sorry⊠I love you⊠love you so muchâŠâ
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. Youâre molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.
Then he moves.
Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. Heâs whining, high, pathetic little sounds he canât swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like heâs worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.
âCanât stop,â he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. âCanât- fuck- canât stop. You feel too good. Too right. Iâm sorry⊠Iâm so fucking sorry⊠been wanting this for years⊠watching you, stealing pieces of you⊠hoodie, swimsuit, now this⊠Iâm disgusting⊠pervy little creep⊠but youâre mine⊠feel like mineâŠâ
He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.
âSee that?â he mumbles, voice cracking. âEven dreaming youâre pulling me in⊠like you want it⊠want me⊠fuck, Iâm gonna knot you⊠gonna lock inside⊠fill you up⊠mark you as mine⊠Iâm disgusting⊠shouldnât⊠but I need- need it so badâŠâ
The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. Heâs whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he canât swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.
âGonna knot you,â he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. âGonna lock inside⊠fill you up⊠make you mine⊠Iâm disgusting⊠shouldnât⊠but I canât stop⊠love you⊠love you so much it hurts⊠need you to be mineâŠâ
One last deep, clumsy thrust.
The knot catches.
Swells.
Locks.
Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where youâre stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.
And thatâs when your eyes flutter open.
A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way heâs clinging to you.
Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.
âBuckyâŠ?â
He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.
âIâm sorry,â he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. âIâm so fucking sorry- I couldnât- I shouldnât have- please donât hate me- please- Iâm disgusting- I know Iâm disgusting-â
Your breath hitches, but itâs not fear, itâs need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.
You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.
âShhh,â you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. âItâs okay⊠feels so good⊠so full⊠BuckâŠâ
He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.
You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.
âMoreâŠâ you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. âBucky⊠please⊠more⊠feels so warm⊠so right⊠donât stopâŠâ
He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.
âLove you,â he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. âLove you⊠love you⊠thank you⊠Iâm sorry⊠Iâm so sorryâŠâ
You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.
âMore⊠Buck⊠please⊠feels so full⊠so good⊠keep goingâŠâ
He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.
Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.
The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.
Inside, thereâs only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.
Buckyâs face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like heâs afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasnât let go.
Not even an inch.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. Heâs trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side heâs never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though heâs trying so hard to stay still.
Youâre both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what heâs done and the overwhelming relief that you havenât pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. Youâre still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and itâs making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.
You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like heâs afraid heâll float away if he doesnât hold on.
âF-Fuck- baby, donât-â His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. âDonât do that unless you want me to⊠to lose it again⊠Iâm already- god, Iâm barely holding on⊠Iâve never⊠never felt anything like thisâŠâ
You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. âMaybe I do.â
He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. âYouâre gonna kill me. Swear to god, youâre gonna kill me and Iâll die happy⊠Iâve never⊠never even kissed anyone properly before tonight⊠and now⊠now Iâm inside you⊠knotted⊠bonded⊠I donât even know what Iâm doingâŠâ
Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like heâs mapping territory heâs only dreamed of touching. Heâs clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like heâs scared heâll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.
âDo you remember⊠the summer we were seventeen?â he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. âYou had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.â
You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where youâre joined. âI remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.â
âYou were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didnât say much. Just⊠let you lean on me.â His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. âThat was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.â
Your breath catches. âYou never told me.â
âCouldnât.â He swallows hard, Adamâs apple bobbing against your shoulder. âEvery summer after that⊠every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college⊠Iâd go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasnât crazy. Iâd come so hard Iâd see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, youâd never look at me the same.â
Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. âBuckâŠâ
âI was terrified,â he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. âTerrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldnât lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didnât know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.â
He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like heâs apologizing to it too. âIâm still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you⊠with your slick on my tongue⊠with the bond humming between us. Scared youâll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep Iâve been. That youâll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways Iâve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared youâll leave. And I wouldnât even blame you.â
You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. âIâm here,â you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. âIâm not leaving. Iâve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But Iâm here. I want this. I want you.â
He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like heâs trying to remember them. Heâs clumsy and hesitant, as if heâs afraid he might ruin the moment.
âCan IâŠ?â His voice cracks, barely audible. âCan I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know itâs forever. If youâll let me.â
Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.
You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.
âYes.â
He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like heâs terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.
âI love you,â he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. âAlways have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.â
He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. âIs⊠is it gonna hurt?â you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. âThe biteâŠ?â
He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. âI⊠I dunno, baby,â he admits, voice cracking. âIâve never⊠never done this before. I donât wanna hurt you. Youâll tell me if it does, okay? Promise youâll tell me and Iâll stop. I swear.â
You nod, trusting, sweet. âOkay. I trust you.â
He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.
Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful itâs almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock thatâs always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.
You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.
He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. Heâs whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.
âMine,â he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.
âYours,â you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.
He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.
The attic is quiet again.
But the silence feels different now.
It feels like home.
The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. Itâs slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where heâs still half-buried inside you.
You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like heâs afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.
âEasy,â he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now thereâs a goofy lightness in it. âIâve got you. Just⊠breathe, okay?â
He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.
You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.
âShit,â you whisper, cheeks burning so hot youâre sure theyâre glowing.
âYeah,â he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. âShit. Thatâs⊠thatâs a lot. Like⊠wow. Did we⊠did we do that?â
Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like heâs trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because heâs laughing too hard under his breath.
âSorry if itâs- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or⊠everything,â he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. âIâm trying to be⊠gentlemanly? I think?â
You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. âItâs fine. Youâre being very⊠thorough. Like a little nurse.â
He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. âJust- donât want you uncomfortable. Youâre probably sore. I was⊠enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.â
You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. âThatâs one word for it. You were⊠very thorough there too.â
He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.
You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Buckyâs eyes flick to it, then away, but this time thereâs no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.
You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. âHey. Look at me.â
He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. âI did that,â he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. âI⊠I marked you. And you let me.â
âYeah,â you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. âAnd I wanted it.â
He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. âYou did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying âyes, Bucky... pleaseâ like⊠like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.â
You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. âYou didnât drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.â
Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Beccaâs laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.
Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.
âTheyâre gonna smell it,â you whisper, but thereâs no panic, just giddy excitement. âThe whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. Theyâll know. Oh god, theyâll know.â
Buckyâs grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. âYeah. They will. And Iâm weirdly okay with it? Like⊠I want them to know youâre mine now. Officially. No more hiding.â
He looks toward the stairs like theyâre an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. âThey donât get to make this weird. Not today. Not when weâre this happy. Youâre mine now. Officially. And Iâm not letting anyone act like itâs something to tease about⊠unless itâs cute teasing. Then maybe.â
Before you can respond, heâs moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
âBuck- what-â
âShh.â He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. âIâm carrying you down. No arguments. Youâre sore. And⊠I donât want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just⊠really like carrying you. Itâs fun.â
The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.
Heâs careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way heâs still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.
âThis is so embarrassing,â you whisper, but youâre grinning so wide it hurts.
âYouâre cute when youâre embarrassed,â he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. âAnd Iâm allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also Iâve wanted to do this forever and now I can and itâs awesome.â
You snort against his neck. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYeah,â he says proudly. âBut Iâm your ridiculous.â
When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.
Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Buckyâs dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.
The room goes dead silent.
Beccaâs mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your momâs spatula hovers over the pan. Buckyâs dadâs eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.
No one says a word.
They donât have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows youâre mated now.
But no one speaks. No teasing. No âso⊠how was it?â No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.
They just⊠look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Buckyâs dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.
Itâs a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. Weâre not ruining this.
Buckyâs grip tightens on you, but heâs grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because heâs too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.
He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.
He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.
The possessive fire dims. Whatâs left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still canât quite believe youâre letting him stay but now heâs glowing, eyes shining, smile so big itâs almost painful.
âI need to say it properly,â he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. âNot in whispers in the dark. Not while Iâm inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if Iâm lying⊠or if Iâm just a giant dork who canât stop smiling.â
You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but youâre smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.
âYou already-â
âNo.â He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. âI need you to hear it. Iâm sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I shouldâve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I donât deserve this- donât deserve you- but Iâm begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or donât. But know Iâll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. Iâll be better. Iâll be honest. Iâll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.â
Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but heâs still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. Heâs shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing heâs ever done, even after last night, but heâs also so happy he can barely sit still.
You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.
âIâve wanted you too,â you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. âFor years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didnât feel it back. Scared Iâd ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That Iâd touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.â
You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each otherâs mouths.
He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, heâs smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.
âMine?â he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.
âYours,â you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. âDork.â
He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).
Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesnât look, doesnât speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Beccaâs boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Buckyâs dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.
No one ruins the moment.
Itâs yours.
And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.
âThink we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?â
You elbow him lightly, grinning. âBehave. Or Iâll make you do dishes.â
He groans dramatically. âCruel. Youâre cruel to your mate.â
You laugh and lean into him.
The morning continues.
Normal.
Except itâs not.
Itâs better.
Itâs yours.
And youâre both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.
One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.
But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.
Youâre officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like itâs brand new, like heâs reminding himself you chose this, chose him.
You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.
Heâs changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.
The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body⊠god. Heâs beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. Heâs not just your Bucky anymore. Heâs a man. Your man. And youâre completely obsessed.
This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.
No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long âwalksâ that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.
Theyâve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about âfinally,â Becca teases you mercilessly about âlocking him down before he could escape,â and Buckyâs dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says âgood manâ like itâs the highest praise.
The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. Youâre in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Buckyâs eyes donât dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like heâs allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.
You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, heâs already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.
âRace you to the buoy?â you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.
He doesnât answer with words. Just lunges.
You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.
âCheater,â you breathe, laughing against his mouth.
âWinner,â he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way heâs perfected over the last year, like heâs reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, âMissed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.â
You nip his bottom lip, grinning. âYouâre allowed now.â
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. âGood thing weâre underwater.â
He kisses you again, harder this time until youâre both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because theyâve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, heâs smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now itâs edged with something darker, hungrier.
You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. âThis hair is getting ridiculous,â you tease, voice breathy. âYou look like a sexy pirate. And this beardâŠâ You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. âGod, I love it. Itâs so scratchy. Iâm gonna have beard burn everywhere and Iâm not even mad.â
He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. âFuck- keep doing that,â he mutters, voice wrecked. âYouâre killing me, honey.â
âI am,â you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. âMakes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. Iâm obsessed. Youâre so hot itâs unfair.â
His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. âCareful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and weâre not making it back to the cabin.â
That night, the attic room feels different too.
No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.
Youâre already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time youâre wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still canât believe this is real after a whole year.
You crook a finger, smiling. âCome here, baby.â
He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace heâs learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.
âMissed this room,â he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. âMissed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.â
You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. âNo fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.â
He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.
âOn your knees, sweetheart,â he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. âWanna see you like this.â
You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. âFuck⊠look at you. So pretty for me.â
He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until heâs buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.
One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.
âDidnât know you had it in you,â you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.
He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. âBeen holding back for years, baby. Now I donât have to. Youâre mine. Gonna fuck you like Iâve always wanted to.â
Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. Youâre dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.
âGod- yes- right there,â you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. âHarder, Bucky⊠pleaseâŠâ
He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard youâll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.
âFuck- you take me so good,â he rasps. âSo tight⊠so wet⊠all mine.â
You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.
After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.
He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.
You laugh softly, sleepy. âWhat are you doing?â
âReclaiming every inch,â he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. âGonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.â
You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.
âGod, I really love this beard,â you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.
He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. âKeep scratching like that and weâre not sleeping tonight.â
You grin, wicked. âGood. Because I want you again. And again. And again.â
He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.
âI love you,â he says softly.
âI love you too Buck,â you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.
The attic is quiet again.
But this time, itâs full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.
The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.
Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.
You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like youâve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier heâs gotten. He looks like a man whoâs been well-loved and is very pleased about it. Youâre in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.
The second you step through the doorway, the room doesnât exactly go silent, it just⊠pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.
Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesnât say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.
Buckyâs dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Buckyâs arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. âTook you long enough.â
Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. âOkay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.â
Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.
Your face flames instantly. Buckyâs ears go bright red, but he doesnât let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like heâs trying to calm you both down at once.
Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. âI mean, we were all sitting there like âshould we turn the volume up?â and then it was just⊠âoh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-ââ She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.
âBecca!â you squeak, burying your face in Buckyâs shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.
Heâs laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he canât help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like heâs shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). âWe⊠uh⊠got carried away,â he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, âSorry, honey. Guess we werenât quiet. At all.â
You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but youâre giggling too. âYou were the loud one,â you whisper back, poking his chest. âAll those growly noises. And the⊠the spanking. I didnât know you had it in you.â
His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. âYou liked it,â he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. âDonât lie.â
âI did,â you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.
Becca makes a gagging noise. âGross. Youâre both gross. And loud. And gross. But also⊠kinda cute? In a disgusting way.â
Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. âSo⊠when can we expect grandpups? Iâm not getting any younger, you know. And after last nightâs⊠enthusiastic performance⊠Iâm thinking it wonât be long.â
Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.
âMom!â
Buckyâs dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. âSheâs right. Cabinâs been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of âem, judging by all that racket.â
Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. âYeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. Youâre basically built for it now. Dad material.â
She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. âI just want a little niece so bad. Iâd braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? Iâd be the best aunt.â
Buckyâs ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but thereâs a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. âWeâre⊠uh⊠weâre working on it,â he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. âEventually. When weâre ready.â
Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. âTake your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Beccaâs right- sheâd be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.â
You bury your face in Buckyâs shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:
âWeâll get there, honey. When weâre ready.â
You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.
âYeah,â you whisper back. âWhen weâre ready.â
Becca fake-gags again. âYou two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also⊠hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.â
Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.
The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.
The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.
Youâre sprawled across Buckyâs chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.
Heâs got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt youâre wearing.
You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. Heâs already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.
Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.
âHey,â you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. âUm⊠what if⊠what if we started trying? Like⊠tonight?â
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.
âTonight?â he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. âYou mean⊠pups? With me?â
You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you donât look away. âYeah. Iâve been thinking about it a lot lately. About⊠us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyesâŠâ You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. âI just⊠I want that with you. If you do.â
He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.
âBaby,â he breathes, voice rough with emotion. âYou have no idea how much I want that. How long Iâve wanted it.â
You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.
The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.
You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. âYou know⊠if it happens, my bodyâs gonna change. A lot.â Your voice drops lower, teasing now. âThese are gonna get so full. Heavy. And⊠leaky.â
Buckyâs breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.
âJesus,â he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.
You press on, voice turning huskier. âImagine it⊠me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while youâre still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.â
His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. âFuck baby- you canât just-â He swallows hard, voice cracking again. âYou start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?â
You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard heâs gotten. âCanât help it. Thinking about you breeding me⊠getting me all swollen and full⊠it makes me so wet.â
He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like heâs trying not to lose it. âYouâre gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?â
You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.
âBaby-â His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.
You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.
Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like youâre ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.
âYou think you can say all that,â he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, âget me this desperate⊠then just roll over like youâre going to sleep?â
You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.
His palm spreads over your stomach, like heâs already picturing it round with his child. âNot happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.â
He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. Youâre soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.
âFuck, youâre dripping,â he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.
âBucky-â
He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. âGonna fill you up tonight,â he rasps against your ear. âGonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until youâre carrying my kid.â
The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.
He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.
âTell me you want it,â he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. âTell me you want me to breed you, baby.â
You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. âI want it,â you whisper, voice shaking with need. âWant you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until Iâm full. Please, Bucky.â
Thatâs all it takes.
He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until heâs seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like heâs trying to hold himself together.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.
âGonna keep you like this all night,â he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. âGonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.â
The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.
He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
âCome for me,â he growls low. âCome on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.â
The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he canât stop.
He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.
âGonna stay like this a while,â he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. âGonna make sure it takes.â
You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. âGood,â you whisper. âBecause Iâm not letting you go. Ever.â
The attic is quiet again.
But now itâs full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.
Summary -Â She's a girl with dirt-streaked fingers and flowers in her hair. Sweet. Soft. A quiet soul more at home among vines and moonlight than courts and crowns.
But fate has its own rhythm.
And it leads her straight to Rhysand, the High Lord of Night. Powerful, untouchable, carved from stardust and storm. A male who sees her not as delicate, but divine.
Their bond is unexpected, ancient. Where he is shadow, she is bloom. Where he commands the skies, she listens to the earth's breath. She may tremble in silks and blush when spoken to, but she roots herself deeper in his heart than he ever thought possible.
A story of the girl who bloomed in darkness and the High Lord who learned that even among stars, it's the flower that teaches you how to grow.
Tags -Â soft romance, fated mates, wholesome fluff, gentle female x powerful male, flower magic, inner circle shenanigans, beauty and the beast (soft version)
Contents -
â One | Thread of Gold | 2.4k words
â Two | Glowing Soft | 2.4k words
â Three | Love Bites | 3.1k words
â Four | Honey Kissed | 2k words
â Five | After Dark | 2.1k words
â Six | Pure Devotion | 2.9k words
â Seven | Snowy Angels | 2.4k words
â Eight | Blossoming | 2.7k words
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n -Â This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
After 'Daylight' ended, I really wanted to write something a little fluffier and gentler. I wanted to explore a story with a softer, sweeter readerâsomeone tender and shy, with magic rooted in flowers and nature. It's been so fun to write something whimsical and comforting for once!!
If you love Beauty and the Beast vibes, this one's for you :)
Iâve had this written for a while, and I know you all are craving more poly fics. After this one, Iâll post another poly fic! I just need to edit the ones Iâve already written, which I can do while posting this fic.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader
mcu timeline. tfatws.
synopsis. 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.
warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025âą, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so.
reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so đ§ââïž ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian )
word count. 16.3k
hydeâs input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )
Bucky Barnes is not someone youâd call a friend.
Heâs more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: âCan he crash here for a few days?â
That was four months ago, and Buckyâs still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where heâs sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.
âHow do I look?â You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesnât bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, âWith your eyes, like the rest of us.â
You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, itâs vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
âHa. Ha.â Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. âNow if youâre done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?â
âThatâs your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.â
âBetter than waging a world war every few years.â
âConsidering the current state of the world, I wouldnât rest too comfortably on that one,â Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. âAnyway, you look fine, as always.â
âI look fine?â You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. âCareful Barnes, donât get too excited, itâs not healthy for a senior citizenâs heart.â
âYou know what I mean,â a heavy sigh slips out the soldierâs mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. âI donât understand why you worry so much about all of⊠this.â He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
âGod forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,â youâre becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. âGee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!â
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottleâs cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?
Buckyâs by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug heâs wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam â which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- Heâs not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
âDonât you think youâre being a little ridiculous?â He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that youâve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. âThereâs no way youâre worth two goats.â
âEvery day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.â
Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while heâs tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.
In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like youâre some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect heâs having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
âThose boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?â His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if thatâs how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you donât actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. âOr is that your job too, like the bill?â
As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.
It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised âKiss the Bakerâ apron â which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday â tied around his waist. Heâll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when heâs gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.Â
âBoys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,â you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. âAnd Iâll have you know, they do pay me compliments.â
Licking your finger clean, you canât fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.
âReally? What kinda things do they say?â Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. âHands off. Itâs a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.â
You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect heâs having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while youâre all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.
Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.
Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; heâll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, youâve yet to answer Buckyâs question.
âIâd tell you but Iâm too sober to stomach you yelling âHeaven to Betsy!â and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.â
You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.
âI think thereâs a leak under the sink,â the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.
Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.
âThatâs funny,â thereâs a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. Youâve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. âCause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.â
Beer shoots to the back of your throat.
In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you canât help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin â even if there is a layer of silk in the way.
The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.
Buckyâs eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise youâre teary-eyed.
âSee how clumsy you are?â Thereâs a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. âCanât even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.â
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
âHeâs here!â The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves heâs summoned. âOkay, thereâs some leftover pasta in the fridge if youâre hungry, and youâre welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while Iâm away, okay?â
âQuit talking to me like Iâm some kind of guard dog,â he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
âOh, Iâm sorry!â You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. âI wasnât aware you were going to start contributing rent, Iâll send you my bank details.â
With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: youâll flirt, youâll fuck, and you wonât think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
Itâs not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice⊠enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers â of course, heâd accidentally left them in his parentâs home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, youâre not shallow. Timeâs are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldnât.
Buckyâs hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.
Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch â definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion â and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.
When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.
âDid you eat my ice cream?â Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, thereâs a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
âWow, good morning to you too,â you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
Thatâs where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.
âGood morning. Did you eat my ice cream?â If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, thereâs every chance he is literally rolling them.
Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.
âSo what if I did?â The painkillers go down effortlessly, though thereâs a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. âWhat are you doing, anyway?â
âI paid for it!â For all his outrage, he doesnât care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. âYou said there was a leak, so Iâm checking your pipes. Iâm quite good with my hands, you know.â
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you havenât the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, youâre not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Buckyâs unrequested help.
âAnd I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,â you donât intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. âSo I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.â
Youâve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but itâs unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.
If you mention the strange noise your carâs engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. Youâd have to watch over the whole thing, of course â not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-
âYour date was that good, huh?â You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
âHe bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,â the pause in your sentences seems to capture Buckyâs attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. âUsing a shotgun instead of cues.â
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you canât help but note the five-oâclock shadow heâs sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Buckyâs credit, he doesnât laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head â an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.
Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.
âMind feeding me a bite?â Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.
Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.
For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.
Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.
âCan you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?â The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
âWhy?â
âIâm making this list,â he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. âIâm calling it âthe manchild filesâ.â
âThatâs not even funny,â neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.Â
âWell âthe stupid filesâ sounds so simple, I was worried youâd try to jump into bed with it.â
âAre you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?â Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and youâre about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you donât say aloud.
âIâm critical but Iâm not hypocritical,â there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. âI wasnât exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-â
âYay, more grandpa lore!â Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
âIâm not slut-shaming you, Iâm taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.â
âIt is not!â You gasp, yet youâre hardly surprised â Buckyâs not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, itâs the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.
âAfter being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, youâre allergic to cum?â Youâd always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. âTommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted⊠watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-â
âBucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesnât shut up.â
âI rest my case,â and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.
You cave with no fight and give it to him.
Because youâre a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.
Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adamâs apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
âDid you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?â Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
âYou have a headache, right?â
âUh-huh,â your eyes narrow skeptically.
âYeah, I figured you would,â Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. âYou always have one after eating Thai food.â
Something inside of you stops.
Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.
This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isnât supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, heâs not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.
When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.
Maybe itâs not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe youâre starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why youâre home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
âBy the way,â heâs calling out from beneath the sink again. âYouâll be happy to know Iâm touring an apartment next week.â
âOh.â The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. âThatâs great. Finally! Youâre going, and Iâm staying here, and Iâll have my apartment back to myself. Thatâs⊠Great. Itâs great!â
No, really, itâs great.
âYouâre joking,â a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
âI wish,â you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging thatâs captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
âLet me get this straight,â Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. âYou lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just⊠What, crashed his car?â
âInto a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,â as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. âHe literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!â
The pair of you make up quite the sight.
An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake â despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.
Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the otherâs inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet â like any good guard dog would be.
After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.
Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.
âI think itâs time we had an intervention about where youâre finding these men,â Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
âThey find me!â You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. âAs generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?â
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
âYou picked it up,â his tone is riddled with confusion. âDonât you want them?â
âContrary to popular belief, Iâm not made of money.â
âOkay?â He replies, like itâs the most irrelevant piece of information youâve ever given him â and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your officeâs printer. âIâm paying, so do you want it or not?â
âSince when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean⊠You are old enough. Also, arenât you literally a vet?â
 âYou managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.â
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. Itâs the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff âexcuse meâ, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.
Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.
Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: âYou wanna know what my theory is?â
âNope,â you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. âBut youâre going to tell me anyway.â
He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.
What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like itâs a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?
âI think you date idiots because theyâre idiots.â
âGee whiz, grandpa, thatâs so insightful. I sure do hope Iâm as wise as you when Iâm your age, but Iâll probably just be dead.â You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
âDating those incompetent men, itâs likeâŠâ he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. âJumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, thatâs it, youâre safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.â
âI donât know when you last jumped out of a plane-â
âRemember that Karli situation a few months ago?â
âBut not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.â
âSo my metaphor isn't perfect,â Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like theyâre the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldierâs lips, but he wonât let it take over his stoic features. âBut you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, youâd date someone better than those men.â
Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.
Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times youâve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses youâve made for the way they talk to you, how many times youâve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.
You swallow back the lump in your throat.
âOkay, psychoanalysing me aside, whatâs left on the list?â You ask, making your way round to Buckyâs side of the cart.
âWell, I still need to write down Jeff G.âs cliff accident.â
âThe other list.â You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
âEggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,â his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. âGrapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.â
âI was in a rush!â
âAnd sitting on a jack-hammer?â
âGimme that,â you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Buckyâs right, your handwriting is shit. âIs grapefruit even in season?â
âHuh,â itâs the sound of hollow amusement.
âWhat?â
âJustâŠâ His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. âYou really donât notice whatâs right in front of you, do you?â
Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.
You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.
âI forgot to ask,â you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item â you insisted on helping and he insisted heâd get it done quicker alone. âHow did the apartment viewing go?â
âOh. Fine,â you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. âThe current lease isnât up yet, so youâre stuck with me a little longer.â
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, itâs a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.
All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.
Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. Heâll no longer be your roommate and youâll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.
A series of beeps capture your attention.
At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the womanâs distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and thereâs Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
âYou mind handling the rest?â He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe thatâs why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet heâs holding out to you. âCash is in the back pocket. Iâll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.â
Thereâs no time to get a single word out before youâre staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.
For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the womanâs personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Buckyâs cheeky grin â with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume heâs made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Buckyâs just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.
Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he⊠Oh no.
Bucky is charming.
Part of you has always known he was handsome â youâre stubborn, not blind â yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; itâs the queasy feeling of knowing youâve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.
Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.
Upon noticing you, Buckyâs quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: âI told you to leave these to me.â
âYeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didnât appreciate me hogging up the cashier,â the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldierâs stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever heâs contemplating doing to him.
âĐĐœĐ° ŃĐČĐŸŃ Đ¶Đ”ĐœĐ°?(Is she your wife?)â Sheâs looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you donât understand. âĐŁ ĐœĐ”Đ” лОŃĐŸ Đ°ĐœĐłĐ”Đ»Đ°. (She has the face of an angel.)â
Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and heâs switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.
You clench your fist shut.
âĐŻ Đ·ĐœĐ°Ń. (I know.)â He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before heâs back to smiling at the elderly woman.
Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.
âWhat did she say back there, that lady you helped?â
A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.
âDo you spend your time getting bumped into when Iâm not around?â His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. âAnd, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man sheâs ever seen.â
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
Youâre too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.
Bucky leaves.
Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.
It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friendâs mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.
Sam needs me. Be safe, donât bring strangers home. B.Â
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
Thereâs a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, youâd been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.
Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before youâre fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.
Itâs when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until thereâs an echo down the line of your own sleep stained âhello?â.
âYou can go back to sleep now.â
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because itâs only ever meant to be a way to let you know heâs safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. Itâs just an unrequested favour heâs granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. Heâs not missed a call since, once a day while heâs away.
So, when he doesnât call, itâs only natural that you worry.
The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.
Itâs Saturday and thereâs no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But thereâs no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how âback in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.â
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
Thereâs a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you â Be safe, says a man who clearly canât take his own advice.Â
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one youâve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide youâre not pleased with the way Buckyâs lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guyâs not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. Heâs handsome, tall, and an athlete â ex-athlete, really, but you donât bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, heâs eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Buckyâs warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, youâll do it.Â
Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!
After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.
âI finished,â last you checked, he hadn't even started.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a strangerâs snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and youâre alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.
Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.
âYouâre up!â Everyoneâs favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. âUhh, I was hoping youâd sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-â
âHe couldnât figure out how to boil the kettle.â
And thereâs Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt thatâs hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldnât call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
âYour brother was kind enough to help me.â Itâs unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. âWhatâs so funny?â
âOh, nothing, nothing, justâŠâ Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. âIn what world do me and her look related?â
âWait, if youâre not her brother then, are you-â Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnastâs face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. âHoly shit, is he your boyfriend?â
âHusband, actually,â the soldierâs all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. âBut donât worry, weâre open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.â
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
âOh, theyâre nice!â
That does it for you.
âBucky, shut up!â You snap, finger pointed over at the menace whoâs biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? Youâd prefer the punishment to be a little more⊠hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. âHe is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.â
âYou see how she treats me, Vince?â
âItâs Lance,â the gymna- Lance corrects him.
Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, youâre left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
Thereâs a relief to having him back, and itâs wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
âWhat are you doing here, anyway? Arenât you and Sam still meant to be⊠I donât know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?â The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the islandâs stools.
âWe finished early,â Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.
âAww, donât worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,â you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.
The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, whoâs too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
âHow do you take your coffee?â One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.
Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.
âMmm,â one sip of your coffee is all you need to know itâs perfect, made exactly to your taste. âCoffee and baked goods⊠I knew I kept you around for a reason.â
In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.
Heaven couldnât taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.Â
âSo messy,â Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.
That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.
Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.
Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead thereâs simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue
âYou like that?â More than youâll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course heâs enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? âAre you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?â
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
âMy bad!â Your date â who you damn near forgot was even here â is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. âWhere do you guys keep your dustpan?âÂ
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you werenât fully back to your rational senses, youâd miss it.
âIâll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.â
âOkay!â Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.
You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Buckyâs antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.
Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.
Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and thereâs another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.
A crumpled bouquet of roses.
Everywhere you turn, thereâs tension.
In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy thatâs grown over the course of this last week, during which youâve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.
Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Buckyâs company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence â most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed â when your patience ran thin and snapped.
Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.
Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of âScrew You, Barnes!â.
âEverything okay in there?â Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. âThought you had your big date at seven.â
The gymnastâs text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, âHeâs not answering my calls.â
âYouâve been stood up? By that loser?â Thereâs every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Buckyâs voice. Disgust, even.
Thereâs no point dwelling on the thought.
After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. Heâs entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
âMaybe he broke his phone?â The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.
Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.
âMore likely he forgot to charge it.â
Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?
Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger youâre not willing to address. Not right now.
âShut up!â It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but youâre too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.
Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, heâs gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.
That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after youâve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.
âDidnât I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?â
âDidnât I tell you to move out?â Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.
Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.
âDonât do that,â you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
âDo what?â Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though heâs none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
âThat,â another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesnât grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. âReaching over me like you canât just ask me to move.â
âFine, if it really bothers you that much,â are the last words you hear before youâre airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesnât struggle, not even for a moment, the serum thatâs altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream⊠Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.
The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.
âWell arenât you a ray of sunshine today.â With the rate heâs going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. âIs this princessâ first time being stood up?â
Youâd slap him, right here and now, if it didnât mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your âThings To Not Doâ list.
Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, âWhy didnât you call?â
âAre you serious?â Now heâs the one scowling and taking a step closer.
âDeadly,â you dig the spoon back into the carton. âNow answer the question.â
âYouâre pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile Iâm the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?â
Heâs moving closer. You try to step backwards.
âYeah, well, if youâd called like you were supposed to, I wouldnât have ended up with said asshole.â
Buckyâs eyes narrow, âOh, so now itâs my fault that you date degenerates?â
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
âWow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!â Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. âOkay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? Itâs not exactly like thereâs anyone else lining up to date me.â
âI am!â His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. âMaybe Iâm the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just⊠Fuck!â
You donât move, donât blink, donât breathe.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.
There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.
Even though heâs shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, thereâs nowhere for you to run.
The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.
Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.
âI am,â he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.
A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heartâs in your throat, and thereâs a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.
Itâs unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.
The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. Itâs a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.
The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, thereâs the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Buckyâs eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
âLook at you, whining already. Whereâs all that fire gone?â Itâs practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. âOr were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?â
Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandoraâs box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
âAh, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,â his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.
Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.
Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while heâs away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if youâve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While youâre overcome with epiphany, heâs taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. Itâs when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.
âAre you stealing my ice cream right now?â His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after youâve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
âIâm warm, and it's melting,â his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. Thereâs a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. âDonât want it to go to waste.â
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, âThen letâs cool you down.â
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dressâ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.
Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.
âSo responsive,â he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.Â
Heâs studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.
When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men youâve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.
A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.
Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.
Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but theyâre already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.
Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.
Heâs everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.
Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.
âNo,â he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. âWanna feel you.â
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Buckyâs right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldierâs hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
âSheâs so wet, darling,â his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. âYou gonna let me touch her?â
Something about the way heâs speaking to you, the words heâs choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a manâs hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But BuckyâŠ
âPlease, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,â heâs pleading for it, begging for you â wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. âPromise Iâll be real sweat, make you feel good.â
Too caught up in his own head, he doesnât notice you nodding, until youâre granting him salvation verbally, âTouch me, Bucky.â
He doesnât hesitate, doesnât waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you heâs exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, itâs hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.
âDonât hold back,â he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. âLet me hear what Iâm doing to you.â
He must have a magic touch, youâre sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure heâs unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Buckyâs endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.
You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for heâs instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
âLook at me,â his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and thereâs a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. âDo you want to cum?â
Never has a more needless question been asked.Â
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but thatâs not what he wants, frown deepening.
âSay it,â needy, helpless, spoken like heâs the one on the brink of ecstasy. âPlease.â
âBucky,â it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. âI want you to let me cum.â
âLet you?â Heâs offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. âI beg of you.â
No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Buckyâs fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.
He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.
You donât let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Buckyâs bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.
Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.
âIs this what I do to you?â Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. âSay it.â
He doesnât.
He says something much better.
âDâyou even realise how many nights Iâve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?â
âThatâs your generation's problem, you know?â You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. âYou swear more than you breathe.â
âCâmere,â heâs rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like itâs been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.
Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, heâs teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.
A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.
âLance would have fucked me by now.â
âVince would have cum by now, too,â heâs still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, youâre a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
âYou- Oh!â Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. Itâs a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before heâs retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. âYou heard us?â
âUnfortunately,â and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. âIâm not great when it comes to timing.â
âI only slept with Lance because you-â Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
âNew rule,â a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. âNo speaking another manâs name when youâre in bed with me.â
âTechnically, this is the kitchen counter-â The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick â if it didnât feel so damn good, youâd slap him.
Heâs bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like thereâs anymore space left between you to devour.
His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back â and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.
Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.
âJesus, doll, you okay?âÂ
âPlease donât stop,â you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when youâve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
âMight have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?â He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.
If anything, youâll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldnât think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
âYou can give me a cockcussion for all I care,â head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.
âAdding that to the list,â he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.
Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.
The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe heâs aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.
Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.
The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderellaâs gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.
Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.
Thereâs an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.
âThe shoes stay on, but this,â Buckyâs fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. âI need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?â
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you werenât already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesnât push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.
You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: youâre completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
âBuck,â the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. âI donât think we should⊠I mean, people eat off this counter!â
âDonât worry,â reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. âI intend to eat.â
No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.
Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like youâre the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
âYou should see her, doll,â thereâs a rasp in Buckyâs voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. âSheâs drooling for me, all pretty and wet.â
Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.
Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. Heâs renewing his effort, a touch thatâs more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body â fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.
Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders â a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine â as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.
When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesnât let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as youâll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
âJa-mes,â a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.
Heâs hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.
All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: âFor a fossil, youâre pretty kinky.â
âWar camps arenât exactly known for being fun,â as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. âYou find ways to keep yourself entertained.â
âBet you were quite the pleaser, huh?â Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesnât notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. âProbably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-â
âJealousy looks cute on you,â he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
âIâm not jealous!â You exclaim, barely believing yourself.
One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.
âI was,â his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. âEverytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.â
âWho knew,â your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. âAll along I had my own loser at home.â
Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. Youâre more interested in his jeans â in removing them, to be exact. It doesnât take much, a sharp tug at the hem before theyâre slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.
You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.
As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till heâs breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
âYou must be close,â a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet thereâs still room for doubt â to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
âPut me back down on my knees and Iâll cum to the taste of you,â the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadnât already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
âPretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.â
âMy age may be a hundred and six but-â
âExactly my point.â
âBut my body isnât,â heâs using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while youâre full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
âRemind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?â
His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.
âI donât remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,â admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
âShut up and fuck me, Barnes.â
âYes maâam.â
Just like that, youâre drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before heâs moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.
Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.
âShe fits me like a fucking glove,â his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. âDoing so good for me, darling.â
The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts â your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot â and grinds.
Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.
âBucky,â his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.
âI know,â he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that heâs known, that he always knows when it comes to you.
You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.
âI lied,â an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. âAbout the apartment viewing. I didnât go.â
âBucky,â is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
âIs that all you can say? Huh?â His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. âIâm giving pivotal revelations here, and youâre just gonna reply with that?â
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
âBucky, Bucky,â heâs mocking you, a torturerâs laugh as he moans his name into your ear. âKeep going, you sound so pathetic itâs almost cute.â
Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.
A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.
âYou see that?â You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag â innnnn and outtttt â until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. âSee how full she is, how good Iâm making her feel?â
Pressing your hand against it, you canât help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.
Youâre near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before heâs cutting them off with something new.
âDonât deserve this-â He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. âCâmon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.â
âWant you to fall apart too,â you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. âPlease!â
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, heâs doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.
Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop heâs got. When your mouths meet, itâs less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
âSo,â you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. âAre you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?
Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.
Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how youâre still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.
With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, heâs quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, âthink I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.â
Heâs unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. Itâs you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing â your own isn't any better.
âSamâs going to kill me,â you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
âIâm sorry,â you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you canât fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. âHave I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?â
âThereâs a serious chance Iâll die and youâre thinking with your dick,â he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. âYouâre no better than the men on your list, Barnes.â
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
âWhy would Sam kill you?â He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. âHe knows you have a crazy guard dog.â
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
âHe made me swear I wouldnât get involved with you. He said you werenât in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.â
âTurns out inner peace is being inside of you,â you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesnât run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. âSo, Wilsonâs to blame? I can get behind that.â
âTo blame for what?â
His handâs now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.Â
âWhy it took you so long to jump my bones.â
âYou think I jumped your-â Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. âWait, so these past few weeks, Iâve not been hallucinating? Youâve been⊠flirting?â
âItâs been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,â Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. âYou donât seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?â
âSo you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!â
âThink the kitchenâs seen worse,â worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldierâs only priority, and you werenât in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
âStop fighting it, youâre tired,â you hear him whisper.
âI want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,â itâs nothing but a weak protest.
âWe have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,â you donât hesitate to comply when Buckyâs hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. âYouâre going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.â
+ extra hyde !
· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu!
· writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn.
· lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:
hello! Bucky with a baby strapped to his chest while trying to act tough in public. Thatâs it. Thatâs the request.
THIS IS SO CUTEEEEE
edit: since yâall went so feral for thisâŠ..
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âYou gonna let me pass, or what?â
The man standing in front of Bucky flinches. Not because of the questionâbut because of the tone. Low. Sharp. Laced with enough threat to make a grown man think twice.
It wouldâve been perfect. The classic Winter Soldier grit.
Except for the fact that Bucky has a baby strapped to his chest.
In a soft, fuzzy carrier.
With little bear ears.
And a spit-up stain on the left strap.
The baby â your baby â gurgles happily and grabs a fistful of Buckyâs Henley, jamming it directly into her mouth like sheâs got somewhere to be and zero time to chew.
âRight, sorry, man,â the guy mutters, sidestepping quickly. His eyes flicker down once, doing a double take at the plush pink pacifier hanging from Buckyâs metal finger like a keychain. Bucky doesnât move. Doesnât explain. Just narrows his eyes, waiting until the guyâs out of the way before continuing down the sidewalk like a man on a mission.
Which he is.
Diapers. Wipes. Gripe water. A replacement teether shaped like a pineapple because the first one got flung into a sewer grate yesterday. That was the mission. And Bucky Barnes takes missions seriouslyâeven when he looks like a rugged babysitter who got mugged by a Build-A-Bear.
He walks like heâs still in boots and body armor.
He scans alleys. Mirrors. Rooftops.
He has one hand on the carrierâs strap and the other curled protectively around the babyâs foot.
Her sock fell off five blocks ago.
A woman walking her dog glances up, does a visible double take, and melts.
âOh my god,â she whispers. âThatâs the cutest thing Iâve ever seen.â
Bucky freezes.
Sheâs talking to the baby, obviously. People always are. Nobody ever compliments him when heâs alone, but the second thereâs a chubby infant involved? Suddenly heâs Americaâs Sweetheart.
âSay hi, muffin,â the woman coos.
The baby lets out a tiny fart. Bucky clears his throat. âSheâs⊠shy.â
âYouâre doing great, Dad,â the woman beams before walking off, leaving Bucky blinking like heâs just been hit with a sniper round made of sunshine and praise.
He ducks into the corner store a few minutes later, maneuvering carefully through the aisles with a diaper bag slung across one shoulder and a pacifier clipped to his shirt like a combat badge. The baby starts fussing.
âNo,â he mutters. âNo, donât do this. Weâre almost there. Weâre in the endgame.â
She squawks.
âI have the binky, okay? Just let me find the stupid pineappleââ
He crouches to check a lower shelf and instantly regrets it. His knees are not made for this. The baby grabs a bag of marshmallows and wails when he takes it away. People are staring. A teenager nearby starts filming.
Heâs about to give up and accept the marshmallows as tribute when you appear in the doorway, holding a coffee and looking like an angel with a side of rescue mission.
âI leave you alone for ten minutesââ
âI had it handled,â Bucky grumbles.
âMhm. You looked very tactical holding those marshmallows.â
You pluck the baby off his chest. She calms instantly. Bucky feels the warmth of her little body disappear from his and immediately misses it.
âShe likes being strapped to me,â he mutters.
âShe likes chewing on you.â
ââŠSame thing.â
You smile.
And as you loop your arm through his and lean against his sideâdiapers in your other hand, baby now giggling at nothingâBucky finally lets his shoulders relax.
Heâs still a weapon. Still a soldier.
But yeah.
Heâs also a dad.
And maybe bear ears arenât the worst uniform heâs ever worn.
That was what Dick had said when the intel came in. A leyline site embedded in the ruins of an old textile factory outside Gotham, supposedly another half-assed ritual hotspot.
But as it turned out?
Not easy.
The goons had been armed with sigil-charged weaponsâenchanted, crackling with unstable dark matterâand twice as many had poured from the shadows as expected. Whatever Scarecrow had planned, he wasnât screwing around anymore.
And now? You were kinda limping.
And Dick?
Dick was panting, his staff hanging limp as he stumbled back from his sixth takedown. One of Scarecrowâs goons had just exploded into a screaming mess of corrupted spirit slime, and another had nearly taken a chunk out of Dickâs arm before Jason intercepted, moving like a blur.
Jason disarmed three men in eight seconds. No gadgets. Just fists and a gun and terrifying grace. He ducked under a punch, slid across wet concrete, caught another guyâs leg mid-kick, and slammed him into a wall hard enough to leave a crater.
You stood dumbfounded for a beat, staff raised mid-spell.
Even Dick had to pause.
Wiping his sweat-slick brow with a groan, he muttered under his breath:
âYup. Totally trained by al Ghul.â
Youâd seen him fight before, obviouslyâfists flying like they hated gravity, guns sometimes holstered but rarely quietâbut this time? This time he moved like someone born in war. Shadows didnât touch him. Bodies dropped like whispers.
âI hate how good he is at that,â you muttered.
Barbaraâs voice buzzed in your comm. âWatch your right, incomingââ
You spun, blasting a sigil into the dirt, flinging an armored brute into a trash heap. The fight raged around youâscreams, spells, steel, the soft crack of bone and wet crunch of someoneâs nose meeting Jasonâs fist.
You were starting to feel a bit out of your league, to be honest.
Still, you did your partâfreezing spell here, blinding charm there, warding circle to make sure Dick didnât get ambushed again. The team moved in rhythm, and for a moment, it felt like victory was close. You could feel the leyline pulse stabilizing under the brick and grime. A little more effort andâ
Then the ground beneath your feet shivered.
A ripple, like hot breath down the spine of the earth.
You all turned at once.
Across the floor, one of the few surviving goons clawed away from a pulsing mark in the concreteâa new summoning circle, slick and sticky, lined in crimson ink and twitching shadows.
âWhat the hellâŠâ Tim muttered over comms.
You raised your hand instinctively, but the spell fizzled in your palm.
Jason stepped in front of you automatically, gun out.
The boy-devil tilted his head, and Jason flinchedânot visibly, but you saw the tension spike.
âYouâre angry,â the boy said softly, voice like frost. "Mourned better than ever accepted."
Jason didnât speak. He just gritted his teeth.
The demon turned to you. You locked eyes. And instantly, your heart stopped.
Because you didnât see him.
You saw John Constantine.
Back turned. Walking away from you.
Gone.
You gasped, blinking fast, and the illusion snapped. The demon smirked.
âOh,â he purred. âThat fear runs deep.â
The demon's gaze slid toward Dick, a slow, knowing curl at the edge of its mouth. Shadows clung to its voice as it leaned in, almost playful.
"Lead them⊠straight to the grave, huh?"
And just like that, Dick frozeâbecause it didnât need to say more.
It wasnât guessing. It knew.
He looked maybe seventeen. Pale. Dressed in charcoal robes stitched with symbols older than your grandmotherâs tarot deck. Eyes like ink puddles. Too calm. Too still.
Dick stood straighter. âThatâs not one of Craneâs usuals.â
âNo,â you breathed. âThatâsâsomething else.â
Your fingers twitched.
The spell surged in your palm. Magic charged, glowing, vibrating from your wrist to your knucklesâready.
But before you could even lift your handâ
It vanished.
Not blinked out. Not teleported.
Justâgone.
So was Scarecrow.
And the hallway emptied, leaving nothing but knocked-out cultists and your team staring into empty air.
Timâs voice crackled through again, quieter this time. âCrane opened a portal.â
That made your stomach turn.
Not just because you recognized the magic.
But because you didnât.
Your throat tightened. You knelt beside the mark, brushing your fingers against the outer rim.
It felt wrong.
Ancient.
Something like sulfur and frozen time.
Then you said it.
ââŠThis is Constantine and Zatanna territory.â
The silence was instant.
Jason looked at you thenâreally looked. The way your shoulders hunched. The way your eyes didnât leave the floor. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you could undo it. Like maybe if youâd just done more, you couldâve stopped it.
Your tone hadnât been sad.
Not exactly.
Just tired.
Resigned.
Broken in a way youâd never show.
Dick spoke gently. âHey. We were both distracted. We all were. This isnât your fault.â
Jasonâs voice came low, like gravel and thunder.
âThis was his plan,â he said. âHe gave us the wrong reason. Kept us busy with sewer monsters and leyline interference. He knew weâd look.â
Barbara and Tim both looked up, blinking.
âYou think Scarecrowâs been⊠faking us out?â Tim asked.
"He made us think he was incompetent.â
Barbara and Dick both paused.
Because it made sense.
It made too much sense.
Scarecrowâknown for his theatricsâspending weeks summoning crap-tier entities. Little monsters. Weak sigils. It wasnât failure.
It was misdirection.
Back at Mount Justice
The debriefing was quiet. Cold. The kind of silence where nobody wanted to admit how they came to failing.
Barbara led the briefing with her usual brisk clarity. She pointed out the goonsâ tattoosâarchaic runes, older than standard occult magic. âNot for ritual summoning,â she explained. âFor anchoring. Something needed these bodies alive.â
Dick flipped through maps of leyline surges. âItâs all misdirection. Every site so far? Minor. Low risk. It was a trap to keep us busy.â
You sat on the corner stool of the roomâs little drink bar, legs curled up, nursing a soda like it was a potion.
âTechnically, I did say this was bigger than a sewer-pocalypse,â you offered. âAnd technically, none of you listened. So really, I should be promoted to Magical Advisor Supreme.â
Barbara didnât look up. âYouâre listed in the system as âChaotic Magic Goblin #2.ââ
You gasped. âIâm number two?! Whoâs number one?!â
You mock-collapsed dramatically.
Jasonâquiet in the corner, leaning against the wallâbarely glanced your way.
But his jaw ticked.
Because he knew you werenât fine.
You were blaming yourself. For not sensing it. For playing Scarecrowâs game.
Barbara mentioned calling Zatanna. You flinchedâjust barely.
But you covered it in a heartbeat, grinning. âOoh, maybe she can teach me how to not explode rats next time. Thatâd be neat.â
Barbara ignored the sarcasm.
Dick sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. âWeâre running out of options. If this is a full-scale demonic summoning, weâll need every magical defense we can get.â
The meeting wrapped up. Dick and Barbara stayed behind, discussing how to contact the League without raising red flags. Tim, now mildly exhausted and bored, flipped open his laptop and started playing a game.
The hallway was dim. Cold.
Your boots echoed dully as you walked, head down, arms crossed.
Jason caught up a second later.
Not deliberately.
Maybe.
You talked the whole way.
âYâknow,â you said suddenly, âIâve been craving carbonara for, like, three days. Maybe thatâs the real reason my magicâs been off. Lack of cheese.â
Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. âThatâs your excuse?â
âObviously.â
You turned, steps slowing as you reached your room.
Hand on the door.
He stopped behind you.
Thenâgruffly, awkwardly, like it cost him somethingâJason said:
âI could make you the carbonara.â
You turned your head like heâd grown a second one. Eyebrows shooting up. For once, you were speechless.
âYou what?â
He looked vaguely irritated with himself. Like offering to feed you physically hurt.
Jason looked mildly annoyed already. âI make a good one.â
âIâYou know how to make carbonara?â
Then your grin started forming. Wide. Teasing.
But just before you could let it take over, you mutteredâ
âYou pity me, donât ya?â
Jason stilled.
For a moment, he didnât say anything. He just looked at you like he saw the thing under the jokes. The you that had been left behind by your mentor. The you whoâd felt lesser in every room with Zatanna or Raven. The you whoâd seen a demon use your abandonment against you and still managed to make a joke afterward.
He just exhaled through his nose, slow and silent.
âI donât pity you,â he said finally. Quiet, low. âThatâs not what this is.â
You didnât say anything for a second.
Because something in his voice stuck under your ribs.
Then, before it could go tender or soft or real, he added, smirking faintly:
âCarbonara just might buy me thirty seconds of you shutting up.â
You punched him in the arm.
Not hard.
Just enough.
âAsshole.â
You stepped past your door, turning instead toward the kitchen.
âCome on, Chef Todd. I like mine creamy and extra cheesy,â you chirped.
Jason watched you goâstill yapping, messy ponytail bouncingâand he smiled.
Far from Gotham,
In a neon-lit dive bar no hero ever dared admit they liked, John Constantine nearly dropped his glass. The alcohol trembled in his hand like a warning.
ââŠThatâs not right,â he murmured to himself, rubbing his fingers together.
Power.
Old, wrong, intelligent power. Not random. Not chaotic. Controlled.
âSomething just got summonedâŠâ
Far away, in another continent, Zatanna paused mid-mission. Her lips twitched. She turned toward the east. Her breath fogged.
Synopsis You donât do sports. One accidental run-in changed that
One smirking boy with too much charm and too much hair and way too much confidence.
And suddenly youâre tangled in locker room teasing, sideline stares, long text threads, and a boy who plays hard on the ice but flirts even harder off it.
Word Count 3.2K
Themes + Warnings Magnetic pull , COLLEGE AU , curly hair reader , flirty banter (a bit suggestive but nothing explicit) , descriptions if attraction , accidental meet (its cute) , college hockey player!bucky , mild language , dumbass in love meets a dumbass who refuses to believe , public flirting , romantic tension , he def. fell first and fell even harder LOL
â You Ran Into Me âShe doesnt even like sportsâ Buckyâs eyes lit up. âNo?â he asked, focusing back on you. âGuess Iâll have to change that.â
M. List | Request (open)
You were already regretting everything.
The rink lobby was crowded, cold, and far too chaotic. The roar of voices, the faint scent of sweat and popcorn, and the buzz of skate blades against ice filtered in from the main arena as you stood awkwardly in front of a map of the stadium, utterly and completely lost.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, a text from Nat lighting up your screen.
âC-5. Hurry, Steveâs already on the ice warming up. Wanda is screaming.â
You typed back furiously with frozen fingers.
âI DONâT KNOW WHERE THAT IS IâM IN SOME LOBBY I HATE IT HERE.â
Eyes glued to the screen, feet moving too fast, and heart already racing for no good reasonâ
You didnât see him.
You slammed into someone so solid your shoulder bounced, the impact strong enough that you stumbled back.
Before you could hit the ground, strong arms wrapped around your elbows and steadied you, warm and firm. Your breath hitched.
âWhoa,â came the voiceâdeep, smooth, laced with a kind of casual charm that made your spine straighten. âEasy there.â
You looked up.
Your brain short-circuited.
He was tallâtaller than you by at least half a footâwith hair the color of roasted chestnuts, long enough to brush the top of his shoulders. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his blue eyesâGodâhis eyes were so stupidly blue it was almost offensive. But it was the look on his face that made your stomach twist.
That smirk. That slow, cocky, devastating smirk.
âYou alright, sweetheart?â he asked, still holding you gently.
You nodded dumbly, heat flooding your face. âY-Yeah, Iâm fine, sorryâwasnât paying attention.â
âClearly,â he teased, but there was no bite in it. Just playfulness.
You tried to pull away, completely mortified, but he didnât let go just yet.
âItâs okay,â he added softly, his grin turning more charming than smug. âHappens to even the best of us.â
The words landed warm in your chest. You swallowed. Hard.
âI should go,â you said, already backing up, trying to recover whatever dignity you had left.
He gave you a small nod. âSee you around, curls.â
And then he turned, disappearing down the tunnel with an easy, confident stride, leaving you blinking in the middle of the lobby, breathless and confused and entirely overwhelmed.
Curls?
You touched your hair, still soft and springy from the twist-out youâd done last night.
What. Just. Happened.
He noticed you the moment you walked into the arena.
He was supposed to be focusedâlocked into his pre-game warm up routine, mind sharp, adrenaline brewing just beneath his skin like it always did before a game.
But then you stepped in, looking completely out of place. In the best, most painfully captivating way.
You were clutching your phone in both hands, lip caught between your teeth, brow furrowed as you stared down at the screen. There was a flutter of nerves in the way you movedâlike you werenât sure where you were supposed to go, and you hated that you didnât. Like you werenât used to crowds like this. To noise like this.
You looked soft in a world that wasnât.
And the first thing he saw?
Your curls.
Full and bouncing gently as you moved, framing your face like some painter had taken their time. They moved when you laughed, when you turned your head, when you tilted your phone slightly and let out a breath that caught in your throat. He was mesmerized by the way the light hit them. Golden. Gorgeous. Effortless.
He didnât even realize he was staring.
He had to physically shake his head, snapping himself back into reality. But even thenâhe kept glancing toward the lobby as he skated warm-up laps, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few turns.
And then?
You walked straight into him.
He caught you like it was instinct. Muscle memory. Like his body already knew how to reach for you.
You smelled like coconut and clean linen. Your hands were warm in his. Your eyes wide. Surprised. Soft.
And your voiceâyour voice was gentle. Nervous. Sweet.
You apologized. And smiled. And his entire chest went tight.
He didnât mean to say it, not really.
âYou alright, sweetheart?â
It just slipped out.
The way you looked up at him? The way your curls bounced slightly when you stepped back? The way your hand ghosted over your hair like you were embarrassed?
He was gone.
You didnât know it. But he was already toast.
Ten minutes later:
Heâs back on the bench, trying to act like everythingâs fine, like heâs not spiraling.
He pulls his phone from his locker before the first period starts, behind the curtain, just before the team huddles up.
Text to Steve Rogers:
Steve.
Steve:
??
Bucky:
Curls, man. CURLS.
Steve:
What curls.
Bucky:
The girl I caught. Lobby. She ran into me. Literally. *She smelled like summer and her eyes are gonna haunt me and her curlsâdudeâCURLS.
Steve:
Are you texting me a haiku or having a stroke?
Bucky:
Iâm in love. I think Iâm in love.
Steve peeks past the curtain, scanning the crowd. When he finds the spot by the glassâwhen he sees Natasha and Wanda waving like lunaticsâand you standing there between them, eyes wide as you nervously play with your braceletâ
He gets it.
He turns to Bucky. âYouâre screwed.â
Bucky doesnât deny it.
By the time you made it to your seat, Natasha and Wanda were already standing, pressed to the glass, cheering loudly as the players skated out for warmups.
You dropped into the seat beside them like a ghost.
Nat looked at you, brow arching. âYou good?â
âI justâŠâ You exhaled sharply. âI think I ran into someone. Literally. And he caught me. Andâsmiled at me. And called me sweetheart.â
Wandaâs head whipped around so fast you thought she might pull something. âWait. Hold on. Wait. Back up. Was he tall tall?â
You blinked. âUh. Yeah?â
âDark brown hair?â Wanda continued, voice rising with every word. âAnd likeâstupidly blue eyes? Like baby-blue-punch-you-in-the-gut eyes?â
You nodded slowly. âYeah. Why?â
âOh my God,â Nat whispered, covering her mouth.
âOf course our girl walks face-first into Mr. Heartthrob himself,â Wanda gasped, looking equal parts horrified and delighted.
You stared between them, thoroughly lost. âWhat are you talking about?â
Nat smirked. âThat was Bucky Barnes.â
Wanda nodded like it was gospel. âTeams left wing. Steveâs best friend. Campus legend. Walking thirst trap.â
Your stomach flipped. âWhat???â
Nat leaned in, smug. âAnd apparently, you made an impression.â
âCurls,â Wanda echoed, grinning. âHe called you curls? Oh, heâs done. Heâs obsessed.â
You didnât have time to react to that becauseâ
There was a sudden surge of energy in the crowd, and the announcerâs voice boomed through the stadium. The players took their final warmup laps, and Steve Rogers skated up to the glass, tapping his stick right in front of Nat.
You looked down just in time to see another figure coast up beside him, and your breath caught.
Bucky.
Helmet off, hair a little damp, mouthpiece hanging lazily from the corner of his lips. And somehowâsomehowâhe looked even more attractive than before.
His eyes found yours instantly.
A slow grin spread across his face.
âHey there, sweetheart,â he drawled, voice low and warm, like honey dripping on something sinful.
You opened your mouth but words failed you.
âI was starting to think youâd wandered off on me,â he added, shifting his weight as he leaned closer to the glass.
âShe doesnât even like sports,â Nat called, clearly enjoying herself too much.
Buckyâs eyes lit up. âNo?â he asked, focusing back on you. âGuess Iâll have to change that.â
You swallowed. âWeâll see.â
He grinned wider, tilting his head. âYou here to watch your friendâs brother?â
You nodded.
âYou should be watching me, doll.â
You laughed, cheeks heating again. âAre you like this with every pretty girl you run into?â
He gave a lazy shrug, that flirty smile curling at the corner of his mouth. âOnly the ones with curls and big eyes who look like they might steal my heart if Iâm not careful.â
You felt that. In your ribs. In your chest. In your everything.
Wanda practically collapsed against the glass behind you, grinning like a maniac.
Someone from the team called his name.
Bucky sighed dramatically. âDuty calls.â Then he pointed his stick at you. âDonât leave. I like knowing youâre here.â
And then he was skating away.
But he looked back.
Twice.
You sat down hard in your seat again, face burning, heart racing.
Wanda turned to you, eyes wide. âOh, heâs done.â
Nat smirked. âYouâre done.â
âI donât even know him,â you whispered, dazed.
You didnât grow up watching it, didnât memorize penalties, couldnât tell the difference between a slapshot and a wrist shot if someone offered you a million dollars on the spot.
But even you knewâsomething was up with Number 17.
He was on fire.
Fast, brutal, clean. Explosive off the line. Moving like a man who had something to prove. And maybe it was just you, but it kind of looked likeâŠ
âŠhe kept glancing at your section?
Your brows pulled together as you leaned toward Wanda. âIs that normal?â
âIs what normal?â she asked, eyes still tracking the puck.
âThat,â you said, pointing vaguely toward the ice. âThat thing he just did. That moveâwhere he spun around and passed it behind his back and made that other guy trip over himself.â
Wanda blinked.
Then she turned slowly to look at you.
Nat did, too.
âOh my God,â Wanda said under her breath. âHeâs showing off.â
âWhat?â you asked, heart skipping.
Nat snorted. âGirl. Heâs doing tricks. Mid-game. In front of scouts.â
âI thought he played like this all the time?â
âHe does,â Wanda said, eyes narrowing. âBut not this. This is cocky, confident, please-look-at-me Barnes.â
âHeâs showboating,â Nat confirmed. âAnd he only does that when heâs trying to impressââ
They both turned to look at you.
You froze. âMe? Noâno, heâs notââ
âYouâre the only new face here tonight,â Wanda pointed out.
âYouâre the one heâs been staring at since before the game,â Nat added.
You crossed your arms, already flustered. âMaybe heâs just⊠hyped.â
âBabe.â Wanda tapped your arm and pointed toward the ice. âWatch.â
You turned.
Just in time to see Bucky intercept a puck mid-pass, pivot hard, and fly down the ice like the damn wind.
There were two defenders on him. One tried to block him, but he shifted low and sharpâsmoothâhis shoulder dipping, skating backwards for a second before twirling around to push the puck through the guyâs legs with a flick of his wrist.
Thenâhe scored.
Crowd: screams. Bucky: cool as hell, skating back like it was nothing.
But his eyes?
Already lifting to find you.
And the second they locked with yoursâhe smiled.
That damn smirk. That âdid you see that?â smile.
That âI did it for youâ smile.
You felt your mouth go dry.
âJesus Christ,â Nat muttered. âHe wants you bad.â
Wanda let out a slow breath. âI canât believe this is happening in front of my salad.â
He should be focused.
Should be tracking the puck, thinking about the play, listening to his coach shout from the bench.
But every time thereâs a stoppage, every time he skates by that same corner, heâs looking.
And every damn timeâyouâre looking back.
Once, during the second period, he catches you mid-laugh. Your handâs on your cheek, curls bouncing, and youâre trying to hide your smile but failing. Youâre glowing.
And God, Bucky actually misses a pass because of it.
Steve was already glaring at him.
âGet it together.â
Bucky blinked innocently. âWhat?â
âYouâre peacocking.â
âIâm playing the game.â
âYouâre putting on a damn Broadway show.â
Bucky just shrugged, pulling his helmet back down, that stupid little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. âSheâs watching.â
Steve groaned. âYou are such a simp.â
âWorth it.â
âSam noticed.â
âGood.â
âPeter noticed.â
âKidâs observant.â
âPietro is making heart hands at you every time you pass the bench.â
âHonestly? Valid.â
Steve shoved him back toward the ice. âYouâre disgusting.â
âAnd distracted.â Sam added, skating past. âAt least buy her dinner first, Buck.â
âShe bumped into me and said I was flirty,â Bucky muttered. âI have a reputation to maintain.â
âSheâs still smiling,â Bucky mutters under his breath, eyes still on you.
Steve sighs. âIâm gonna lose you to a girl with great hair and no hockey knowledge, huh?â
âIâd die for those curls.â
âShe doesnât even know your last name.â
âI donât care.â
âYouâre a disaster.â
âSheâs an angel.â
Steve groaned into his gloves.
Meanwhile, in the stands:
Wanda is whispering in your ear, practically vibrating. âYouâre not even watching the game.â
You were melting. There was no other word for it. No saving yourself from it, either.
âI hate athletes,â you muttered.
âYou donât,â Wanda said, grinning.
Nat leaned close. âYou hate how they make you feel.â
You didnât argue. Because she was right.
And when you looked back at the iceâ
He was already looking.
That same look. That unspoken thing. That pull.
And you let yourself smile.
Because this time?
You didnât look away.
The game had ended twenty minutes ago, but your pulse was still racing.
Not that you were showing it. Noâyou were calm. Cool. Sipping the last of your coffee like it wasnât cold and bitter now. Twirling your keys around your finger like you didnât just watch a guy slam someone into the boards and then grin at you like it was nothing.
Youâd been nursing that drink like a lifeline, like it would keep you grounded, but it was gone nowâand so were your excuses for feeling like your skin was too warm.
Nat stretched next to you. âOkay, that was good!â
âYeah,â you nodded, sliding your bag onto your shoulder. âIt was.â
Wanda smirked. âYou sound surprised.â
âI justâŠâ You shrugged. âDidnât expect to enjoy watching people body-slam each other on ice. Guess I have range.â
Nat grinned knowingly. âYeah. Sure.â
You reached into your bag, grabbing your car keys, voice casual. âYou two ready to go?â
Wanda blinked. âWeâre not leaving yet, babe.â
You frowned. âWait, what? Why not?â
Nat just smiled as they both stepped toward the exit leading to the lobby. âBecause someoneâs waiting.â
âI swear, if Iâm driving your boyfriends homeââ
âRelax,â Wanda laughed. âYouâre not.â
You followed them reluctantly, stepping into the low-lit lobby, boots scuffing slightly on the tile. It was quieter now, just a few straggling students and the faint buzz of vending machines. You crossed your arms, letting your fingers find a strand of your hair and twirl itâmind wandering again.
You replayed the goals. The crowd. The heat of the lights.
The look Bucky gave you every time he passed your section. That smirk. That cocky tilt of his chin.
Then you stopped yourself.
Because obviously he was like that with everyone.
You sighed quietly. He probably flirted the same way with anyone who looked twice.
And you? You had looked a lot more than twice.
You were so lost in thought, you didnât even register the footstepsâdidnât realize they were already here.
Until Wanda elbowed you lightly.
âStop twirling your hair, heâs gonna faint.â
You blinked. âWhatâ?â
And then your eyes lifted.
Steve. Pietro. And walking behind them, just a few feet behind, was Bucky.
Still slightly flushed from the game, curls damp, his gear bag slung over one shoulder and a navy hoodie pulled half-on over his pads. He looked relaxedâcalmâbut when his eyes found you?
That calm cracked just a little.
He smiled. Not the smug one. Not the cocky, I-just-scored-two-goals one.
But a softer one. A little crooked. A little shy.
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand still curling around your hair andâ
âYouâre gonna make me think youâre doing that on purpose, sweetheart.â
You blinked.
He was already standing in front of you now, tall and flushed and unreasonably charming, voice just slightly lower than it was on the ice, like heâd adjusted the volume for you only.
You laughed softly, dropping your hand. âNervous habit.â
âDonât stop,â he said, almost too quickly. Then, with a sheepish little smirk, âLooks good on you.â
You stared.
He smiled a little wider, but you could see the way he bit the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to get ahead of himself.
âHowâs the coffee?â he asked, glancing at the empty cup in your hand.
âTerrible,â you admitted.
âYou stuck it out anyway?â
You shrugged. âHad to pass the time somehow.â
âOh?â he stepped a little closer, his voice dropping just a little, teasing. âThe game wasnât entertaining enough?â
You raised a brow, eyes glinting. âI mean, it was alright. You could be better, I guess.â
He laughed. That deep, full, rumble that shook a little in his chest and made your heart stutter.
âBrutal,â he grinned, eyes sparkling. âAnd here I thought I was putting on a show.â
âYou were,â you said. âI just wasnât sure if it was for the crowd or for⊠other reasons.â
That caught him.
He leaned his head down for a second, smiling, biting back a grin. âYou caught that, huh?â
You shrugged. âA little obvious.â
He looked back at you then, really looked. Eyes soft. Almost fond. He stepped just close enough to make the hair on your arms raise.
âYou made it easy.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âTo play like that.â
His voice was low now. Honest. âI couldnât stop looking.â
You tried to find something smart to sayâbut you were suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. Of how he kept looking at your mouth like it was a habit he didnât mean to have. You could feel your pulse behind your ears.
And thenâ
âBuck, you ready to dip?â Steveâs voice cut in, pulling both of you out of the moment.
Bucky didnât look away right away. Just stared at you a second longer.
Then he blinked, turned slightly. âYeahâuh, hold on.â
He turned back to you, smile a little crooked again.
âCan I see your phone?â
You blinked. âMyâwhat?â
âJust for a second.â
Curious, you handed it over. He took it gentlyâhis fingers brushing yours like he meant toâand typed something quickly.
A second later, your phone buzzed in his hand.
He handed it back, that cocky little smirk tugging at his lips again. âThere. Now youâve got me.â
You looked at the message.
[New Text From Unknown Number]:
Hi. Itâs Bucky. I like your curls.
You looked back up, heart skipping.
He was already taking a slow step back, grinning at you like he had all the time in the world.
âNice meeting you, doll.â
And then he turned, walking out the door with Steve and Pietro.
But right before he disappeared through the glassâ
He looked back.
One last time.
You didnât even realize you were smiling until Nat grabbed your arm.
âOhhh, youâre done for.â
Wanda grinned. âToast. Absolutely toasted.â
You didnât deny it.
Because you knewâ
You were.
(You've got mail!) okay at first i was like haha college hockey player bucky. and then haha college player hockey bucky and curly hair reader and then it hit me. I had a thats so raven moment. very small very cute very little but its cuteee i have been toying with this idea and ya girl brought it to life ay ay ay!! anyways you will slowly realize i have an insane love for sports and marvel, i think i get that from both my parents.AND SOON I WILL BE DROPPING A VOLLEYBALL VERION YUPPPPPP!!!
just a dress
âDoesnât matter what you wear,â Bucky murmurs. âIâd still fall for you.â
There are a few constants at Avengers Tower.
Tonyâs ego. Steveâs early morning runs. Sam making playlists no one asked for. Bucky Barnes sitting across from you every morning at breakfast. Waiting, always waiting, with a second mug of coffee heâd never admit was specifically for you. And you showing up on time.
Which is why it makes sense that every morning at breakfast, Bucky Barnes is already sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. One for him. One for you.
âYouâre cutting it close today,â he says one morning, flipping the page of his book as you slide into your seat.
âItâs 9:01,â you reply, raising an eyebrow.
He grunts. âStill late.â
âYou love it.â
âI tolerate it,â he mutters, but hands you the coffee like always.
Itâs a ritual neither of you talks about too much. It started months ago. Youâd show up late to breakfast, blaming your alarm or your book or that âone last videoâ at 2AM. Bucky would already be there, freshly brewed coffee in front of him⊠and a second one just happened to be sitting next to it.
At first, you thought it was a coincidence. But then Sam teased him about it. Loudly. And Bucky stopped denying it.
Now it feels like a fixed point in the universe. Just like how you always sit beside him during meetings. Just like how he always makes sure you get home safely from late-night gym sessions. Just like the way he glances over when you make a bad joke, just to smirk when you laugh at yourself.
You arenât anything. Not really.
But you move around each other like planets stuck in orbit. Quietly, consistently, unspoken.
And everyone notices.
Itâs a Thursday when Stark makes the announcement.
Tony Stark stands on the lounge coffee table in his socks and dress shirt, arms spread like a game show host.
âFormal gala next Saturday!â he declares. âRight here in the penthouse. Black tie. String quartet. Be sparkly, be charming, be fashionably unarmed.â
âAnother one?â Sam groans.
âItâs an annual Stark tradition,â Tony replies. âYouâve survived worse. Plus, open bar.â
You blink.
You try to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But something in your stomach flutters.
You give a little nod, mostly to yourself. âCool. Sounds fun.â
Across the room, Bucky looks at you from where he leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesnât say anything, just raises a brow like heâs already reading your mind.
You pretend not to notice. Youâre getting very good at pretending.
The days leading up to the party pass in a blur of missions and meetings and movie nights on the couch. Somewhere in there, Nat and Wanda stage a coup.
âYouâre not wearing something you already own,â Wanda declares. âThis is not a ârecycle your last wedding guest outfitâ situation.â
âI wasnât going to-â
âYes, you were,â Nat says, cutting you off. âWeâre going shopping. Youâre coming.â
âI have dresses.â
âNon-negotiable,â Wanda says sweetly, tugging you toward the elevator.
You open your mouth to argue but are immediately handed your jacket and pushed toward the elevator.
Itâs a whirlwind. Nat is a force of nature, striding through boutiques like she owns every mannequin. Wanda flits between colors and fabrics like a kid in a candy store. You mostly follow, trying not to get overwhelmed.
Until you see it.
Itâs tucked behind a rack, almost hidden. Deep sapphire blue. Long. Satin. High neckline. And when you pull it out, the back dips low. Dramatic, elegant and beautiful in a way you donât usually let yourself wear.
You hold it up, hesitant.
Nat appears behind you. âOh, thatâs the one.â
You laugh. âNo, itâs too much.â
âItâs perfect,â Wanda says. âAnd so are you.â
You blush. âIâll try it on."
You do try it on. Alone. And when you turn toward the mirror, your breath catches. It fits like itâs been made for you. The satin clings and drapes in all the right places. Your hair, loose and natural, spills perfectly across your shoulders.
For a second, you see someone else in the reflection.
Someone effortless.
But then the light shifts, and the old doubt creeps in⊠quiet, uninvited. Not loud or cruel. Just a whisper.
The dress is beautiful. Youâre just wearing it.
You step out of the fitting room slowly.
Still, when you step out, Nat and Wanda audibly gasp.
âThat one,â Nat says. âNo contest.â
You smile back, but your voice is soft. âOkay. Just in case I donât chicken out.â
They donât argue.
Back in the tower, nothing changed⊠on the surface.
You had breakfast with Bucky. Teased Sam during movie night. Trained with Steve and actually knocked him off his feet once, which became a three-day bragging right.
But in the back of your closet, behind your âsafeâ black dress⊠that sapphire gown waited.
And sometimes, when you were alone, you took it out and ran your fingers along the satin.
The week passed in fragments.
Mission briefings. Morning coffee. Shared elevator rides. Starkâs party was all anyone could talk about, mostly because Tony wouldnât shut up about the custom glass champagne tower being shipped in from Paris. Steve had started practicing his waltz âjust in case.â Sam was planning a pre-party playlist âfor the vibe.â
But if someone looked closely, if they knew where to watch, there was something else underneath it all.
Something unspoken.
Something that looked a lot like almost.
You werenât entirely sure when it had started, the slow unraveling of comfort into longing. Maybe it was the way Bucky always poured your coffee first without asking. Or how he lingered at the edge of rooms when you laughed too loud, eyes flicking toward you like it was a sound he didnât want to miss. Or how his voice always softened when it was just the two of you, even if his words didnât.
He was still Bucky. Still sharp-edged and dry-humored, still grumpy in the mornings and skeptical of movie nights. But with you⊠he was something else, too.
And with him⊠you let yourself be a little more, too.
You didnât tell anyone about the flutter in your chest when he passed you a protein bar without looking, knowing exactly which kind you liked. Or the way your heart stalled when he leaned close during training, murmuring corrections just low enough for only you to hear.
âYouâre dropping your left shoulder,â he said on Monday, fingers brushing your arm to correct your form. âYouâll get thrown off balance.â
You nodded, distracted not by the advice, but by the feel of his touch, light, careful, familiar.
âThanks,â you mumbled.
âAnytime,â he replied, already a few steps away.
He didnât say much. Never did. But his presence lingered like a gravity field. Constant, quiet, and hard to pull away from.
On Tuesday, you walked into the lounge to find him asleep on the couch, book splayed open on his chest, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie.
You stood there for a moment, just watching. His features, usually guarded, were softer in sleep. Less worn down by memory. More like the man he let you see in glimpses.
You sat beside him without waking him, gently pulling the blanket over his shoulders.
He mumbled something. Your name, maybe.
You didnât ask.
Wednesday, he found you in the kitchen at midnight, digging through the fridge.
âYou always eat like this before missions?â he asked, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.
âI get hungry when Iâm anxious,â you said, holding up a half-eaten leftover taco. âDonât judge me.â
He smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. âNot judging. Just wondering why you never share.â
You slid the other half toward him. âDonât say I never gave you anything.â
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. âThis is awful.â
You laughed. âYouâre welcome.â
By Thursday, the party talk has fully taken over the tower.
Tony hands out gold-foiled invitations (dramatic, unnecessary, very Stark). Wanda drags Sam to a tailor for a fitted tux.
And you⊠pretend youâre not thinking about it.
âDo you have something to wear?â Bucky asks over lunch.
âIâve got dresses.â
âMultiple?â
âYeah. I bought a new one with Nat and Wanda but I don't know if I'm gonna wear it.â
âWhy?â
âItâs not really⊠me.â
âThen why did you buy it?â
âI liked it!â
âThen it is you.â
He gets you.
Saturday comes fast.
The tower transforms. All warm lights and string music, trays of champagne and crystal bowls of things no one can pronounce. Everyone looks like movie stars.
Wanda curls her hair into soft waves and wears a wine-colored dress that makes her look like royalty. Nat, of course, wears black. But somehow manages to make it look like it belongs in Vogue.
The guys are in suits. Steve somehow looks both uncomfortable and handsome. Sam gets complimented three times by the catering staff.
And you?
Youâre upstairs. In the dress.
Frozen in place.
The clock ticks. Time passes.
And for the first time in months, youâre not there.
You can feel the nerves setting in.
Itâs the dress.
Itâs always the dress.
You keep pacing your room, staring at the mirror, biting your lip. The makeup is done. The heels are on. The earrings are clasped. But still, you hesitate. Looking at yourself feels like holding your breath.
The dress looks the same as it did in the store. A deep sapphire blue, smooth satin, the neckline high and elegant, the back open and dramatic. It clings to you in a way that should make you feel powerful. Beautiful.
But tonight⊠it just feels like it isnât yours.
Youâre not panicking. Not exactly.
Itâs quieter than that. A slow, creeping sense of not belonging. Like the longer you stare at yourself, the more the magic unravels thread by thread. The dress is stunning. That isnât the problem. The problem is how perfectly it fits.
Because sometimes, when something fits too perfectly, it feels like itâs shining a light on everything you wish it could hide.
You sigh and stand, adjusting whatever you think could be wrong with it.
Downstairs, Sam glances at the elevator again.
âWhereâs Y/N?â he asks.
âProbably fixing her hair,â Wanda says, sipping a drink.
âSheâs never late,â Steve adds.
âSheâs not,â Nat agrees. âYou want me to go check?â
Before anyone else can answer, Bucky stands up from the leather armchair near the bar.
âIâll go,â he says, too fast. âSheâs probably wearing heels. Better if I go.â
No one argues.
Not even Sam, who raises a brow but says nothing.
Bucky adjusts his suit jacket, smooths down his tie, and heads for the elevator, ignoring the flutter in his chest.
You brush your hands over the fabric. The material shimmers when you move. Your heels are black and slim, your earrings match. On paper, it all works.
So why canât you walk out the door?
You glance at the clock. Nearly 40 minutes late.
Your stomach drops.
âDamn it.â
You move toward the chair, where your backup dress still waits. The black one. Safe. Youâll throw it on, pull your hair into a low slick bun, and no one will even-
Knock knock.
You freeze.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
âY/N?â
Your heart jumps. Bucky.
You nearly trip over your own heels rushing to the door.
âComing!â you call, trying to gather yourself. You crack the door open, just wide enough to peek out.
And then forget how to breathe.
Bucky stands in the hallway in a tailored black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to be unfair. His hair is slicked back slightly, but still soft. He looks like heâs walked out of a noir film. And heâs staring at you.
Staring.
His eyes drop, slowly⊠from your face, to the curve of your shoulders, to the way the blue satin hugs your waist and falls in a soft, perfect line. His lips part just slightly.
He blinks once.
âWow.â
You flush immediately. âWhat- what are you doing here?â
He clears his throat. âYouâre late.â
Your brow knits. âWhat?â
âYouâre never late,â he says softly. âSam, Nat, Steve⊠everyone noticed. They were worried. Natasha was about to come up, but I figured⊠heels. Safer if I came.â
âOh.â
You glance at the clock again and wince. âI didnât realize. I lost track of time. Iâm sorry.â
âItâs okay,â he says quickly, voice gentle.
You reach for the door. âYou should go. Iâm just going to change dresses. Iâll be down in five-â
His hand, cool metal, presses gently against the door.
âWait.â
You pause.
âWhat do you mean, change?â
âIâŠâ Your voice falters. âI donât think this is the right dress.â
Buckyâs eyes narrow slightly. Not judging, just reading you.
âWhy not?â
You look down at your hands. âItâs just too much. I thought it looked better in the store. It's fine.â
The words are barely a whisper.
Bucky is silent for a long moment.
Then he steps closer, just slightly, enough that the air between you shifts.
âY/N.â
You look up.
âYouâre already wearing the dress,â he says, his voice quiet but certain. âAnd you lookâŠâ He exhales, shaking his head slightly. âYou look incredible.â
You swallow hard. âYou donât have to say that.â
âIâm not saying it because I have to.â
He tilts his head, eyes warm. âYou walk into that room tonight, no oneâs gonna be able to look at anything but you.â
You blink. Your chest aches in that soft, quiet way that comes from being seen â really seen.
He lets the moment breathe between you, then offers you a small smile.
âIâll meet you downstairs.â
And then he turns and walks away.
Just like that.
Leaving you breathless in the doorway.
Five minutes later, youâre still staring at your reflection. The dress hasnât changed.
But maybe⊠you have.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the room stills.
You step into the penthouse, the soft click of your heels echoing beneath the music. The lights are low and warm, spilling golden across the polished floors. Glass clinks, laughter hums, and in the middle of it allâBucky looks up.
His heart stops.
You move slowly, a soft wave of deep sapphire satin sweeping around your legs as you walk. Hair swept to the side, silver glinting at your ears, that impossible dress catching the light with every step. But it isnât the dress that stuns him.
Itâs the way you hold yourself.
Quiet. Glowing. Real.
Everyone notices. Sam gives a low whistle. Nat smirks like sheâs known this moment was coming. Even Steve, standing near the drinks, raises his brows in quiet approval.
But Bucky?
He doesnât move.
He just watches you cross the room, like time has slowed and sound has faded and the only thing that matters is you.
You find him near the balcony doors, where the crowd is thinner, the music softer.
âHey,â you say, voice light but a little breathless.
His gaze travels over you again, slower this time.
âYou came,â he says, as if there had been any doubt.
You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. âTook me a while.â
He offers his hand, not breaking eye contact. âDance with me.â
Your breath catches.
The music shifts into something slowerâsomething with strings and soft piano. You hesitate for a moment, then place your hand in his.
He pulls you gently toward the floor.
You fit together easily.
Your hand on his shoulder, his at your waist. The press of satin and silk. The low hum of music. And somewhere beneath it all, the quick, fluttering beat of your heart â mirrored in his.
Bucky doesnât speak for a moment. He just sways with you, moving like the rest of the world has faded behind you both.
âYouâre good at this,â you murmur.
He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. âIâm old.â
âI didnât want to say it.â
He chuckles, low and quiet. âYou almost didnât come.â
You shrug, trying to play it off, but your voice betrays you. âI didnât think it was a big deal.â
âIt is,â he says gently. âYou are.â
Your eyes flick up to meet his. You donât know what to say.
So you donât say anything.
The dance ends, but neither of you let go.
The music shifts again. Someone laughs near the bar. A camera flashes. But here, in this small space between breaths, you stand close. Too close. Not enough.
âWanna get some air?â Bucky asks softly.
You nod.
The balcony is quieter. Cooler. The city stretches out below you, lights twinkling like a second sky. You lean against the railing, your hands brushing the cold metal.
He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest.
âItâs not cold,â you say.
âYouâre still getting the jacket.â
You smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. It smells like him â clean soap, something warm and familiar. The sleeves are too long.
âI feel like a kid playing dress-up.â
âYou look like a goddess.â
You laugh.
He doesnât.
You turn to face him, the night wind catching your hair, your cheeks flushed from dancing, from nerves, from him.
âI meant what I said,â Bucky tells you. âDownstairs.â
You bite your lip. âAbout the dress?â
âNo,â he says. âAbout you.â
Thereâs a beat of silence, full and fragile.
âIâve been trying to figure out how to say it for a while now,â he admits, voice low. âYouâre not just part of the team. Youâre not just⊠around.â
You blink.
âYouâre the best part of my day,â he says. âAnd that dress didnât change that. It just made it harder to keep pretending I donât want to hold you like this all the time.â
You open your mouth. Close it again.
And then?
You kiss him.
Itâs soft, barely more than a press of lips. But it carries months of unspoken things. Warmth. Tension. Relief. All of it wrapped in satin and city lights and the sound of your heart racing like it finally has somewhere to go.
When you pull back, heâs already smiling.
âI shouldâve worn this dress a long time ago,â you whisper.
He leans in again, forehead resting against yours.
âDoesnât matter what you wear,â he murmurs. âIâd still fall for you.â
The tower feels different the next morning.
Maybe itâs the way the sun comes through the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy gold streaks. Or maybe itâs just you.
You pad quietly into the kitchen, still wearing soft pajama pants and one of your oversized sweatshirts. Hair a little messy. No makeup. Bare feet against the tile. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you donât feel the need to shrink yourself.
Youâre not glowing. Youâre not dressed up.
Youâre just you. And it feels⊠enough.
âMorning, Sleeping Beauty.â
You turn, startled, to find Bucky leaning against the counter, mug in hand, already dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, the picture of quiet calm. His hair is a little rumpled. He looks unfairly good for someone whoâs probably been up for hours.
âYouâre up early,â you say, grabbing a mug of your own.
âOld man body clock,â he says with a smirk.
You roll your eyes and step closer. âHow long have you been waiting to say that?â
âSince last night,â he replies, voice lower now, softer. âWanted to see you again.â
And just like that, you melt.
He hands you the coffee. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.
The rest of the team trickles in slowly.
Wanda first, hair tied up and looking far too put-together for 9 a.m. She spots the two of you leaning together by the counter and arches a brow.
âGood morning,â she says, sing-song.
You sip your coffee like itâs not obvious. Bucky stays still beside you.
Then comes Sam, dramatically hungover. âIf anyone mentions classical music or champagne, I swear Iâll jump off the roof.â
Steve follows, clean and annoyingly alert. âNice party.â
Natasha, last, in her I donât do mornings sunglasses, grabs toast and mumbles, âYou two looked cozy on that balcony.â
You nearly choke on your coffee. âWhat?â
Nat doesnât even look up. âRelax. We all saw it coming.â
You blink. âSaw what?â
âYou and Barnes. I mean, please,â she says, waving her toast. âThe tension has been driving everyone insane for months.â
Sam nods, dead serious. âI literally bet Steve ten bucks it would happen before the end of the year.â
âI won,â Steve says, smugly.
Bucky chuckles beside you. Quiet, amused.
He reaches down under the table and laces his fingers through yours.
And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing doesnât matter. The looks donât matter.
All you can focus on is the warm weight of his hand, the soft pressure of his thumb brushing the back of yours.
You turn to him, lips tugging up.
âYou okay?â he asks gently.
You nod. âIâm good.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah,â you say. âI just⊠didnât think it would feel this easy.â
Bucky smiles, small and sincere.
âIt was never supposed to be hard,â he says.
You look at him then, really look, and something inside you softens.
For weeks, months, maybe, youâve been carrying this quiet ache around like armor. The weight of feelings you didnât know what to do with. The fear of hoping too much. Of reading into things that werenât there. Of thinking you mattered more to him than you did.
But now, standing in the golden spill of morning light, fingers still twined with his under the table, you donât feel foolish anymore.
You feel⊠known.
And that scares you more than anything.
âYouâre always so calm about this stuff,â you murmur, eyes on your joined hands. âLike you already knew.â
âI didnât know,â he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles. âI just hoped.â
You blink, surprised. âYou?â
His smile turns a little crooked. âYou think I spent all this time saving you the last cup of coffee every morning just because Iâm a gentleman?â
âYou donât even like mornings.â
âExactly,â he says. âThatâs how serious this is.â
You laugh then, a soft, genuine sound that makes something in his chest ease.
âI guess I thought Iâd have to be⊠different,â you say after a beat. âTo be noticed. To matter. Iâm not the loudest or the strongest. Iâm not Nat. Or Wanda. Iâm just-â
âYouâre you,â he cuts in, gentle but firm. âAnd thatâs always been enough.â
You swallow hard, throat tightening around the words you donât know how to say.
âI notice everything about you,â he adds, quieter now. âThe way you wrinkle your nose when youâre reading something complicated. The way you hum off-key in the lab. The way you always walk out of the room last because youâre checking that everyone else is okay.â
You look up at him slowly.
âYou think no one sees you,â he says. âBut I do. I always have.â
Something unspoken passes between you. A slow, electric stillness.
âWhy didnât you say anything?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates, eyes soft. âI didnât want to risk losing what I already had with you.â
âAnd now?â
âNow Iâd rather risk it than pretend anymore.â
You blink fast, like that might keep the emotion at bay. It doesnât work.
âOkay,â you say quietly.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
He leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second, not quite a kiss, just⊠closeness.
âIâm in this,â he murmurs. âWhatever it looks like. However slow you need.â
You nod, the edges of your smile trembling.
âIâm in this too,â you whisper.
The kitchen fades away.
The clinking dishes, the sunlight, even the teasing voices echoing from down the hall. It all fades. Thereâs only the soft grip of his hand on yours and the quiet warmth building between you, solid and real.
And for the first time in a long time, youâre not wondering what comes next.
Youâre just here.
With him.
A Tuesday Morning, Three Weeks Later
The tower is quiet.
Not silent, the way no home is ever truly silent, but the kind of soft hum that means the world is at peace for a little while.
The sun has barely risen, casting a warm gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimes. In the distance, the coffee machine gurgles to life.
And in the kitchen, you stand barefoot in one of Buckyâs sweatshirts, stirring cream into a mug with your eyes still half closed.
Behind you, footsteps.
You donât need to turn around.
âYouâre up early,â you say, voice husky with sleep.
âTechnically,â Bucky replies, stepping up behind you and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, âI havenât slept yet.â
You lean back into his chest without hesitation.
âYou brooding again?â
âJust watching the sky.â
âRomantic.â
He kisses your temple. âYou bring it out of me.â
You snort and hand him his mug. âDonât lie to me before caffeine.â
You move through the morning with the ease of something settled. Something earned.
He leans against the counter while you make toast. You sit cross-legged on a barstool while he recaps an old dream he canât make sense of. You pass each other plates and comments and quiet smiles like itâs always been this way.
Like there was never a time you werenât his favorite part of the morning.
At some point, Nat wanders in, squinting at the sunlight. She takes one look at the sweatshirt youâre wearing and smirks. âThatâs not yours.â
You sip your coffee, unbothered. âIt is now.â
Nat grabs an apple and mutters something about âfinallyâ before disappearing again.
Bucky looks at you, eyes warm with amusement. âSubtle.â
âSheâs not wrong.â
âNo,â he agrees, stepping closer. âSheâs not.â
You lean into him again, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He smells like coffee and clean soap and something that just feels like home.
âDid you think itâd feel like this?â you ask softly.
He considers it. âI hoped.â
You tilt your face up toward him. âMe too.â
His eyes drop to your lips, but he doesnât move just yet.
âHey,â he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. âYou know what I see when I look at you now?â
âWhat?â
âEverything I ever thought I couldnât have.â
You blink, chest tightening, not with fear, not with nerves, but with something whole. Something steady.
âYou always had me,â you say.
âI know,â he whispers. âTook me a minute.â
You smile, eyes crinkling, and then he kisses you. Slow, soft, like he has all the time in the world.
Because he does.
Because you do.
Because after all the waiting and wondering and quiet hopingâŠ
synopsis: snippets of your life with bucky over the years (and years, and years)
warnings: oh boy. torture, blood, needles, experimentation, crying, kissing, ANGSTY, violence, steve doesnât leave his best friend for a woman he kissed once because F U C K that, canon divergence obviously, poorly explained super powers lol, marriage, potentially crappy ending, pretty unedited
notes: THIS IS SO LONG AND HAS TAKEN SO LONG SO PLEASE GOD ENJOY IT and lemme know if you wanna hear about any moment of this timeline in more detail/anything about this couple from TFATWS or thunderbolts <33
[ SIBERIA - 1945 ]
when you awoke, you were shocked to hear buckyâs voice across the room.
at first, you were certain it was a hallucination; there was absolutely zero chance that bucky could have found you. you were captured as collateral damage in an ambush on your camp nearly a week ago. it couldnât be real.
âplease!â bucky begged, arms and legs thrashing his restraintsâthe fresh sutures on his left shoulder burned and begged for mercy, but he ignored them. âplease, just stop. whatever it is you want, iâll give it to you. anything.â
âanything?â zola mocked cruelly, stopping the syringe about halfway through and leaving the needle dangling in your arm.
âarm: humerus, radius, ulnaâ you mentally recited in a desperate attempt to remain conscious.
you had to stay awake.
youâd studied and worked your ass off for a chance at a good education, to become a real doctor like youâd always dreamed.
you had to live for that.
you were gonna marry bucky and have a kid and maybe a garden and a nice big library.
you had to live for that.
you had built the foundation for the life your mother had wanted for you before she died; youâd put it all on hold for the war, but you were supposed to come back and make her proud.
you had to live for that.
you had to stay awake.
âwhat about your right arm, huh?â zola mocked. âwhat about that, will you give me that?â
you wanted to protest but all that came out was a weak sob, your skin burning.
the man simply shook his head. âkilling her? mmm, no, no, no,â he tutted. âsheâs too valuable to die. i mean, if she is more valuable than your own arm, she must have something good to her.â
âarm: humerus, radius, ulnaâ
he looked down, grabbing your cheeks and moving your head side to side. if you could have recoiled in disgust, you would have, but the table you were strapped to was not very flexible.
âwhat do you think, pretty?â he probed, shaking your head in his hand with a sick smile. âdo you think youâre worth all that?â
the edges of the room had started fading after the last hour of torture and experimentation, and despite your efforts to stay conscious, you had begun to come to terms with the fact that you were fighting a losing battle.
on one hand, sleep sounded like a welcome escape. on the other, you didnât know if you would ever wake up. but at the very least, you werenât going out with out a fight.
you mustered all of your strength, throat raw from screaming and lips cracked and bleedingâhowever, you still managed to purse them, and as his pudgy face came in even closer to yours, you spat at him.
âfuck. you.â
before bucky could even speak, one of the other men pushed a button, and an electrical whir buzzed in the air, followed by a wretched scream, ripped straight from your chest.
in seconds, you fell limp, the needle still hanging out of your arm.
âw-whatâno, no, no, what happened?â bucky looked between your body and the man still standing over it.
zola shook his head as he wiped the remanence of your revenge off of his face.
âi donât know. hopefully something bad.â
when you awoke hours later, your memories came back in bits and piecesânothing quite cohesive but all vivid nonetheless.
first, the feeling: blind pain searing through you, like molten lava in your veins.
then, the taste: blood in your mouthânot from your tongue as you may have expectedâbut from your throat, nearly choking you.
next, the smell: your own sweat and smoke.
then, the sight: a blinding flash behind your eye lids like your very mind was breaking.
and finally, the sound: buckyâs screams.
you struggled to piece your memory together as you woke from a dead sleep. all you could feel now was cold.
âdoll? are you awake?â
you opened your eyes to see bucky, a mess of tears and filth, crawling his way across the concrete floor one armed. he let out a sob, smiling widely as he saw your eyes open.
âyouâre awake.â
âhowâd you get here? what happened?â you sat up, quickly realizing that your leg was cuffed and chained to the wall like a leash. your eyes flickered to bucky, taking in the sight of his left arm and the fresh wounds surrounding the seam at the top.
your memory was coming back and suddenly, you really wished it wasnât.
âoh god.â
he only sobbed, crawling up next to your cot and burying his face in the crook of your neck. âgod, he said heâd killed you.â
âbucky, yourâ your armâ"
he ignored you, pulling away and cupping your cheek with his right hand, keeping himself upright on his knees. âi canât believe youâre alive.â and he just stares at you like youâre the only thing that matters in the world.
you feel your heart racing, hammering against your aching ribs. youâre sure that under the flimsy nightgown theyâd given you, youâre covered in bruises and lacerations.
he was right, it was unbelievable that you were alive. although, if the torture didnât kill you, the infection likely would. or the âdoctorsâ would come back and take you out for good this time.
âthis is it,â you thought, âiâm going to die in the mountains and nobody will ever find my body. maybe bucky will bury me. at least thereâs that. bucky is useful, maybe they wonât kill him.â
âi can see gears turning in that pretty head, baby, and donât you even think about it,â he said, holding back another wave of tears. âweâre not dying here. iâm gonna find us a way out.â
you shake your head, tear filled eyes meeting his. âyou donât know that, buckyââ
he cups your cheeks, even though it hurts like hell to move his new prostheticâbut he would be damned if he let it stop him from touching you.
âi do. i do know it, i know it like i know i love you, like i know iâm going to marry you, like i know weâre gonna have a kid and a picket fence house and whatever else we want after we get the fuck outta here. weâre not dying here, doll.â
that breaks you, and you fall forward, burying your face in buckyâs chest. he rests his back against the cold concrete wall, his arms tight around you.
âweâre not dying here,â he repeats. âiâm not letting you die here.â
[ SIBERIA, 1965 ]
over the course of the next year and a half, youâd seen your bucky, your jamie, the love of your life, turned into someone else. something else.
even now, so many years later, you refused to dehumanize him. even when he wasnât really your bucky, you could never see him as anything less than a human. but sometimes it was easier to view the soldier as a sort of other. something that inhabited your buckyâs body but was separate from him. it helped, sometimesâit also helped that bucky never seemed to forget you.
zola had tried to kill you again once youâd woken, but it didnât work out as planned.
bucky had been held in place by no less than three guards as zola grabbed you by the hair and pulled you off of your cot, slamming your shaking body into the corner of the cell.
you braced yourself, eyes shut and hands up before your face defensively. you didnât want to cower before him but all you could think was that you wanted to see your mother again.
you hoped sheâd greet you when you arrived, wherever you were about to go.
but instead of rough hands, bullets, or even blades, all you felt was warmth.
it was like it was coming from inside you, like you were the source. then you looked down.
your hands were glowing.
zola had stopped in his tracks now, just staring, not with fury but with something worse: hunger.
since then, youâd become a personal nurse for their favorite asset. whatever ability theyâd inadvertently given you, undoubtedly from the spare experimental serums and electric shocks, allowed you to emit light.
in a glow, in sparks, in wisps, in odd looking orbs; they were warm, or burning hot, whatever you wanted at the time. you used it to cauterize his wounds or offer comfort on the colder nights. sometimes you just made light dance on the walls as a distraction, for yourself and for him.
thankfully, they never used you as a weapon. they gave you your own unique value, taking you in and out of cryogenic freezing just like bucky. you never saw him for more than a day at a time, but you had two distinct purposes: as a nurse and as a taught leash around his neck. they never failed to remind you both of the ladder.
[ SIBERIA, 1995 ]
âdo you want to see her again?â
buckyâor the soldier, whichever had more power at this momentâwhipped his head around so fast his neck cracked.
he and rumlow were in some dusty lab deep in the facility you refused to call home. after a failed mission to kill a french politician, bucky had been dragged back to siberia in a bloody heap of rumlowâs makingâand he was not done.
rumlow smirked. âi knew youâd remember her. answer the question, soldat, do you want to see her again? because if you donât follow your orders, i will make sure you never see your pretty little toy ever again.â
a silence falls over the room, only interrupted by the humming of the pipes. after a few moments, bucky speaks.
âsheâs not a toy.â
âiâll take that as a âyesâ, then.â
later that night, as you clean him up, he speaks of the conversation in a gruff yet desperate tone.
âtheyâll take you away from me,â he whispered. you looked up and you could almost see your bucky in his eyes. âif i donât kill those people, theyâll take you. i canât let them take you.â
you smiled tearily, cupping his cheek and kissing his forehead shakily, not caring about the blood and dirt. âthey wonât. iâm not going anywhere.â
on nights you had together, youâd often lay awake for hours, just letting him hold you. it was like he was stitching his soul back together with every minute, piece by piece. he was often silent, so you would talkâyouâd remind him of all your plans for after the war.
honestly, you didnât even know what year it was. for all you knew, the war never ended. for all you knew, the nazis won and there was nothing waiting for you on the other side.
but hope kept you going and you tried to share that hope with him. sometimes, heâd even whisper back, promises of love and devotion falling from his lips like a prayer.
[ ROMANIA, 2016 ]
two years ago, for the first time ever, youâd been ordered to accompany bucky on a mission. not to help eliminate the target thoughânot even to tend to his wounds.
âthis is your second attempt,â rumlow explained. âso you carry out this mission right, or i will put a bullet right between her eyes.â
ironically, he hadnât carried out the mission right, and you were alive and⊠not well, but close to it.
after rumlow attempted to use you as a human shield against sam wilson, the latter had managed to hold him off long enough to let you escape.
âi donât even want to know what that glowing thing is about, just get outta here!â he shouted.
you could only respond with a sob of thanks before running as fast as your ill kept legs could carry you. you felt like your muscles were atrophying with every stride, but you couldnât bring yourself to care.
you needed air.
you needed freedom.
you needed bucky.
when youâd found him, soaked to the bone, shivering, and confused, you let him wrap you in a feverish embrace. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he always did after a missionâwhen he didnât know when or if heâd see you again.
but now, you were free. scared fugitives, but free. and nobody was gonna take you away from him. that last part may have led to the current situation.
you had accompanied bucky to the farmers market in town, one of your favorite morning activities. he was picking out some plums when the paper caught your eye.
oh fuck. oh fuck.
youâd shoved the paper into his hands and before he could process what he was seeing, you were pulling him away. you had to run, you had to hide. but when you opened the apartment door and found a figure standing in your kitchen, a sinking feeling in your gut told you it was already too late.
still, you were not going down without a fight.
but then he turned around.
when your eyes land on steve, your hands fall slowly, their pale glow dimming as shock slithers down your spine.
stevie rogers. in your kitchen.
stevie rogers, whoâs mother took you in like her own when you lost your parents at age seven.
stevie rogers, who you had patched up after every beating, who youâd nursed back to health after every ailment.
stevie rogers, who youâd gone to war with, watching him wield the same shield he was holding now.
stevie rogers, captain america, living and breathing 70 years after you last saw him.
âoh my godâŠâ steveâs shield clatters to the floor, and before you know it, his arms are wrapped around you, strong, painfully tight, and most importantly, familiar.
âstevie,â you sobbed, unable to bring yourself to proceed with caution as your brother hugs you.
âiâve got you,â he whispers, kissing the top of your head softly as his tears wet your hair. âiâm here, youâre safe.â
bucky didnât seem so convinced. in mere seconds, heâd ripped steve right off of you, metal arm wrapped around his throat like a noose.
âwhy are you here?â
âbuckââ
âyouâre not taking her from me.â
steve struggled, clawing at the metal as if itâd make a difference. ââŠnot⊠taking herâŠbuckyâŠâ he sputtered, face turning red.
âthen why are you here?â
you approached bucky carefully, getting behind him and resting your hand on his shoulder. âjamie, heâs not taking meââ
bucky shook his head, jaw shaking as tears welled in his eyes. âyou donât know that.â
âitâs steve,â you pleaded. âsteve. heâs my brother. he wouldnât hurt us, i promise.â
after a moment of internal struggle, buckyâs arm fell away, dropping steve to his knees before you. bucky straightens out again, taking a step back to shield you.
âyouâre that guy from the museum,â he bluffed.
steve didnât buy it. he stood, putting his hands up to show he was not a threat. his throat still ached, and he could already feel the bruises blooming. âyouâve gotta come with me.â
[ WAKANDA, 2018 ]
the last few years had been a blur. after narrowly escaping bucharest, steve had you thoroughly evaluated in an alien-looking building in back new yorkâif you could even call it that anymore.
dr. cho was niceâshe even laughed at your shocked expression when she told you there were lots of female doctors now.
âi was studying,â youâd told her, voice barely audible as she checked your reflexes. âmedicine, that is. before the war, before⊠before they took me.â
she smiled, pausing her work for a moment. âwomen like you were half the reason i made it through medical school.â
you furrowed your brow. âwhy?â
she shrugged. âi wanted to make you proud.â
however, peace only lasted so long. when the fighting began again, you were confused and scared beyond belief, but bucky refused to let you involve yourself.
âyour fights are my fights, james,â you argued. âthey have been for 70 fucking years.â
bucky just smiled, pained, and shook his head. ânot this one.â
youâd tried to chase him down, only to find yourself pinned down by spiderwebs on the runway. you scratched at it, struggling with all of your might, wishing you had learned to harness your gift into something a little more dangerous than light shows.
thankfully, a great red robot had managed to find you, pulling you up with one armâturns out, there was in fact a man inside.
âhey kid? we generally frown upon webbing innocent bystanders.â
he did try to kill bucky later, but at least he drew the line somewhere.
steve had convinced natasha to take you home and not let you out of her sight, much to your annoyance; luckily, though, this meant you werenât there to see buckyâs arm get blown off. unluckily, it meant steve had to face your wrath when he saw you again.
âwhere is bucky? tell me, steve!â you shouted, shaking your finger in his face. you were sure youâd be much more intimidating if you werenât actively crying.
âheâs being taken to wakandaââ steve started, keeping his voice calm and steady.
you were not feeling calm and steady.
âi donât know what that is, rogers, my last geography lesson was in 1937! justâjust take me there. take me to wakanda. now.â
he winced. âi canât reallyââ
âSTEVE ROGERS!â
eventually, youâd made it to wakanda, made it back to buckyâand the rest was history.
âyour hair is so pretty,â you mused, combing it with careful attention. the lighting in shuriâs lab almost made his hair sparkle.
bucky huffed, leaning his head back in your lap to catch a glimpse of you. âreally? i think itâs a little too long.â
âitâs cute.â
âplease, he looks like he belongs in a boy band,â shuri quips, wrestling with her latest gadget. youâd tried to offer your help a month ago but it landed you on a cot with a bleeding hand (in your defense, nail guns werenât a thing in the 1940âs).
you shrug, smiling at her obliviously. âwell i donât know what the hell that is, so i still like it!â
she laughed, rolling her eyes. âyou know, i am really going to miss this. well, her mostly, but you have some good qualities too.â
bucky smiled softly at the teasing, eyes shining with gratitude as they always did around here. âwe donât have to leave.â
she scoffed dismissively, waving him off. âthis is going to work and you are going to have the freedom to live your life wherever you please.â
you shrugged, twisting your fingers absentmindedly in his waves. âi donât know where we please. since new york, this is the first place weâve been able to call home. and our new york⊠doesnât really exist anymore.â
since the events at the airport, the fight that tore the avengers apart, you had the time to think about your future. for so long, the future hadnât been a guaranteeâin captivity, it was nothing more than a hope and a prayer. even now, it felt like that sometimes. the future youâd seen for yourself was buried back in 1945 in an unmarked grave somewhere in the siberian mountains. you could never really go back home.
shuri frowns, shooting you a sympathetic look; she knew better than to pity you, but sometimes, when you spoke like that, or said youâd âfelt worseâ than a nail through your hand, it was a little hard not to.
âwell,â she starts, shaking off the feeling. âwe will always welcome you back. even if you bring mister grumpy pants over here.â
you smiled, looking down at bucky once more as you tied his hair up in a bun. âhere that? youâre mister grumpy pants now.â
[ NEW YORK, 2023 ]
that day in wakanda was one of the last things you rememberedâthe last moment of peace before a hole ripped in the sky and all hell broke loose in the place youâd just started to call home.
against buckyâs wishes, youâd stayed to fight; and for a while there, youâd thought you were doing good. that maybe you and bucky would make it out of this alive. that was until the smoke started to clear, and the forest grew eerily quiet, and you started to feel a little strange.
you didnât even notice you had started to disintegrate.
bucky did though.
he fell to his knees in front of you, catching you as you stumbled. âno, no, no, no.â
âbucky, iââ you started, but it was like your tongue wasnât yours anymore. moving your mouth felt painful, each sound you made sounded slow in your ears.
what was happening to you?
bucky grabbed at you desperately, pulling you into his lap as your arms gave way to ashes. sobbing already, he clung to you, chasing fist fulls of dust as you crumbled beneath him.
âi love you,â you managed to whisper.
that was the last thing you remembered.
when you reappeared, you were flat on your back, staring at the treetops in that same forest. you just laid there. you could hear people all around you, their voices blending into the atmosphere. you didnât budge until you heard buckyâs.
âthank god,â he sobbed, at your sideâwell, side was a generous term, he was really on top of you. he relieved you of his weight but stayed on the forest floor, holding onto you for dear life.
âwhat happened?â you rasped. âi justâi turned to dust and thenââ
âi did too,â bucky responded, face still buried in your hair. âbut we can figure it out later, for now, youâyou just have to promise youâre never gonna leave me again.â
you laugh. âi donât think it counts as leaving when you follow me.â
âiâll follow you to the ends of the earth.â
during the final battle, bucky didnât let you out of his sight. and for the first time in years, you saw a bit of the soldier come out again. any close calls on your life were met with brutal precision that youâd only ever witnessed in footage of his training. however, each and every time, heâd turn back to you and youâd see something distinctly bucky in his eyes.
by the time it finally came to the end, you were bruised and bloody, but alive. time moved fast from there on out, and by the time you arrived at tonyâs funeral, it felt like youâd aged forty years.
you paid your respects, letting pepper cry on your shoulder as the crowed dispersed.
âiâm sorry, i donât even know you very well and now iâm getting your shirt all wet,â she laughed, wiping at her cheeks.
you smiled gently. âthatâs okay. i understand the pain of losing people; grief knows no bounds.â
youâd waited until it was time for her to float around and thank the guests before you split off to follow bucky. he, steve, and sam stood at the top of the hill, looking out on the view.
âhe gave sam the shield,â bucky tells you as you approach. you shrug. figured. no questions there.
âis he gonna stay with her?â you ask instead. âyâknow, with peggy. when he returns the stones.â
bucky shrugs. âi donât know.â
he wraps an arm around you, tucking your head under his chin. he watched the wind rustle the leaves on the trees, the sky perfectly blueâunfit for a funeral.
what heâs about to ask you is probably unfit for a funeral too, but he has waited 80 years, and he doesnât want to wait a second more.
âwill you marry me?â
you look up so fast your neck cracks. âwhat?â
he looks down. âwhat, you sick of me or something?â
[ WAKANDA, 2024 - PRESENT ]
âiâm nervous,â you tell steve, wiping your hands on the front of your dress. it was a gorgeous day; blue skies with puffy white clouds, vibrant flora, all of your loved ones out in the field.
waiting for you.
he shook his head, slipping his arm around yours. he rubbed his thumb up and down your forearm before leaning down to kiss your temple carefully. âyou have nothing to worry about. bucky has wanted to marry you since the day he met you.â
âreally?â
steve nodded, lowering his eyes to meet yours. âfrom the moment i told him to keep his filthy hands off my sister.â
you leaned your head on his arm, careful not to mess your hair too much. âitâs not just that, steve. weâve been through so much together. iâm scared itâs all gonna disappear.â
you feel his suit jacket bristle as he turns to pull you into a hug. ânobody is going anywhere, honey. the war is over. hydra is gone. itâs time for you to finally have the life youâve always wanted.â
you nod, letting the words wash over you. âalright. then letâs get this show on the road.â
you walked slow, hands shaking, but steve held you steady. your song, one from the forties you used to dance to in the kitchen while sarah cooked dinner, played softly in the background. heads turned to look at you, and as you recognized the familiar faces, you felt your shoulders relax.
sam, clint, and peter, who was surprisingly tearful for a teenage boy at a wedding.
pepper and morgan, who was wearing her little flower girl gown.
tâchalla, ayo, and shuri, who waved her fingers at you teasingly.
and at the end of the aisle, bucky, not even bothering to hide his tears as he watched you.
once you reached the altar, steve kissed your cheek and slid his arm away from yours; for a split second, you almost latch onto him, wishing heâd hold your hand like when you were a little girl and were scared of thunderstorms.
however, when you see bucky, the way his hands are twitching like heâs struggling not to touch you, nothing seems so scary anymore. you step into position, waiting patiently for steve to assume position at the back of the alter, opening his little officiant book.
itâs not until bucky puts the ring on your finger that you realize everyone that had told you the wedding goes by in an instant was right; so you tried to take a mental picture of this moment, of bucky taking your hand so carefully like heâd never held it before, slipping the ring on your finger and holding on for dear life.
âyou may now kiss theââ
he doesnât even let steve finish, diving in at the first possible second, cupping your cheeks and kissing you desperatelyâheâd been waiting to do it since he saw you in that dress.
the kiss tasted like salty tears and joy, with a bit of coffee and vanilla, like buckyâs kisses always did.
he pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours, noses brushing. âi told you iâd marry you.â
summary: Hydra sends you â a broken empath â into the Winter Soldierâs cell to keep him calm. Youâre supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNIâ disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? weâll see.
Oh wow. This series has my heart. Your honor I love them !!!! You can be sooooo proud of your work. The ups and downs. The plot. The mind games. The angst. Beautiful. Marvelous. Incredible. I will reread and reread and reread.
summary: you make lunch for new avengers John almost loses his life
a/n : just a silly drabble been thinking about it for days
bucky masterlist
Bucky never knew softness until he met you. You are the epitome of softness, you think of others first and then yourself. He loves that about you its sweet but he never let's it go too far.
He knows one day he'll marry you, buy you a house in the country side all those domestic things he dreamed of. He just needs a bit more time. Bucky sees the way you look at him, with love and absolute certainty that he's your future.
There's nothing he wouldn't do for you, not when he meets your doe eyes full of hopes and dreams. And he can't wait to make them all reality.
One thing about you is that you show your love through food, lots of it, he gained a few since you two started dating. Bucky didn't even know he loved food this much ( maybe he doesn't and its only to please you but the line blurred long ago when he realised that love is you and everything you do and make).
He never intended for you to meet the other new avengers, but they somehow found their way into your shared home. You welcomed them with open arms and heart. And you charmed them from the fist second. He knew you would, all you have to do is smile and you have people falling over left and right.
They weren't used to kindness and you had so much to give and you gave it freely in abundance.
Last night was rough for them and they all needed somewhere to recharge for the hard day ahead, so what did they do? They came to a little sanctuary, that is yours and Buckys apartment.
Even if Bucky hadn't called ahead you had opened the door in the middle of the night, you didn't even seem upset that they woke you up or that he brought five more people with him.
You jumped into his arms like it didn't matter that he was all dirty and sweaty and bloody, and to you it didn't.
Your small apartment was looking even tinier with the six avengers in the living room/kitchen.
"Welcome back! I'm sorry I didnt know you were coming you must be hungry! Ah I didnt prepare anything! I'm sure we have something around here!"
Bucky told you not to fuss about it, they'll order something for tonight and be out early in the morning. It took a lot of convincing and stolen distraction kisses to make you drop it.
"Jamie it's not nice! They're guests, your work family!" He smiles and pulls you into a hug and kisses your forehead.
"You can cook some other time come on back to bed." Bucky ushered you to your room and laughed when he noticed your frown. He took a quick shower and then gave the rest of them towels and told them to figure it out how to sleep on one pull out bed. He didn't care enough he just wanted his girl.
"Good night, doll." Bucky says as he pulls you into his chest and kisses your neck. He feels you smile.
"Night Jamie."
In the morning Bucky can smell food? Its all kinds of food. He gets up and opens the bedroom door. Four figures stand behind the kitchen counter and watch you.
John is sitting on the pull out sofa, his eyes closed.
"Damn Soldier Barnes! Your wife is so talented! Look how she cooks!" Alexei says pointing at you stiring the pot and shaking the pan at the same time. You turn and your cheeks are flushed, both from the stove and the way Alexei called you Buckys wife.
"Morning love!" you look at him sheepishly, like you're caught doing a crime.
"She won't tell us what she's doing but this looks dangerous? No?" Yelena says..
"I'll be done soon I promise."
Bucky fondly laughs and walks over to you to give you a morning kiss but before he can do that an alarm sounds from your phone.
"Ah get that out of the oven! Thanks honey."
Bucky does as he's told and pulls out a huge tray of pastries out of the oven with his metal arm.
"Are we feeding an army?"
"Yes Bucky look how many of you and no one should work on an empty stomach."
Before he can say something you shush him and peck his lips.
"Okay now everything's done!"
And there on the counter six paper bags, each one has a name written on it, with a little doodle each different than the other.
Buckys heart grows and aches in ways he can't quite understand. You did all of this for him, for them, the people who have done horrible things, are doing horrible things.
First one to grab a bag is Alexei who then gives you a bear hug and lifts you off of the floor.
"Ah you are amazing woman! If Soldier doesn't treat you right he will have problem with me! I am very grateful!" You laugh and hug him back.
Ava just nodds and takes the bag, but in her eyes you see softness and thankfulness.
Yelena takes hers and says "Ah my favorite! Thank you! You are the best! I can't promise I won't come back for another round."
"You're always welcome" you reply and give her a hug.
"Thank you, miss. I appreciate your effort it is very kind for you to give us this food!" Bob says and stands at the door with the others.
John's the last one but he only stands up and goes to the door.
"Wait I made you one too!"
"Im not taking a children's lunch box I'll just buy something out."
The silence that came is deafening, you could hear a pin drop. Your eyes well up in tears.
And then Bucky grabs John by the throat, Yelena pulls her guns and points them at John, Ava teleports next to John and hits him and Alexi says
"I kill him now."
"Im sorry I'm sorry Im sorry I swear I didnt mean it." John starts to beg the avengers for mercy...
"Not to us stupid."
Bucky drops him to the ground and then John crawls to your feet and starts begging.
"Its fine I forgive you." you say kind of terrified and touched that they all care so much.
"You live another day, next time you make my girl cry I will kill you and then cut you into pieces and then I will burn those pieces."
John only nods and runs out the door.
Buckys eyes immediately soften as he walks over to you and grabs the last bag, it says love of my life and there's like a dozen hearts drawn. His hear melts.
"Thank you baby. I love you and I already miss you." you giggle at the hundreds of kisses Bucky gives you.
you hated him for it. but not nearly as much as you hated yourself for wanting it again.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, sexual tension, possessiveness, jealousy, angst, lots of team banter
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. heâs controlling, youâre reckless, and now youâre sharing a bed. the problem? itâs getting harder to play pretend. and youâre not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
a/n: hi loves! so, this series has been collecting dust ever since i watched thunderbolts a few weeks ago, but i finally decided to dig it back up and actually finish it, hopefully! i hope you enjoy it!
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