SUMMARY: When your best friend Sarah recommends a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession, and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be.
Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle, and silent type of problem.
Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes.
WORD COUNT: 70k; Completed.
A/N & WARNINGS: As I write the sequel to one of my favorite stories, I'm editing and sharing again the first part here. This is an Alternate Universe. Earth -1999. Mature content ahead, so minors DNI.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMASTERLISTㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCHAPTERS
. ONE ;
. TWO ;
. THREE ;
. FOUR ;
. FIVE ;
. SIX ;
. SEVEN
. EIGHT
. NINE.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.2k✦
✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦
You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.
Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.
Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.
If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.
Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.
Pissing you off.
You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.
How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.
You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.
A very shiny fly.
You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.
It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.
And Barnes.
He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.
But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.
And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.
You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.
“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.
You snorted. “Of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”
Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.
“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”
“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”
“But- You don’t actually believe that-“
“Yes, I do.”
Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”
That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.
You ignored it.
You were going to get very good at that.
“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.
“You hate everyone-“
“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”
Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”
“You’re still looking at me-“
“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“
“Not like that-“
“Like what?”
“Like you- You don’t believe me.”
He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.
“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.
Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“
“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”
He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“
“It’s not.”
It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.
He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.
After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.
“We work well together-“
“No we don’t.”
“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“
“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”
Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.
It made you want to throttle him more.
“You think I’m pretty?”
He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.
Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.
You had to rip your gaze away.
“Shut up.”
He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.
When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose.
He always smelled so good.
And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.
He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.
The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.
You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.
The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.
“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”
You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.
“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.
Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”
You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.
“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.
“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”
“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”
Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.
“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.
When Bucky looked at you, a lot of coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.
“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”
You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”
“What?”
“The butterfly.”
“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”
“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“
“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.
Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.
“You want this?”
“The-“
“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”
You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.
An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.
“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.
Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
You scoffed. “Please-“
“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”
“I know fun.”
“Uh huh-“
“Stop doing that, I do-“
“Never seen you have it.”
“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”
You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.
“James-“
“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“
He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.
You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.
But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.
You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.
It’s better, really. Not to think about why.
Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.
All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.
You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.
You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.
“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.
“I can go myself.”
Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”
“I carry pepper spray-“
“That’s not enough.”
You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”
Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”
“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“
“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”
You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.
“What-“
“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”
Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“
“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”
That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.
“Fuck you, James-“
“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”
You paused.
Fuck, that was a good point.
You hated it when he made good points.
“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”
Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.
You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.
“No. I’m goin’ with you.”
You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”
“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”
You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.
He knew you.
You hated him.
“Fuck you.”
“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”
You blinked. “Wha-“
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”
He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.
He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.
You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.
Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.
Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.
Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.
They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.
“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”
But you don’t make bad choices.
Ever.
You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.
Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.
“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.
“Hi.”
“You got the homework for public speaking?”
“Yes.”
Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”
“It’s online, James.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.
He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.
“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.
You cross your arms. “Did you.”
“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”
“If I wanted… Help?”
Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.
“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”
You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.
“I don’t need your help.”
He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.
You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.
“Maybe I need your help?”
“You always need my help.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“You wanna come over Thursday?”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll go to you-“
“I’m working Thursday.”
Bucky paused. “You got a job?”
You nodded. He frowned.
“Where?”
“Corner store.”
His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”
You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“
“You’re working late, it’s not-“
“I’ve been fine.”
“But what about when you’re not-“
“But I am-“
“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.
It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.
“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“
“Why do you care.”
Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.
“What corner store.” He grunts.
“Fifth and twenty, why-“
“We’re studying while you work.”
Your mouth fell open. “No-“
“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”
“I can kick you out-“
“You won’t.”
He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.
You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.
You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.
He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.
Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.
You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.
He made you giggle.
You hate him for that, too.
And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.
Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.
Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.
You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.
Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.
You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.
For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.
“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.
Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.
It is not fine.
Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.
But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.
It’s Sam.
You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.
You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.
And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.
“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”
You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.
Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.
“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”
You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.
There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.
“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”
And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.
Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.
“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.
Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”
You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.
“You know, I still got homework.”
You frowned up at him. “Okay.”
Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”
“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.
He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-
“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”
You blinked.
Oh.
“Yeah. I do.”
Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”
And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.
Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.
“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.
“I am tired.”
“You been eating enough?”
“I’m eating right now-“
“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.
It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.
That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.
“I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.
Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”
Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.
Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.
It felt different now. It felt like it matters.
You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.
He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.
Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.
You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.
The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.
“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.
“Where do you think he is- Nat-“
She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.
You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.
Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.
You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.
He finds you first.
“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”
You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.
“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“
“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”
“I-“
“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”
“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.
Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.
“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”
“I needed to drop something off.”
Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.
“You’re not stayin’?”
“I- I don’t-“
You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.
“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”
Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.
“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”
“Come- James-“
You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.
Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.
“You’re drunk, be careful-“
“’M not that drunk.”
“You’re slurring-“
“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”
You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.
“You’re here.”
He says it like he can’t believe it. Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.
You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.
“Yeah. I am.”
Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.
It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.
“James-“
“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.
The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.
“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”
He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”
“I- Um-“
“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”
There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.
“James-“
“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”
Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.
“What?” You squeak.
He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.
“I call your name when I have sex.”
“I- I- Why-“
“’Cause I love you.”
“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.
You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.
But now he’s saying this.
And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.
Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.
You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“I do.”
“You’re drunk-“
“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”
“James-“
“Hmm.”
He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”
You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“
“I liked workin’ you up.”
“That’s mean.”
“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”
You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”
Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“
“But I mean it.”
“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”
He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”
“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.
“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”
You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.
The challenge.
Why do you care.
Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-
Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.
Your body moves.
Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.
When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“
Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.
Really kissing.
The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.
Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.
This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.
Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.
“Ja- James-“
“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”
“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.
Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.
“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.
And who are you to tell him no?
“Oh- Okay- Oh!”
Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.
“No bra, hm?”
“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“
“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”
He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.
“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”
“N- No-“
Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.
“Wha- What’re you doing-“
“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”
“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.
Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.
“Bucky, please-“
“Please what?”
He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.
“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”
And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.
What you want him to do.
You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.
“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.
Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.
“You didn’t, huh.”
You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.
You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.
Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.
“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”
“You- You don’t know what I need-“
Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.
“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”
God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.
Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.
But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.
“No touching.”
He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.
“You’re touching-“
“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”
He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.
“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“
There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.
“Fuck- James-“
Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.
“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”
You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.
Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.
“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“
You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.
“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”
You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“
“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”
He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.
“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“
You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.
“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”
Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.
Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.
“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.
“I- I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”
You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.
“Bucky- Fuck-“
Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.
“No touching.”
You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.
And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.
Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.
His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“
“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”
Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.
Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.
“Eyes stay on me.”
He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.
“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”
You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.
“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”
You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.
He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.
“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”
He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.
“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.
You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.
You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.
Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.
“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”
You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.
The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.
“Buh- Bucky-“
“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”
“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.
A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”
“Do it again.”
It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.
But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-
“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”
Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.
“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”
He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.
“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.
Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.
“And?”
You blink at him through the tears. “And?”
“What are you?”
Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.
“Two fingers.” He reminds you.
And just like that, you cave.
“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“
“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“
“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“
Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”
You moan. “Yes, oh- Oh my god- “
Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.
“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“
“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”
Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.
You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.
“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”
You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“
“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”
“Nuh- No-“
“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.
“Mmmm-“
“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”
You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.
“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.
Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.
“Flip over.” He grunts.
You frown. “Wha-“
“Over. Just-“
Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.
A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.
“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
“James-“
“Please.”
His voice cracks.
You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.
You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.
“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”
Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.
“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”
He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.
“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“
Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out.
“Oh- Oh my god-“
It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.
“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.
He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.
“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”
“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”
“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.
“Yeah. You are.”
And if Bucky says you are, you are.
He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”
“’S- ‘S a lot-“
“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”
He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.
Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.
“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”
You keen, and Bucky laughs.
“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”
You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.
“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”
“I- Jaaames-“
“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”
You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.
“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“
Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.
“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.
“Can’t- Can’t take it-“
“Yeah, you can.”
You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“
Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.
“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“
You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.
“Wh- Where-“
“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“
Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.
You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.
And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.
Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.
“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.
You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.
“Perfect.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
You giggle. “Yeah.”
Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.
“You’re were perfect too.”
“Thanks.” You breathe.
He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.
“You still want me to take it back?”
And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.
“No, thank you.”
Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“
“I had manners-“
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“
“Don’t hold your breath-“
He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.
“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”
And you wonder.
If it had really been there, the whole time.
“Okay.”
✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x inexperienced fem!reader
word count: 4.7k
summary: Bucky can't deal with the constant state of chaos the Watchtower is always in, so he posts a job listing for an admin assistant - a babysitter for the New Avengers essentially. You were recently let go from your job and see an odd, vague job listing that piques your interest. What could go wrong?
warnings: swearing, objectification of bucky barnes, mentions of hydra, john teases bob, mentions of reader having curly hair & light complexion (a lot of blushing sorry), slight slow burn, fluff, eventual smut, vibrator mentioned once, no use of y/n (yet), probs heaps of grammatical errors, timeline inconsistencies no doubt, partly proofread, i suck at summaries
authors note: hi! first time writing a fic, kinda nervous! this has been an idea i've had for a while and since i'm currently unemployed i have time to write. this is more of an introductory chapter so might be boring to begin but i hope you like it anyway, this will most likely be 3 parts. please like, reblog, and comment <3
part 2 part 3 part 4
A loud curse and the sound of a body hitting the floor echoed throughout the kitchen, making it’s way to Bucky’s ears in the common room next door.
A groan escaped Alexei as he hauled himself up off the ground. “Who the fuck left water all over the goddamn floor!”
John casually leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, unbothered by the older soldier’s red-faced anger. “Probably the same person who leaves empty toilet rolls in the bathroom.”
“Oh that reminds me, who’s doing the next grocery run? We need more toilet paper. And soap. And protein bars,” Bob cut in to the conversation from his spot sat at the kitchen island, aimlessly scrolling his phone with a cup of lukewarm coffee next to him.
“What, no we don’t! I just bought a few boxes a couple days ago,” this caught John’s attention as he walked over to the pantry, finding empty boxes and no protein bars. “What the fuck guys, those were mine! Who leaves empty boxes behind?!”
The men’s raised voices had reached the gym down the end of the hall, causing Yelena to see what all the commotion was about.
“Walker, that was stupid even for you. You should know to hide your snacks in your room,” Yelena drawled, her accent heavier after her strenuous workout. She didn’t bother telling him it was her that had left the empty boxes in the pantry.
“Like that would make a difference, I know you sneak into our rooms when we’re out,” Walker rolled his eyes at Yelena’s suggestion.
That had Bob sitting up straighter in his chair, disturbed by the invasion of privacy. “Wait, but like you don’t go through all our stuff right? Just obvious snack hiding places…?”
Yelena pouted at him, a little offended at his insinuation. “Don’t worry Bob, I only hunt for snacks—your private musings in your journal are still private.”
Bob went bright red as John snickered, his brows raising at the younger man. “Aw, you keep a diary Bobby? Where you write down all your thoughts and feelings?” Clearing his throat, John makes his voice slightly higher.
“Dear diary, Bucky benched me for today’s mission. It’s so unfair, why does he treat me like a child—“ John cut off with a gasp as Yelena punched his stomach.
“Knock it off Walker, or else next time I’m aiming for your throat.”
Back in the common room Bucky sat forward on the couch with his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples to try ease the oncoming headache from all the bickering. It had been like this for weeks, months even.
No one took responsibility for anything in the tower. Despite having a dishwasher dirty dishes still piled high in the sink, clean clothes covered the laundry floor as no one bothered to put them away, there was always a suspicious puddle of water somewhere in the tower, and the teams diet consisted of ramen and takeout. The tower resembled a frat house full of first years rather than a high-tech building full of enhanced adults.
Bucky tried to bring some order to the chaos a few weeks ago, but his chore chart was covered in phallic drawings before the week was done—Walker’s doing no doubt. Bucky was fairly certain himself and Bob were the only ones who did their chores that week.
They needed someone to keep them in line—to remind them when their washing was done, to tell them off when they tracked in blood and dirt from their missions, to make sure they didn’t run out of toilet paper and Walker’s goddamn protein bars. They needed a babysitter, essentially.
Ava watched from her spot on the armchair opposite Bucky as he let out a long ‘the world is on my shoulders’ sigh and slowly stood up.
“I need to make a call,” he muttered as he walked out of the room and towards the balcony—hoping the door will block out his fellow teammates noise.
Mel answered his call quickly, concern in her voice as Bucky never called her unless it was dire.
By the end of the day Bucky had received the all clear from Mel, but under strict terms that he had to deal with everything—the job posting, interviews, background checks, training.
Valentina had laughed when Mel told her about the New Avengers situation thinking it had to be an April fools joke. The big bad (former) Winter Soldier was asking for a budget to hire a babysitter? Val could already picture the taunting headlines—who would trust her if the team she oversaw had a babysitter. Mel saw it from a different perspective—what would happen if the team crumbled due to the lack of order, lack of accountability?
That would make Val look even worse, that she couldn’t even control the team she had ‘handpicked’. She quickly approved Bucky’s request, knowing it would prevent a bigger headache down the road.
————————
Your groan turned into a pained yelp as you kicked the dryer in frustration. This was the third time this week the dryers in your buildings laundry room refused to start. You were about to declare bankruptcy due to the money you wasted trying to dry your clothes.
You knew the apartment you moved into a month ago with your best friend was too good to be true. It was a two bedroom in the middle of Brooklyn that didn’t break your bank account—well it didn’t, until you started to use the laundry room. While having your own washer and dryer was a nonnegotiable for the both of you, the rental market in NYC thought otherwise. So, you had to suck it up and deal with sharing with the other residents in your building - something you were starting to regret.
Three months ago you had been let go from the design firm you had worked at for two years as the office administrator. You understood their decision to let you go—it was one they hadn’t made lightly, but cuts had to be made with the current economic climate and unfortunately you were the first to go.
One of your former coworkers was still in contact with you and had told you they were falling apart without you there. The coffee didn’t taste as good, someone’s dietary requirements were always forgotten in the weekly grocery shop, and meetings with important clients had been booked for the same time—a complete disaster.
Now you were just another unemployed twenty-something year old trying to survive in the city. Your savings account was looking less than healthy due to having to move apartments, and the current job listings were abysmal. You refused to work for a money hungry corporation like your friends did—the last few times you had coffee with them they were in tears telling you about how horribly they were treated. Yes, you needed a job but there was no way you were going to sacrifice your mental wellbeing to be a cog in a machine.
Returning back to your apartment with a basket full of wet clothes, you stepped out on the small balcony off your living room to hang your clothes to dry in the spring wind. Your friend had already left for her shift at the diner a few blocks over, meaning it was just you and your thoughts for the rest of the day.
You opened your laptop with a sigh, anticipating the disappointment you would inevitably feel due to the lack of suitable jobs in the area. You were proven right five minutes later when you had scrolled through three pages of listings and there was nothing that sparked joy.
Midway through the fourth page of scrolling something caught your eye.
Admin Assistant - Midtown Manhattan
Looking for a well-organised, patient individual who doesn’t scare easy and understands the important of confidentiality.
Day-to-day tasks involve basic housekeeping, managing schedules, stocktaking, and the occasional media liaising. Some late nights will be required.
Must be comfortable with people from all backgrounds, loud noises, and messiness.
First aid training is desirable.
Clean background check required.
Send in your cover letter and resume if you are interested.
Probably the most vague job listing you had seen yet, but something about it drew you in. There was no company name attached, no recruiters name mentioned, not even a rough salary bracket. Maybe that was the point? Maybe this was their way of filtering out less desirable applicants—not many people would be interested in an obscure job listing, maybe they only wanted brave (or desperate) people applying.
The mention of confidentiality, a clean background check, and first aid training screamed babysitting for New York’s elite to you. A job you had done in the past when you were a freshman in college and your parents made you fend for yourself. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed—sure the kids were a bit pretentious and the parents looked down their upturned noses at you, but it taught you a lot about real world expectations and how different people were behind closed doors.
During that job you had been approached by the media trying to get dirt on the prominent people you worked for but you stayed tight-lipped. No amount of offered money would make you betray your employers trust, even if you were treated like the dirt on their shoes most days. It was this loyalty that had stumped your current job search—you did not want to give your everything to a company that paid you minimum wage and forgot your name.
After another look at the tragic number in your bank account and a glass of red wine, you found yourself writing a cover letter for the vague job and double checking your resume.
————————
Bucky was not expecting the hundreds of applications he received for the job listing. Majority of them were quickly dismissed—some didn’t bother writing a cover letter, a dozen or so were riddled with spelling mistakes, and others were obviously written by AI (something Ava had to point out to him). Then there were the applicants who failed the background check within minutes. Why they even applied when the listing said clean background check baffled Bucky.
After exchanging emails with a handful of applicants over the week, Bucky had started conducting interviews. He made sure not to tell the team when they were happening - he wanted to throw the interviewees in the deep end and see how they adapted to the chaos that was the unsuspecting New Avengers.
As he expected, a few of the interviews ended early when faced with what the job really was—fielding a million questions from Alexei and Yelena, the startling event that was Ava phasing through the walls, and being around two perpetually grumpy super soldiers who could barely stand each other. Oh, and Bob’s nervous energy that seemed to bleed into every crack in the Watchtower. He could see how off-putting it was to the interviewees, behind their tense smiles and shaking hands he saw what they truly felt—fear.
He started to lose hope when the latest interview ended with the guy literally running out of the building at the sight of Yelena and John cleaning their bloody weapons on the kitchen island. Bucky had little time to dwell on it as the team—minus Bob—were called out for a mission to an old war Hydra bunker. While Hydra was barely a threat anymore, Val wanted them to grab intel from the bunker then destroy it. Little did they know, what was left of Hydra was waiting for them in an ambush.
Bruised and bloody, the New Avengers returned to the tower in silence. The three super soldiers were already healed by the time they returned, but Bucky still had that idiot Hydra soldiers words ringing in his head—the Winter Soldiers trigger words. Of course they didn’t work, the Dora Milaje had made sure of that, but Bucky was tired. Tired of being reminded of when those words had control over him. Tired of the Winter Soldier always being a part of him. He was grateful Yelena had attacked the soldier and killed him before Bucky got his hands on him, because he was sure he would’ve made him pay for all the hurt those words had caused in the past.
Yelena was leaning on Alexei’s side having injured her leg during the attack and Ava was nursing a concussion, a suspicious darkening spot on her abdomen that she refused to acknowledge. The team had been in much worse shape but the exhaustion in the elevator was thick, the air heavy with everything unsaid. Bucky sighed knowing his battle wasn’t over—he knew an argument was going to break out as soon as they got off on the common room floor.
As the elevator doors slid open they were all met with the unfamiliar sound of soft music trickling from the surround sound speakers. Exchanging hesitant looks with each other, they all put a hand on their side—where they all had a weapon hidden on them.
Slowly stepping out, Bucky’s enhanced sense of smell picked up on multiple aromas coming from the kitchen—first the smell of barbecued meat then the smell of something sweeter, a mix of chocolate and vanilla. He looked back to see Alexei and John sniffing the air as they noticed the different smells too.
Through the sound of the soft jazz, a chorus of giggles made it’s way to his ears. Definitely not Bob. No, this giggle was high-pitched compared to Bob’s laugh—which he had only heard a few times. It reminded him of a soft breeze blowing through wind chimes on a summers day. The sound held an innocent warmth that felt out of place in the Watchtower’s cold sterile halls.
Had he been captured? Was this some weird drug-induced dream concocted by Hydra? The tower never felt like this.
Yelena pushed past Bucky in his stunned state, limping her way around the corner to the kitchen.
“Bob, what’s going—oh, hello.” Yelena was stunned herself when she saw Bob wasn’t alone at the kitchen island.
Standing next to the oven in an apron that still had the tag on it was you—hair tied back with a few messy pieces framing your face, a bit of cocoa dust smeared on your cheek, and a gentle smile on your lips.
The rest of the team rounded the corner quickly at Yelena’s surprised greeting. They all stopped short at the sight of the kitchen island. Plates of food were neatly lined on the surface—beef patties, steaks, burger buns & fillings, an assortment of salads, bowls of pasta.
Now Bucky was sure he was dreaming. Where the fuck had all this food come from?
John’s rumbling stomach broke the stunned silence, causing him to skip introductions and grab a plate to load up on the mouthwatering food in front of them. His eagerness prompted you to step forward with a little wave as you introduced yourself.
“I hope I didn’t overstep—Bob mentioned you were coming back from a mission and I thought you guys might need more sustenance than the few packets of ramen in the pantry and stale leftovers in the fridge.” You twisted your hands together as you nervously rambled, feeling slightly intimidated by the battered and bruised Avengers in front of you. “There’s brownies in the oven—probably mediocre, I’m not a natural baker—they should be done in a few minutes.” You started to untie the apron around your waist, heat rising to your cheeks as everyone’s eyes settled on you.
“Don’t worry, I watched her cook everything—nothing’s been poisoned.” Bob tried to joke lightly, his attempt to take some of the attention off you. It was enough for Alexei and Ava to pick up their own plates and start assembling homemade burgers.
Yelena still watched you suspiciously, not sure who you were or what you were doing in the Watchtower.
Bucky had snapped out of his shock when you introduced yourself, recognising your name as one of the interviews he had scheduled that week. For that day. The interview he forgot to reschedule before heading out for the mission. The interview which would’ve started four hours ago, and you were still in the tower—with a nervous smile on your face and eyes hesitantly meeting his.
Pretty eyes, he thought.
He cleared his throat before his mind drifted more, rounding the corner and holding his right hand out for you to shake. “Bucky Barnes. My apologies for not rescheduling our interview, the mission was last minute.”
You gently shook his hand, noticing how much bigger it was than yours. You forced yourself to make eye contact with the man, his striking blue eyes rendering you speechless for a second. You took a breath to steel your nerves, “it’s no problem, really. Bob is good company and it was nice to help out a bit around the place.”
By this point Yelena had determined you weren’t a threat and was joining the others in demolishing the spread you had laid out. She snorted slightly at your comment about Bob being good company—his anxious demeanour typically scared people off.
Bucky let go of your hand and analysed what was left on the kitchen island, the rest of the team happily munching away. “Thank you for cooking all of this, I can’t remember the last time we had a proper meal.” He gave you a small smile, hoping you understood how truly grateful he was.
Feeling yourself getting flustered under Bucky’s attention, you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and turned to the sink to rinse dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Behind you, Yelena and Ava shared a knowing smile before they started to moan about how good the food was. You let out a breathy laugh at their compliments.
Bucky finally grabbed his own plate, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds. He wanted to tell you to stop cleaning up, that you had already done enough and they would take care of it. He knew they wouldn’t though.
He sat down next to Bob and let his eyes drift from you and take in the mess of the kitchen, well the lack of. Despite the mountain of food you made, the kitchen counters were practically clean—minus the baking dishes you were rinsing.
The dirty boots and weapons John had left in the corner near the common room door were gone, the paper towels had been restocked, and from a brief glance in the open pantry he could see the empty protein bar boxes had been replaced. What caught his eye the most was the fruit bowl on the counter next to where you were standing—it was full of plums. Huh.
He tried to be inconspicuous as his eyes trailed up and down your body. You were dressed differently to the other interviewees, not in a bad way but you looked more comfortable. The other women he interviewed wore tight pencil skirts, stiletto heels, and their straight hair had been slicked back without a strand out of place.
You opted for a more relaxed fit: black dress trousers, a loose fitting blouse with an embroidered pattern on the collar, a cable knit vest, Dr Marten Mary Janes, and your natural curly hair tied back loosely. Not overly professional, but does that matter when your potential boss rocks up covered in blood and dirt? Bucky didn’t seem to think so.
No, he was too focused on the curl that slipped from behind your hair, resting against your cheek that still had cocoa dust on it. He was stuck between wanting to wipe the dust off and twirling the curl around his finger. Maybe you would let him do both. Wait, what?
The timer on the oven went off, snapping Bucky out of his trance. You quickly put the oven mitts on, grabbing the tray from the oven and placing the brownies on the kitchen island to cool down.
John groaned aloud at the sight of the dessert. “It’s about damn time!” He exclaimed with his mouth full. He reached a hand over, going to grab a hot brownie before your mitt-free hand quickly shot out and smacked his hand away.
“Careful, they’re hot.” Everyone paused mid-bite as they waited for John’s reaction, all shocked that you had the guts to smack the former Captain America’s hand.
John didn’t seem to mind, his lips lifting in a cocky smirk. “Princess, I’m a super soldier. A little brownie burn isn’t gonna hurt me.”
You rolled your eyes at the man, huffing out a small laugh. “Right, I briefly forgot I’m in a room full of enhanced individuals.”
Everyone’s shoulders relaxed as they went back to enjoying their food, glad that they didn’t have to witness Walker losing his shit at you.
Bucky’s eyes lingered on you as you turned around to find a knife to cut the brownie with. No one else he interviewed would’ve dared to look John in the eye, let alone smack his hand. He felt something strange stir in his chest as you moved throughout the kitchen like you owned the place.
Bob leaned over towards Bucky, drawing his attention away from you. “For what it’s worth…I like her,” Bob whispered gently to the older man, an earnest look on his face.
After cutting the brownie in even slices for the team, you grabbed your bag you had slung over the empty chair next to Bob, not wanting to overstay your welcome.
“It was nice to meet you all—thank you for all you do, you know, saving the world and all that fun stuff. I should get going, enjoy the brownies—if they’re not good, feel free to blame Bob. Oh, and Ava? You should probably get that injury on your side looked at.” You awkwardly shuffled towards the door where you’re pretty sure is the direction to the elevator.
The team all quickly looked at Ava’s side seeing the dark patch of blood you were referring to. How had you seen what they completely missed?
You made it halfway towards the elevator doors when you heard Alexei in the kitchen behind you. “What are you doing, Barnes? Go after her—I want more steak dinners!” A collection of murmurs agreeing with him followed, making you smile to yourself.
Bucky jumped off his chair and made his way towards you, quietly chiding himself for not offering the job to you 10 minutes earlier. What is wrong with me today?
You turned around as you heard Bucky call your name, the burly man a few steps behind you.
Now that you had time to settle your frazzled nerves you were able to take in how truly attractive he was.
Soft dark brown locks framed his face, just reaching his shoulders. They made his steel blue eyes stand out, his intense gaze making you feel like the rest of the world had faded away. His stubble drew your attention to his slightly pouted pink lips. His pink, very kissable looking lips. God, he was tall and thick—being this close to him made you feel a lot smaller than you were used to. You knew who he was, his backstory. That he had the super soldier serum running through his veins. Serum that enhanced everything about him—he could probably hear how your heartbeat picked up at his proximity, hear how your breath hitched as you made eye contact. Serum that meant he could pick you up with no problem. It should be illegal to look as good as him.
You snapped out of your staring as he started to speak to you. “Be here Monday at 9:00. I’ll give you a proper tour of the tower and get your security clearance sorted.” With that, his eyes flicked up and down your body once before he turned back and joined the rest of his team in the kitchen.
You got in the elevator feeling like every single one of your nerves had lit up at him looking at you. Fuck.
————————
It took an hour for you to return to your Brooklyn apartment; an hour in which all your brain could think about was your new boss. Opening your front door you saw your best friend sitting on the couch, an episode of Survivor already lined up for you to watch together.
You collapsed face first into the couch next to her, groaning out “I got the job.”
“What?! That’s great!” She exclaimed, getting ready to hug you in congratulations before she froze as you continued groaning. “That is great, right? Why are you acting like you’ve just been told you have jury duty?”
Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you blew a strand of hair out of your face as you made eye contact with her. “Yeah it is great, if having a criminally attractive super soldier as your boss is your definition of great.” You muttered, putting your face in your hands as you groaned some more.
That made her gasp, turning to you and sitting crossed leg as she usually does when two have gossip sessions. “No fucking way! Tell me everything now.”
With a bottle of wine shared between the two of you and Survivor playing in the background, you told her everything about your trip to the Watchtower.
“—Like I knew this was going to be a job dealing with New York’s elite or something, but I was not expecting the car—that they arranged, by the way—to drop me off at the goddamn Avengers tower! And then no one was there and I was like ‘this is definitely a prank’ but then Bob appeared and, honestly he’s such a misunderstood sweetheart, and he made me feel so at home—“
Halfway through the bottle of wine you finally got to the good part. “—And they were all just standing in the entrance to the kitchen staring at me—covered in blood and dirt, sizing me up—I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest. They are all insanely attractive—which, seriously, why are superheroes always so good-looking— and then he was staring at me and oh my god I felt like melting into a puddle.”
Your friend starting cackling at your wide eyes and flushed face, clearly taking delight in your torture. You reached over and slapped her arm in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please continue telling me how horrible your day was,” she continued laughing at you, not bothered by your light slap.
Your face once again ended up in your hands as you recounted just how hot you thought Bucky was. “His eyes are so fucking intense, bro. I thought he could see into my mind, which was a worry because all I could think about was how good his arms looked in his tactical gear. He’s massive, like his bicep was the size of my thigh. I don’t know how I’m going to function seeing him every goddamn day!” You flung your head back against the couch cushions, pouting over your predicament before filling up your glass again.
At some point during your rant, your friend had pulled out her phone and started googling Bucky Barnes. Her mouth dropped as she scrolled through the photos of him online—old ones from when he was in World War II alongside Steve Rogers, a couple of him as the Winter Soldier, and the more recent ones of him as a Congressman and New Avenger.
She met your wide-eyed stare with one of her own. “Man, I don’t know how your little virgin heart is going to handle being around him,” she looked back at her phone as she scrolled through more photos. “He looks like he talks you through it while ruining you for any other guy…better keep that vibrator of yours fully charged.”
Her comments were met with a cushion to the face, “shut up! I’m actively trying not to think about him that way—don’t put those thoughts in my head!” Your face was tomato red by now.
Taking pity on you, she put her phone away, moved the cushion aside and grabbed your hands in hers as she looked at you with a seriousness she rarely possesses. “You are well and truly fucked, my friend.”
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3K
▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!!
▸ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3
↤ main masterlist
You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when you’re reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like it’s nobody’s business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls — even the ones above you.
You’re wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up.
That’s when he comes in.
Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs.
You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel.
Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.
Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205.
From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.
Ask and you shall receive.
Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.
Every. Single. Day.
The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns.
Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.
“Steak alarm.”
Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you.
He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it.
“Now that’s a meal.”
Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days.
And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you.
You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.
It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way.
Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made.
But the more you see him, the greedier you get.
When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you.
Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation.
It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends.
However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it.
“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement.
Heat floods your cheeks.
“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.
“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle.
“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.
You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice.
Handful. A handful.
All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight.
It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.
From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.
So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.
You had mistaken that kindness for something more.
It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.
You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again.
Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.
Instead, Bucky stands at your door.
He’s still in his fire station t-shirt.
He still looks delicious.
Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”
Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”
He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself.
“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.
“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”
“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”
Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.”
Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?
“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.
“You don’t look sick though.”
“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.
Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”
“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”
Real smooth.
Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm.
And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp.
“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension.
Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”
“What?” You whip up to face him.
“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”
The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time.
“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”
“Then why?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”
His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”
“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”
“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”
You clear your throat and shrug.
“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.”
“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”
“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”
Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”
“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”
“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.
Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”
Your heart skips.
“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet.
You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.
Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.
“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say.
“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.”
“Why?”
Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”
You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm.
Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right?
“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper.
“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”
“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”
The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”
Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.”
“Oh.”
“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”
Your lips part.
He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”
“Bucky—”
“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”
“Bucky!”
“Yes,” he shuts up.
“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.”
His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”
“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”
The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face.
“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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A/N: I had like 5 different requests for this, I made it HELLA long and I hope I did you all justice!! also ive been editing a bunch of stuff so a Nate and sid spam is either happening tonight or tomorrow idk yet
The first thing people assumed about your job was that it was easy.
They saw the finished posts, the polished thirty-second clips, the chirpy captions with orange and black emojis, the little behind-the-scenes moments that made players seem more human and fans feel like they were in on something special. They saw the smiling headshots, the goofy locker room trivia videos, the pregame tunnel fits, the rapid-fire questions on the bench during morning skate, and they thought your work mostly consisted of pointing a camera at attractive hockey players and hitting upload.
What they never saw was you sprinting through the Wells Fargo Center with two cameras hanging off one shoulder, a backup battery clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing so violently in your back pocket you were half convinced it was about to catch fire.
What they never saw was the planning.
The color-coded spreadsheets, the weekly content calendars, the caption drafts, the sponsor approvals, the last-minute changes from PR, the constant balancing act between what was fun, what was safe, what the players would actually agree to do, and what would make the internet collectively lose its mind in the most useful way possible. Your job was creativity, yes, but it was also speed and instinct and relationship-building. It was knowing which rookie would happily do a dumb little “who’s most likely to” video five minutes before warmups and which veteran would stare at you like you had personally offended his bloodline for even asking.
You loved it anyway.
Maybe because you were good at it. Maybe because you liked chaos more than you had any business admitting. Maybe because there was something addictive about catching tiny, unscripted moments before they disappeared—a laugh in the hallway, a teasing shove at practice, a muttered one-liner that ended up becoming the clip fans quoted for weeks.
By your late twenties, you had already worked for two smaller sports media teams, one college athletics department, and a brief, soul-withering stint at a lifestyle marketing agency where someone in a blazer had once asked you to “make the brand voice more aesthetic.” You’d escaped that disaster on purpose. When the Philadelphia Flyers hired you to help lead social content, you’d thrown yourself into the role with enough energy to make up for every terrible office job you’d hated before it.
Now, a little over two seasons in, you were one of the people the players actually liked seeing coming.
That had taken time.
The first few months, most of them had treated you with the polite suspicion reserved for cameras, dentists, and reporters asking stupid questions after losses. But you’d learned them. Learned who liked to joke, who needed warming up, who pretended to hate attention but secretly loved it when fans ate up a clip, who only agreed to interviews if you kept it short and painless. You figured out how to make content feel less like an obligation and more like a bit. Once the guys realized you weren’t there to embarrass them—unless it was lightly, lovingly, and with their approval—they started relaxing.
That was how you ended up standing outside the Flyers’ locker room on a cold January afternoon with a handheld mic, a tiny camera rig, and three players arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.
“It’s in a bowl,” Travis insisted, already grinning because he knew he sounded ridiculous. “Liquid base. Spoon. That’s soup.”
“It is literally breakfast,” Noah said flatly, tugging one glove tighter under his arm as he headed toward the tunnel. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
You walked backward in front of them, camera trained on their faces, laughing. “So your final answer is yes? Cereal is soup?”
Travis leaned toward the lens like he was making a formal announcement to the nation. “My final answer is that some of you are too closed-minded for culinary innovation.”
Noah made a face. “That sentence alone should get you scratched.”
You snorted, nearly clipping your shoulder against the concrete wall before regaining your balance. “Perfect. That’s the clip.”
“Absolutely not,” Noah said, but he was smiling now.
“Yes, absolutely,” you shot back. “The people deserve to know where you stand on major societal issues.”
The social intern trailing behind you nearly ran into the back of Travis because she was trying so hard not to laugh. You gave her a quick look over your shoulder, silently checking that she was still with you, still getting behind-the-scenes footage on her phone for stories. She nodded, breathless, and you turned back just in time to avoid walking straight into a cart stacked with towels.
Game days were a blur built from instinct. You could have navigated them in your sleep by now. Pregame skate content. Tunnel arrivals. Quick sponsor spot. Warmup footage. Bench-side reaction clip if you were lucky. A little trivia video if someone had enough energy. Then into the media room, then back out, then scrambling for second intermission edits while your laptop fan whined in protest.
There was rhythm to it. A weird kind of music. You were good at hearing where the beat changed.
“Hey.”
You turned at the voice and saw Olivia from PR leaning against the wall, holding a laminated credential and a coffee like both were keeping her alive through sheer force of habit.
“You get the pregame fit walk?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Did Cam finally stop trying to speed-walk through frame like he’s avoiding taxes?”
You looked at her blankly for half a second. “No. In fact, he somehow got worse.”
Olivia sighed toward the ceiling. “Tragic.”
You grinned. “I’ll send you the clip later.”
“Please do. Also”—she tipped her coffee in the direction of the locker room doors—“Danny wants to talk to you when you have a second.”
Your brows lifted. “About?”
She shrugged. “No idea. He had the face on.”
You immediately frowned. “What face?”
“The operations face.”
“That means literally nothing.”
“It means he looked annoying and managerial.”
“That narrows it down even less.”
Olivia laughed and pushed off the wall. “Good luck.”
You watched her go, suspicion already crawling up your spine. Danny, the team’s director of digital content, only ever wanted to “talk for a second” when something complicated was about to be added to your workload. He was perfectly nice. You even liked him. But he had an almost supernatural ability to appear right before your busiest stretch of the week and say things like, “Quick question,” which were never quick and never questions.
You finished the segment with the players, handed the camera card off to your editor for ingestion, and found Danny near the media workroom ten minutes later.
He was standing at one of the high tables with his laptop open, scrolling through what looked like next week’s schedule. He glanced up when you approached, then gave you the kind of smile bosses used when they were trying to make extra work seem flattering.
Immediately suspicious.
“No,” you said before he could speak.
Danny blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“You’ve got the face.”
“The face?”
“The one people make when they’re about to ruin my life professionally.”
He laughed under his breath. “Dramatic.”
“Efficient. Saves time.”
He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
That was never a good sign either. You fell into step beside him, weaving around arena staff and equipment managers moving with practiced urgency. “So?”
“So,” he said, in the carefully casual tone of someone absolutely not being casual, “you know we’ve been trying to push more personality-driven road content.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”
“It’s not a setup.”
“It’s always a setup when a sentence starts with ‘you know.’”
Danny ignored that. “Numbers are good at home. Strong engagement, especially on the short interview stuff you do. But road content still isn’t where we want it to be.”
You crossed your arms around the camera tucked to your chest. “Okay.”
“And,” he continued, “our travel content has been pretty bare lately because we’ve been stretched thin.”
There it was.
You let out a long breath. “Danny.”
“Hear me out.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I can feel it.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was already preparing for resistance. “We want to send you on the next trip.”
You stared at him.
He kept talking like you hadn’t. “Not the whole swing. Just the Pittsburgh game to start. Maybe more later if it goes well. But definitely Pittsburgh.”
For a second, the hallway noise seemed to dull around the edges. It wasn’t that the request itself was shocking. You had done road content before, just not much with the Flyers at the NHL level. Short travel assignments, prospect camp coverage, one development tournament in the offseason. But NHL regular season road coverage was a different beast. More logistics. Tighter timelines. Less room for mistakes.
Still, underneath the immediate panic, something bright sparked.
Pittsburgh.
Flyers versus Penguins.
One of the rivalry matchups that always drew extra eyes, extra engagement, extra heat.
You shifted the camera against your hip. “You want me to go to Pittsburgh?”
Danny nodded. “You, one shooter, and probably Mason for editing support remotely unless I can get budget approval to send him too.”
“That’s in, like, a week.”
“Six days.”
“That’s basically a week.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’m aware.”
You looked away, thinking fast. Travel. Content capture on the road. Access limitations. Opposing arena rules. A rivalry game meant fans would devour anything even remotely interesting. The potential for numbers was huge. So was the pressure.
“You’re serious,” you said.
“Very.”
You huffed out a laugh that was half nerves. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
“Because road content is a logistical nightmare, the game will be chaos, and if anyone asks me to get one more ‘day in the life’ clip at baggage claim, I might simply walk into traffic.”
Danny gave you a long look. “So that’s a yes?”
You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to break loose. He knew you too well.
“It’s not a yes,” you said. “It’s an extremely reluctant, professionally burdened, heavily conditional maybe.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It absolutely is not.”
But it kind of was.
The rest of the day moved around you in fragments. The game. The content queue. A quick postgame locker room clip. A last-minute graphics swap. By the time you finally sat at your desk upstairs with your laptop open and your hair half-falling out of the clip that had been pretending to hold it together since noon, the building had shifted into that postgame exhale you always liked best. The loudest part was over. What remained was the hum—wheels rolling over concrete, muted voices, a vending machine clunking somewhere down the hall, the scratch of your own fingertips against keys.
You should have been finishing the recap package. Instead, you were staring at the team schedule.
Philadelphia at Pittsburgh. A Saturday game.
National eyes, rivalry traffic, a whole audience beyond your usual followers waiting for anything remotely compelling to latch onto. Good road content there could hit hard. Especially if you handled it right. Especially if you found the balance between funny and polished and just candid enough to feel intimate.
Your phone buzzed on the desk.
Olivia: Heard you might be going to pittsburgh
You smiled and typed back.
Y/N: rumors are dangerous
Olivia: omg you ARE
Y/N: i said rumors are dangerous
Olivia: bring me back something from the gift shop
Y/N: absolutely not
Olivia: fake friend
You tossed the phone aside and tried to focus.
Once you got home to your apartment and kicked your shoes off by the door, you found yourself opening notes on your phone and drafting ideas before you had even changed out of your work clothes.
Travel day fit check. Plane card game content if players were willing.
“Who on this team would survive a zombie apocalypse?”
“Most likely to forget their passport?”
A rivalry edition of quick-fire questions. Maybe a “describe Pittsburgh in one word” bit. Maybe something with playlists.
Maybe something a little more cinematic too—city shots, loading into the arena, skates on concrete, gloves being tightened, the kind of moody footage people ate up before big divisional games.
You sank onto your couch and stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach. You reached for your laptop again and started building a rough Pittsburgh shot list before common sense could stop you.
By the next morning, you had three separate content concepts, a proposed travel schedule, and a color-coded document titled PIT ROAD GAME POSSIBILITIES, which was probably either deeply impressive or slightly unwell.
Danny responded to the email in six minutes.
“This is exactly why I’m sending you.”
—
By Thursday, your travel had been confirmed.
You would leave with the team the day before the game, shoot arrival content, get a small window after the team meal if players were available, then film morning skate and pregame pieces in Pittsburgh. You’d have limited access in the visiting arena compared to home, but enough to make something good if you moved fast. You spent half the day charging batteries, labeling equipment, checking storage space, and making sure your portable hard drives weren’t about to betray you at the worst possible moment.
At some point in the middle of all that, you caught your reflection in the black computer screen at your desk and laughed quietly to yourself.
You looked exactly like what you were: tired, busy, slightly over-caffeinated, and deeply in your element.
—
Friday came fast.
Travel day always made the whole organization feel looser around the edges. More duffel bags. More movement. More scattered conversations in hallways. You arrived before sunrise, coffee in one hand and gear slung over both shoulders, and found the loading area already alive with staff and players filtering in.
The air outside bit at your cheeks. Philadelphia in winter had a way of feeling gray all the way down to the bones.
The team bus to the airport was exactly the kind of controlled disorder you expected—players half awake, headphones already on, staff juggling bags and coffee, somebody in the back loudly insisting they were not playing cards on the plane this time because last time someone cheated and “everyone knows it.”
You boarded with the social shooter assigned to travel with you, a quiet but incredibly competent freelancer named Sam, and slid into one of the front seats reserved for staff. Your camera case went by your feet. Your phone was already open to notes.
You watched players in reflections more than directly. The familiar shapes of them. Hoodies, ball caps, long legs wedged awkwardly into seats clearly not built for hockey players. A few nodded hello to you. One immediately asked whether you were filming anything yet, with the air of a man hoping the answer was no.
The airport transfer, the private terminal, the boarding—it all happened in the quick, well-practiced blur of team travel. You caught what you could without being annoying. Bags getting loaded. Players stepping off the bus into the brittle morning air. A few clean shots of travel fits. Nothing intrusive. Just atmosphere.
On the plane, things settled.
This was where you had to read the room better than ever. Travel content could be great, but only if it didn’t feel invasive. Some guys wanted to disappear into sleep or music or whatever ritual got them ready for the weekend. Others got restless and started chirping each other fifteen minutes into the flight.
You got lucky.
About halfway through, a loose cluster of players toward the back started a card game. Someone else was already recording little clips on a phone. The mood had tipped toward playful. You looked at Sam, tipped your head toward the aisle, and the two of you moved quietly.
—
Pittsburgh greeted you with cold air, low clouds, and the sharp, practical rhythm of road arrival. From the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to check-in, from check-in to quick room drop and back downstairs again. The city outside the bus window looked steel-gray and river-cut, winter light catching on glass and bridges in a way that felt a little cinematic if you were in the right mood.
You were in the right mood.
Not because it was Pittsburgh, specifically. Though even you had to admit the rivalry of it all gave the trip extra charge. More because this was new enough to feel exciting and familiar enough not to be terrifying. You could do something with that combination.
The hotel content went smoothly. Arrival footage. A few lobby shots. One player who tried to duck the camera and got caught smiling anyway. Another who fully posed despite claiming thirty seconds earlier that he hated being filmed. You collected moments the way some people collected receipts—evidence that the day had happened, evidence that the mood was real.
By evening, after the team meal, you had a small window to grab optional content from the lounge space the players were filtering through. Nothing intense. Just quick stuff if anyone felt up for it.
Tomorrow would be the game day.
Tomorrow, you’d be in the visiting arena, working in tighter spaces, moving faster, trying to get content good enough to justify why they’d sent you at all. You should have felt overwhelmed. Maybe you did, a little. But stronger than that was the hum you always got before good work. The anticipation.
—
You were up before your alarm.
Not by much, but enough to make it annoying.
For one disorienting second, you didn’t know where you were. The hotel curtains were still mostly drawn, leaving the room dim and gray-blue, the kind of early morning light that made everything feel a little unreal. Then the shape of the unfamiliar armchair by the window registered. The hard-shell camera case near the desk. The laminated credential hanging from the lamp. Pittsburgh.
Right.
Game day.
You let out a long breath and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment while the day arranged itself in your head. Morning skate content. Arrival shots if the bus timing worked. A few interviews, maybe. Practice-day atmosphere, even though “practice day” was never really what morning skates were—it was lighter, sharper, more controlled, the kind of routine that looked casual if you didn’t know enough hockey to see all the tension underneath it.
By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you had your hair pulled back, your credential clipped on, and enough energy to pass for a functional adult. Olivia was already there, somehow looking more awake than anyone had a right to at that hour, one hand around her coffee and the other scrolling through emails on her phone like she was personally at war with them.
“You look tired,” she said.
“You look judgmental.”
“I am judgmental.”
“I know.”
She handed you the second coffee without argument, and the warmth of it seeped into your fingers in a way that felt briefly life-saving. Around you, the hotel lobby had that strange, muted hum team hotels always seemed to have on travel mornings. Staff moving with purpose. Players filtering in with headphones on and hoods up, looking half asleep and six feet taller than the furniture around them. Equipment personnel wheeling cases through the polished floor space like they owned the building. Everything quiet, but not relaxed. There was always a pulse under game day.
You and Olivia took seats near the windows while you waited for bus call.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Enough.”
“That answer means no.”
“It means I had content ideas at one in the morning and had to write them down or risk becoming unbearable.”
She took a sip of coffee. “You were already unbearable.”
“You’re so supportive.”
“I’m consistent.”
You smiled into your cup and looked down at your phone again, skimming the day’s rough plan. Nothing too ambitious. Capture the guys arriving at the rink. Some clean morning skate visuals. Maybe a few quick questions if the mood was right and the team staff didn’t need everyone moving too fast. A little atmosphere, a little personality. Enough to feed the game-day machine without getting in the way.
It should have felt routine.
Instead, your nerves were just a little louder than usual.
Not in a bad way. Not panicked. Just alert. Like your brain knew this day mattered a little more than most. Rivalry game. Bigger audience. Road environment. More eyeballs on every post. Even the smallest clip could overperform if it caught the right energy. You were already thinking in edits, already hearing caption ideas in the back of your mind, already sorting through what might look good in vertical and what might need to be held for later.
Across the lobby, one of the players noticed your camera bag and grimaced theatrically.
“No weird questions today,” he said as he approached.
You looked up at him. “Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He pointed a finger at you like that would strengthen his case. “No ‘who’s most likely to cry during a movie’ or any of that.”
“That one is actually excellent, thank you.”
He made a betrayed sound and kept walking toward the elevators, and Olivia leaned closer to you, lowering her voice.
“You know you’ve won when they start pre-complaining before you’ve even asked anything.”
“I prefer to think of it as trust.”
“That is not what that is.”
But it kind of was.
The bus ride to the arena was quieter than the day before. More inward. Less chirping. Guys looked at their phones or out the window or nowhere at all, wrapped in their own routines. You took a couple of skyline clips through the glass, though the morning was overcast enough that the city looked all steel and river and pale winter haze. Still good, though. Especially for moody transitional footage.
Pittsburgh had a way of looking cinematic even when it wasn’t trying. Maybe it was the bridges. Maybe the water. Maybe the fact that hockey cities always seemed a little sharper around the edges in the cold.
When the bus pulled into the arena, everyone’s energy shifted without anyone saying anything. That was one of those details you only noticed after years around teams. The invisible click. Public space to work space. Hotel mode to rink mode. Whatever looseness had existed ten minutes earlier tightened into something more focused.
You and Sam got off with the rest of the traveling staff, the air outside crisp enough to sting the inside of your nose. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and fell into your usual rhythm almost immediately. Arrival shots first. Players stepping off the bus. A couple of clean walking clips. Gloves tucked under arms, headphones still around necks, coffee cups, garment bags, the endless repetition of duffels. You moved fast, careful not to clog any pathways, stepping sideways around rolling equipment trunks and arena staff with the practiced awareness of someone who had spent years learning how to be present without being in the way.
Once inside, visiting access was exactly what you expected: tighter than at home, more controlled, more narrow in its freedom. Still workable. You got a few warmup-room atmosphere shots, some skates being laced, sticks lined along a wall, a trainer adjusting gear on a table. Nothing too intrusive. Mostly details. It would cut together beautifully later if you had enough coverage.
“Looks good,” Sam murmured, checking playback on one clip as the two of you stepped back into the hallway.
“Keep grabbing texture stuff if you see it,” you said. “Tape, gloves, hallway skates, anything that feels like road routine.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
You checked your phone and frowned at the battery percentage.
Fifty-one.
That wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either considering how early it still was and how much you relied on the social phone throughout the day. The team-issued phone was where quick vertical clips lived before they got sent off, where stories got posted in real time, where you could review what you had and keep track of platform needs without juggling too many devices at once. It also had the unfortunate tendency to drain like it had a personal grievance against electricity.
You tucked that concern away for later and headed toward the rink entrance for morning skate.
Practice-day shooting was always a balancing act between rhythm and patience. Morning skate didn’t have the dramatic frenzy of game warmups, but it had its own kind of clean energy. Less noise. More glide. Coaches in conversation near the boards. Players taking one-timers with sleepy precision, stretching against the glass, leaning on sticks in small clusters between drills. The ice still looked fresh in a way it never did later in the day, bright and untouched beneath the lights.
You loved filming on ice days like this.
There was room to breathe in the footage. Room for the little things. The scrape of edges. The casual toss of a puck from glove to glove. A goalie rolling his shoulders before dropping into the net. You and Sam split the workload without even needing to talk much about it by that point. He covered a wider angle from one corner while you worked your way along the permitted area, switching between the main camera and the social phone depending on what the moment called for.
A player tapped the glass in front of your lens in mock offense after you caught him missing a shot.
“Oh, that’s going up,” you called back.
He shook his head immediately. “No chance.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Watch me.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
He laughed and pushed off toward the faceoff dot again.
That was the nice thing about practice-day content. Lower stakes. Enough time to get human moments without anyone feeling too scrutinized. A few of the players leaned into it more than usual, maybe because the rivalry game had everyone a little keyed up and this was the last easy breath before it all tightened. You got one fantastic clip of two teammates mock-arguing over who had the better tape job. Another of someone trying—and failing—to chirp a coach who shut him down so efficiently that even you almost laughed out loud behind the phone.
Perfect social stuff. Easy, real, useful. By the time the skate wrapped and players started filing off the ice, your social phone battery had dropped to eighteen percent. You stared at the screen for a beat, offended.
“No, actually, that’s insane,” you muttered under your breath.
Sam looked up from packing one of the lenses. “What?”
“This stupid phone is dying.”
He checked the time. “Already?”
“Yes. It’s acting like I’ve committed some personal offense.”
“You have a charger?”
“In my bag. I think.”
That was the problem. You had multiple bags, multiple cases, and at least three places the charger could be depending on which version of yourself had packed the night before. Wonderful.
You glanced toward the hallway leading back toward the visitors’ room. Media flow had loosened a little now that morning skate was done and there was a short window before the next scheduled obligation. If you moved fast, you could run back, find the charger, plug the phone in for a bit, maybe dump a couple clips, and get back before anyone needed you elsewhere.
“I’m gonna go grab the charger,” you told Sam. “Can you stay here for like five?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone asks where I am, tell them I’m being held hostage by battery percentage.”
He snorted. “Will do.”
You slung the social phone into your jacket pocket, adjusted your credential, and headed down the corridor at a brisk pace.
The visiting route through unfamiliar arenas always felt vaguely like navigating a dream someone else had designed. Too many similar hallways. Too many gray doors. Too many turns that looked like they should lead somewhere obvious and instead dumped you out beside a storage alcove or a security checkpoint or a staircase you definitely weren’t supposed to be near.
At first, you thought you were fine.
You retraced what you were pretty sure had been your route in. Past the equipment carts. Left at the corner with the framed arena signage. Straight down a narrower hallway. Then another turn. Then—you slowed.
This didn’t look right.
There was a long concrete corridor ahead with darker flooring than the one you remembered, and the wall signage here was for home locker facilities, not visiting. You stopped walking entirely and stared for a second, willing the arena to reorganize itself into something more familiar.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Cool. Love that.”
You turned back the way you came, only to realize the last two turns had blurred together in your head. Great. Amazing. Perfect even. You had been in the building less than three hours and were already lost in enemy territory because a phone battery had personally betrayed you.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. There were worse problems. Plenty worse. But there was something uniquely irritating about being a grown adult with multiple credentials clipped to your jacket and still somehow wandering around a professional sports arena like a confused substitute teacher on a field trip.
You started walking again, this time slower, checking each sign as you passed.
Hallway. Training room. Staff access. Another hallway. A corner. A staircase. None of it looked familiar.
You dug the phone out of your pocket to maybe text Olivia or Sam for help, only to see the battery flash red at eleven percent.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
You were too busy looking down at it while turning the next corner to notice someone coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.
One second you were stepping around the bend with your attention split between the dying phone and your rapidly diminishing patience, and the next you nearly walked straight into a broad chest in a dark team-issued quarter zip.
You startled hard enough that your sneaker skidded against the floor.
Everything happened fast after that. A clipped breath. A flash of instinctive panic. The sick little drop in your stomach as your balance tilted the wrong way. The phone slipping in your hand.
And then a hand caught your arm. Another at your elbow, steady and firm and immediate.
You didn’t hit the ground. Didn’t even come particularly close once the hold settled you. But the surprise of it still sent your pulse jumping.
“Whoa,” a low voice said. “Easy.”
You blinked up and for one profoundly humiliating second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful, because standing in front of you, one hand still loosely braced at your arm like he was making sure you were actually steady, was Sidney Crosby.
Not on a screen.
Not in a media scrum.
Not from a distance while you were working a game and trying to stay neutral because that was your job.
Here. Right here. In a concrete arena hallway in Pittsburgh while you were lost, annoyed, and probably making the dumbest expression of your life. His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between checking that you were okay and maybe suppressing a laugh.
“You good?”
You became aware of several things all at once.
One: you were still half-leaning into the recovery of your balance.
Two: your phone was somehow still in your hand, miracle of miracles.
Three: you needed to speak immediately before your silence turned this into the single most embarrassing moment of your career.
“Yep,” you said, much too quickly. “Yes. I’m good. Totally good.”
His mouth twitched. Cool. Great. He thought you were an idiot. Understandable.
You straightened fully, smoothing one hand against your jacket like that could restore dignity. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“That much I figured.”
The delivery was dry enough that it took you half a beat to realize he was teasing.
You looked at him again properly then, which maybe was a mistake because now your brain had time to register details. Taller up close than people always swore he was, even though everyone knew his listed height and apparently still liked making it a whole conversation. Broad shoulders. Practice hair still slightly damp around the temples. That familiar face that hockey fans had spent nearly two decades reading like weather. Calm, watchful, a little amused now.
You swallowed back the first eight weirdly fangirl things that tried to rise up.
Because no.
Absolutely not.
You worked for the Flyers.
You were currently wearing team gear.
You had professional self-respect, at least in theory.
“Sorry,” you said again, more normally this time. “I’m just trying to find my way back to the visitors’ room and apparently your arena is built like a maze.”
That earned you a small, immediate smile.
“Our arena?”
You folded your arms, clutching the dying phone against your side. “Yes. Yours.”
“So you’ve already decided it’s not user error.”
“Oh, it is definitely user error,” you said. “But I’m choosing to blame the building.”
He glanced down the corridor you’d just come from, then back at you. “Visitors’ room’s the other way.”
“See?” you said. “Maze.”
He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “You took, like, three wrong turns.”
“That feels excessive to point out in my time of need.”
“You seem okay.”
“Physically, sure. Emotionally, I’m being humbled.”
That got a real laugh out of him, brief but unmistakable, and something in your chest gave an irritating little flip in response.
Unhelpful.
Very unhelpful.
You cleared your throat. “Thanks for catching me, though. That would’ve been a really tragic way to go.”
His expression went lightly skeptical. “Tragic?”
“Yes. Imagine the paperwork. ‘Local social media employee taken out by poor directional instincts in rival arena.’ Horrible look for everyone.”
He folded his arms now too, posture easy. “I think we could’ve spun that.”
“You think the Penguins PR team could’ve spun me eating it in the hallway?”
“Oh, for sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s evil.”
He shrugged one shoulder, still looking amused. “Occupational hazard.”
There was something unfairly disarming about how casual he seemed. Not guarded exactly, but measured in that way some athletes were after years of being observed. Still, there was warmth there too, and curiosity, and just enough playfulness to keep the whole moment from tipping awkward. It helped you relax by degrees.
A little.
Not much.
Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand and flashed the red battery indicator again, like it wanted attention.
You looked down at it in betrayal.
“Let me guess,” he said, following your glance. “Dead phone?”
“Dying phone,” you corrected. “Which is somehow more irritating.”
“That’s why you’re lost?”
“I was going to grab my charger.”
“And got sidetracked.”
“I got aggressively sidetracked.”
He tipped his head. “Who do you work for?”
You held up the credential clipped to your jacket instead of answering, because if he hadn’t seen the Flyers logo by now that would’ve been impressive.
His eyes dropped to it, then lifted again with clearer recognition.
“Social?”
“Yeah.”
“For Philly.”
You gave him a look. “I feel like the logo’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.”
He smiled again, slower this time. “Just making sure.”
“Well, yes. Flyers social.”
That seemed to amuse him for reasons you couldn’t entirely read. Maybe just the situation. Maybe the irony of running into the opposing team’s social media admin while she was lost in his hallway. Fair enough, honestly.
“You’re the one always doing those pregame questions?” he asked.
That caught you off guard enough that your brows lifted. “You’ve seen those?”
Now it was his turn to look faintly caught.
“Some of them,” he said.
You stared at him for a beat. “That feels a little traitorous, actually.”
His smile widened. “Traitorous?”
“You’re the captain of the Penguins.”
“And?”
“And you’re apparently watching Flyers socials.”
“I didn’t say I watch all of it.”
“That is not a denial.”
“It’s research.”
You let out a surprised laugh. “Research.”
“Division rival.”
“That sounds fake.”
“Probably.”
The back-and-forth was coming easier now, helped by the fact that he seemed perfectly willing to keep it going. There was something surreal about it, enough that a small part of you felt like you’d blacked out and wandered into a fanfiction prompt written by a particularly unhinged version of yourself. But mostly, standing there in the hallway, you just felt alert in that bright, sharpened way that happened when someone unexpected met you at your own level.
You shifted the phone in your hand. “Well, for the record, I’m only here in a deeply professional capacity. Any alleged admiration for your team’s facilities is false.”
“Our facilities?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one insulting the building.”
“Because it deserves it.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does. This place has the directional logic of an escape room.”
He chuckled under his breath, then nodded down the hall. “You need to go left at the next corner, then through the double doors. Visitors’ side is back there.”
You looked where he indicated, trying to map it mentally. “Left. Double doors. And if I somehow end up in, like, the Zamboni garage?”
“Then you took more than one wrong turn.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
You huffed a laugh.
There was a beat after that—small, not awkward exactly, but noticeable. The sort of pause where either one of you could have ended the conversation cleanly and moved on. You probably should have. You had a charger to find, a phone on its deathbed, a job to do, and just enough self-awareness to know lingering in a hallway with Sidney Crosby while wearing Flyers gear was maybe not the most professionally neutral thing in the world.
Instead, because apparently your survival instinct had left the building long before your sense of direction, you said, “So what exactly does your research on Flyers social involve?”
His eyes flicked back to yours, amusement returning instantly. “Looking for weaknesses.”
“Through rapid-fire snack preference videos?”
“You’d be surprised what people reveal.”
“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
“You sound like a spy.”
“Maybe I am.”
You angled your head. “That would honestly explain a lot.”
“Like what?”
“The mystery. The overly calm energy. The fact that half the hockey world talks about you like you materialize out of fog whenever Team Canada needs saving.”
That one made him laugh properly, shoulders shifting with it, and the sound of it cracked something lighter through the whole strange situation.
“Out of fog?” he repeated.
“You heard me.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I work in media. It’s an occupational risk.”
He glanced down at your credential again, then back at your face. “So are you actually a Flyers fan, or are you just paid to be one?”
It was a good question. Better than most people realized, actually. Working for a team changed the shape of fandom. You couldn’t engage with it the same way anymore—not fully, not without blurring lines you needed to keep clean. But there was still pride there. Investment. Protection, maybe. The sort of loyalty that came less from childhood posters and more from proximity, from labor, from knowing the people behind the logo.
You smiled a little. “I work for them. That kind of answers itself.”
“That’s not exactly what I asked.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you trying to get me to defect in the hallway?”
“Depends how convincing you are.”
He nodded like he was considering it. “Fair.”
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mostly to do something with your hands. “For the record, I’m not saying anything nice about the Penguins.”
“You already blamed the building. I think I can live with that.”
“Good.”
Another beat.
It was ridiculous, the ease of it. Not because he was Sidney Crosby, though that part of it remained surreal enough to sit in the back of your skull like a blinking sign. More because the conversation itself felt natural. Quick. Dry. That clean little verbal tennis match where each return came easy. You hadn’t expected that. If you’d expected anything at all, it would’ve been polite distance. A nod, maybe. Directions. End scene.
Not this.
Your phone buzzed again and this time the screen dimmed so aggressively that you sighed aloud.
“Okay, wow,” you said to it. “You’re being a diva.”
He looked at the screen. “You should probably rescue that.”
“I know.”
“You need the charger that badly?”
“It’s the social phone. So yes. If this thing dies, I basically lose the ability to post half my day in real time, and then my boss starts using phrases like ‘workflow disruption’ and I have to pretend not to find that threatening.”
He smiled. “Sounds serious.”
“It is serious. This tiny rectangle owns my life.”
“Brutal.”
“The worst part is I probably packed the charger in the dumbest possible pocket and now I have to dig through three bags like I’m on some kind of scavenger hunt.”
“I can walk you back.”
The offer was simple, easy, like it hadn’t occurred to him it might land with the weight it did.
You blinked. “You absolutely do not need to do that.”
He shrugged. “I’m going that way.”
“You are not.”
“Eventually.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “That’s not a real argument.”
“It’s enough of one.”
“It really isn’t.”
He tipped his head, patient in a way that somehow made the whole thing worse. “You said it yourself. Maze.”
You looked down the hall, then back at him, suspicious mostly because accepting help from Sidney Crosby in the middle of a rivalry-game morning felt like exactly the sort of thing that would one day sound fake when retold.
And yet.
Your phone was at six percent.
You were absolutely capable of getting lost again.
And he was already turning slightly, as if this had been decided.
“Fine,” you said. “But if I end up on Penguins propaganda by accident, I’m blaming you.”
“I think we can avoid that.”
“That sounds like something propaganda would say.”
He gave you a dry look and started walking, and because apparently this was your life now, you fell into step beside him.
The hallway felt even more surreal in motion. Your sneakers on concrete. His stride easy, unhurried beside you. The two of you passing arena doors and equipment cases and bits of signage while your brain screamed intermittently about the sheer absurdity of the moment.
You kept your face composed anyway.
Professional. More or less.
“So,” he said after a few steps, “what kind of stuff are you getting today?”
You glanced at him. “For socials?”
He nodded.
“Mostly morning skate atmosphere. A couple funny clips if I can get them. Road-routine stuff. Probably some game-day content later. Depends what the guys give me.”
“What they give you?”
“Yeah.” You lifted one shoulder. “Some days they’re chatty. Some days they look at the camera like I’ve ruined their lives.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“You get that too?”
He gave you a look. “Media’s media.”
“Fair.”
You passed a staff entrance, turned left at a junction you definitely would have missed on your own, and continued down a corridor lined with framed photos from various eras of Penguins history. You caught sight of one from early in his career and looked away before it seemed too obvious you’d noticed.
“You’re pretty good at it,” he said after a second.
You looked back at him. “At getting lost?”
“At the content.”
That stopped you for half a step.
The compliment was delivered easily, casually, but not thoughtlessly. There was no joking edge to it this time. Just straightforward observation.
You recovered quickly enough, but still. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. “You get guys to answer stuff without making it look forced.”
“That is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my work.”
“It’s true.”
A weird warmth spread through your chest, deeply inconvenient and entirely out of proportion to the situation. You swallowed it down.
“Well,” you said, aiming for lighter, “I appreciate the cross-divisional validation.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
That pulled another smile from him.
By the time he led you through the double doors and into a more familiar stretch of visiting-side hallway, relief washed through you so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Oh, thank God,” you said. “I know where I am.”
“So you’re safe now.”
“Debatable, but closer.”
He slowed to a stop near the point where your routes would obviously split, one way toward the visitors’ room and another back toward whatever part of the building he’d actually meant to be in before your near-collision rerouted his morning.
You looked at the door, then back at him.
“Well,” you said, tightening your grip on the dying phone, “thanks. For the directions. And the catching.”
“No problem.”
“I’m serious. That could’ve been deeply humiliating.”
“I think you would’ve recovered.”
“That’s generous.”
He seemed like he might say something else, then only nodded once. “Good luck today.”
The words were simple enough. Generic, almost. Something anyone might say.
Still, the way he said them landed a little differently.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “You too. I mean—” You caught yourself and narrowed your eyes. “Not, like, too much luck.”
His expression shifted instantly. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The Flyers fan.”
You lifted your chin. “Obviously.”
He laughed softly. “Right.”
“Right.”
For half a second neither of you moved. Then your phone screen went black. You stared at it in horror. Pressed the side button. Nothing.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
He looked at the dead screen and then at your face, openly amused now. “That seems bad.”
“It is bad.”
“You should probably find that charger.”
You pointed at him with the dead phone. “This is partially your fault.”
“How?”
“You distracted me.”
His brows lifted. “I gave you directions.”
“You also participated in banter.”
“That sounds voluntary on your end.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again because annoyingly, he was right.
“That’s not the point,” you said.
“It kind of is.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m not the one who got lost.”
You laughed despite yourself, full and helpless and a little disbelieving, because really—what else were you supposed to do with this? With him? With the fact that ten minutes ago you’d been cursing a hallway and now you were standing there trying not to smile too obviously at Sidney Crosby while your work phone lay dead in your hand like a tiny casualty of circumstance.
“Okay,” you said, backing a step toward the visitors’ room. “I have to go save my career.”
“That seems wise.”
“And just so we’re clear,” you added, “if the Flyers win tonight, I’m blaming this whole interaction for throwing off your routine.”
His smile sharpened at the edges. “That how that works?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“I believe in accountability.”
He nodded once, like he was accepting the terms of a deal. “Then if we win, I’m blaming the building for confusing you.”
You pointed at him again. “See? You do admit the building’s confusing.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It basically is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You were already grinning when you turned away.
“Bye,” you called over your shoulder.
“See you.”
The words followed you down the short stretch toward the visitors’ room, and the stupidest, warmest little thrill went through you at the sound of them.
Absolutely not, you told yourself.
Nope.
Hard no.
You pushed through the door and immediately got hit by the familiar bustle of your own team’s space again—staff talking, gear shifting, someone asking where an extra roll of tape had gone, another player halfway through changing out of practice gear. The normalcy of it was almost jarring after the surreal quiet of the hallway.
Sam looked up from near the equipment table. “There you are. Did you find it?”
You held up the dead phone. “Technically no.”
He frowned. “What happened?”
“I got lost.”
“For that long?”
“I was very committed to getting lost.”
He stared at you for a second. “Are you okay?”
“Yep.”
—
By the time game time rolled around, the whole arena felt alive in a way that had almost nothing to do with sound alone.
It was in the air first.
In the tightness of it.
The current running under every hallway and stairwell and concrete corridor. The way even regular movement seemed sharper somehow. Faster. More deliberate. Rivalry games always had a different kind of charge to them, but the Battle of Pennsylvania carried its own particular electricity. It was old, deeply felt, and impossible to fake. Orange and black scattered like sparks through pockets of the crowd, drowned out but never erased by the black and gold surrounding them. Every Flyers jersey in the lower bowl looked defiant just by existing. Every Penguins fan seemed half a second away from either starting a chant or a fight.
From your spot near the glass, camera in hand and credential swinging lightly against your jacket, you could feel all of it pressing in from every angle. This was why sports content hit differently on rivalry nights.
Even through a screen, people could sense it. The tension. The noise. The immediacy. The way every check landed harder in the building than it ever could in a replay clip. The way a routine save drew a reaction that felt almost disproportionate, because in games like this nothing was routine, not really. Every shift meant a little more. Every goal meant a lot more.
You were already working before warmups had even properly settled in.
Quick vertical clips of the Flyers coming onto the ice. A pan of the crowd as boos rained down at the first hint of orange and black. A close-up of skates carving through fresh shavings near the boards. The way the lights caught helmets, visors, breath. You kept moving, adjusting angles, crouching lower by the glass to get cleaner shots, then rising again to catch a wider sweep of the rink.
Your replacement social phone—freshly resurrected after the morning disaster—was finally fully charged and clipped to your side with a portable battery attached like a life support system. You were not taking chances today.
A few rows up, the fans were already loud enough to rattle the glass every time a Flyer drifted too close. Someone behind you yelled, “Crosby sucks,” with enough passion that you almost admired the commitment. Another voice shouted back something about the Flyers that you definitely weren’t repeating in a work environment.
You stayed focused on the ice.
That was easier during warmups.
Warmups had structure. Purpose. Players moved through familiar arcs and patterns, taking shots, stretching, joking lightly when they could. It gave you something to work with. Game time itself was harder because you were always balancing. Capture enough to feel present without becoming a distraction. Keep your angles clean. Stay aware of pucks, players, officials, staff, and the hundred small variables that could turn one second of inattention into a disaster.
Still, your mind kept drifting.
Not too far.
Not dangerously.
Just enough that when the Penguins took the ice and the crowd volume swelled again, your eyes found Sidney without meaning to.
It happened instantly and involuntarily, like your brain had marked him as a point of recognition now whether you liked it or not. He glided through warmups with that same contained energy he always seemed to carry, not showy, not overstated, but impossible not to notice once you were looking. He exchanged a few words with a teammate near the blue line, then turned toward center and joined a passing drill, movements crisp and economical in a way that somehow made everything else on the ice look slightly louder by comparison.
You should not have been aware of him this much.
It was deeply inconvenient.
The worse part was that you couldn’t even fully blame yourself, because he had, in fact, walked you back from getting lost that morning, and then somehow managed to be funny and disarming and entirely too easy to talk to in the process. Since then, every time you remembered the conversation, some embarrassing little warmth lit under your ribs all over again.
Unhelpful.
Wildly unhelpful.
You crouched lower at the glass and focused your lens on the Flyers instead. That was your team.
Your job.
Your side of the content feed, literally and metaphorically, everything else was noise and for a while, once the game actually started, it was easy to let the action take over.
The first period was chaos in exactly the way good rivalry hockey should be. Fast, ugly, sharp-edged, loud. Every hit got a rise. Every whistle got opinions. The crowd swelled and dipped like a living thing, and the benches looked keyed up enough that even line changes carried a little extra bite. You bounced between camera angles and social clips, filming where you could from your designated space near the glass, catching quick reaction shots after scrums, the Flyers bench leaning forward after a near chance, the raw rhythm of the game in fragments.
You didn’t have time to think too much.
That was good.
The Flyers struck first midway through the opening period, and the tiny islands of orange in the arena erupted like someone had set off flares. You caught the celebration from the far side as cleanly as you could, then whipped toward the bench to get the players slamming gloves and yelling. Your phone buzzed immediately with internal messages—clip that, send that, story that now, great angle, need replay if you have it. Normal game-day chaos. You moved with it, fingers flying, adrenaline already steady in your bloodstream.
Pittsburgh answered before the end of the first.
Of course they did.
The building detonated around you, black and gold suddenly in motion everywhere at once, and you instinctively kept filming even as the noise punched through your chest. That was your job too. Not cheering. Not reacting. Capturing. Documenting. It didn’t matter that it was the wrong celebration for your feed. You still needed the atmosphere. The scale. The emotional contrast. Rivalry content only worked if it felt real.
By intermission, your notes app looked like a battlefield.
Post later: crowd shots
Use bench reaction after Flyers goal
Need moody b-roll from end boards
Possible caption: hostile environment etc etc
Olivia leaned over your shoulder while you were sending a few quick selects to Mason. “You look like you’re fighting for your life.”
“I am.”
“Great. That means it’s going well.”
You shot her a flat look. “I hate the way you phrase things.”
She smiled. “You love it.”
The second period somehow came out even hotter than the first.
That happened sometimes in rivalry games. Everyone spent the opening frame pretending it was still just hockey, and then by the second the game remembered what it actually was. Checks got heavier. Whistles got meaner. Every net-front battle turned into a negotiation with violence hovering just beneath the surface.
You moved lower along the glass during a stoppage, re-centering yourself for a better angle on the Penguins’ zone if the play came your way. The arena was so loud now that individual sounds were harder to isolate. Everything blended—music, chanting, glass rattling, skates cutting, the raw roar that rose every time the puck got near either crease.
The score was tied 2–2 when it happened.
The Penguins broke through neutral ice fast off a turnover, the kind of sudden transition that made everyone around you rise half out of their seats before the play had even fully formed. You were already tracking the rush with your camera, instinct taking over. Pass up the wing. Quick give-and-go. A lane opening just long enough to matter.
Sidney took the return feed near the circle and snapped the puck past the goalie before anyone in orange could close the gap.
The goal light flashed.
The building exploded.
Your camera kept rolling.
He curved away from the net in celebration as the arena came apart, teammates converging, gloves lifting, the glass around you vibrating beneath the force of thousands of people losing their minds all at once. You got the shot—clean enough, steady enough, electric in that live-wire way only raw game footage ever was. He peeled past your side of the ice during the celebration route, close enough to the boards that for one disorienting second it felt less like watching and more like being caught in the same current.
And then he turned his head slightly.
Toward you.
Just enough.
His mouthguard shifted at the edge of a grin, and over the roar—faint but clear enough that you knew you hadn’t imagined it—he threw out, “You get that for social media?”
You stared. It was absurd. Ridiculous. So specific you nearly laughed on instinct.
But before you could even process the fact that Sidney Crosby had just chirped—or maybe teased, or maybe whatever the hell that had been—your social media job in the middle of a live rivalry game, two Flyers on the ice clearly noticed.
One of them snapped his head in Sidney’s direction immediately. The other skated over with the kind of offended energy that suggested whatever he thought he’d seen or heard, he had interpreted it in the most aggressively loyal way possible.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.
The next shift was ugly.
Not out-of-control ugly, not yet, but the tone had changed. The Flyers were already physical when they got angry; now there was something personal layered into it. A harder finish on checks. More shoving after whistles. One of the defensemen jawing visibly every time he passed the Penguins’ captain near the boards. You didn’t need to hear it to guess the general message.
Your stomach sank.
No.
No, absolutely not.
There was no way they thought—But then during the next stoppage, one of the Flyers skated near enough to the glass to throw you a quick, heated look that all but confirmed it.
Message received.
They thought Sidney had chirped you. Not in the ordinary rivalry sense, either. Not generic nonsense. Specifically you. Their social media admin. One of theirs.
Your grip tightened on the camera. “Guys,” you muttered uselessly to the glass. “No. That is not what happened.”
The glass, shockingly, did not respond.
The period went on, and with every shift your discomfort grew teeth.
Because now you were trapped in the worst possible position—aware of something maybe no one else had caught correctly, unable to do anything about it, and watching the consequences play out in real time on the ice while thousands of people screamed around you. Every heavy hit involving Sidney made your pulse tick up. Every scrum near the boards made your shoulders tense. Once, during a commercial timeout, two Flyers near the bench said something to each other and then glanced your way, and the guilt hit so hard and fast it made your throat feel tight.
This is stupid, you told yourself.
You did not cause this.
These are professional hockey players in a rivalry game. They do not need a personal excuse to go after each other.
And logically, you knew that was true.
Emotionally, though, every time one of your guys took a run at him after that hallway memory of his laugh and his easy, “Good luck today,” your chest squeezed in a way that felt awful.
Late in the second, it got worse.
The puck got rimmed deep into the Penguins’ zone, and Sidney went back to play it near the boards on your side. One of the Flyers forwards—the same one who had looked ready to commit emotional arson on your behalf earlier—came charging in on the forecheck.
You saw it before it happened. That was the horrible part. The angle. The speed. The line of contact. Enough time to know it was going to be hard and absolutely no time to stop it.
The hit slammed Sidney into the boards with a crack that echoed even through the arena noise. The crowd sound warped instantly—part outrage, part excitement, part that sick jolt every building gets when something tips from aggressive to dangerous. Players converged at once. Gloves in faces. Officials rushing in. The Flyers bench up and yelling. The Penguins bench exploding right back.
And Sidney—Sidney stayed down for one beat too long.
Then two.
Your breath caught.
He pushed up eventually, but not cleanly. One hand braced awkwardly against the boards, the other tucked in too close to his body, and even from where you stood you could see it in the line of him immediately—something was wrong. Not dramatic enough to collapse the whole game, but wrong enough that your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
The officials were still sorting bodies when he turned, escorted by staff toward the tunnel.
And as he passed your side of the glass, he looked at you.
Not for long.
Just a second.
But long enough for it to register. Long enough that the guilt already clawing through you sharpened into something meaner.
Then he went down the tunnel.
You forgot to breathe again.
The Flyers bench was still loud behind you, players leaning over the boards in the aftermath, adrenaline high and tempers higher. You shifted automatically toward them to grab some post-sequence atmosphere because that was still your job, but before you even lifted the phone properly, you heard one of them say, “Serves him right for chirping our social media admin.”
Another voice answered, “Yeah, keep her name outta your mouth.”
Your whole body went cold.
For half a second the arena seemed to tilt. They really had thought that.
Not abstractly. Not as a joke.
Actually thought Sidney had been taking a shot at you and now he was hurt. Your skin flushed hot and cold all at once, shame and panic tangling so tightly you almost couldn’t separate them. You lowered the camera immediately, the sounds of the game around you suddenly muffled and wrong.
It wasn’t your fault.
You knew that.
You knew that in the rational, objective, adult way.
But it felt like your fault anyway.
If you hadn’t talked to him that morning. If he hadn’t skated by. If he hadn’t said anything. If the players hadn’t seen. If, if, if—
“Hey,” Olivia said, appearing at your side with a hand lightly against your elbow. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard and nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
She looked unconvinced. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.”
That was a lie so obvious it barely qualified as language.
The rest of the second period passed in a blur you only half inhabited. You still filmed when you had to. Still moved when needed. Still sent off a couple clips because muscle memory and duty overrode whatever was happening in your head. But inside, all you could think about was the tunnel. The line of his shoulders as he’d left. The look he’d given you. The bench comments. The sinking, impossible feeling that somehow a stupid, playful line about social media had turned into a body check hard enough to send him out of the game.
By the time the horn sounded to end the period, your nerves were shredded.
The Flyers headed off in a cluster of agitation and momentum, still talking, still keyed up. The Penguins disappeared more quickly on the other side. Staff moved. Arena music crashed in over the break. Fans surged toward concourses. The usual intermission chaos.
You stood still for maybe three seconds, then made a decision. It was probably a terrible decision. Possibly insane, and definitely not in your job description.
But once it landed in your brain, it became impossible to ignore.
You turned to Olivia. “I need, like, five minutes.”
She stared. “For what?”
“I just need five.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I know.”
She studied your face once, saw enough there to stop pushing, and only said, “Be smart.”
You gave her a look that probably did not inspire confidence and hurried off anyway.
The back hallways were even busier during intermission, but you moved through them on pure nervous momentum. You ducked into a quieter side corridor first and looked around until you spotted a discarded Penguins warmup jacket hanging on a rolling rack near a laundry cart—probably left by some support staff in the rush of the period break. You hesitated for exactly one second.
Then grabbed it. “This is insane,” you whispered to yourself as you shoved your arms into it over your own clothes.
The black and gold swallowed your Flyers gear just enough to pass at a glance, especially with your credential flipped inward against your chest. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t remotely official. But it was better than walking toward the Penguins’ medical area in orange and black like some kind of cartoon villain.
You moved fast before you could talk yourself out of it.
The training and medical area outside the home room was guarded loosely by staff who were too busy and too accustomed to people moving in and out during intermission to scrutinize every face with equal intensity. You kept your head down, your pace purposeful, and clutched the phone and small camera to your chest like you belonged there for work.
One of the staffers near the door glanced at you. “Need something?”
Your mouth went dry.
Think.
“I was asked to check if media’s getting any update,” you said, pitching your voice into that bland, competent tone that made people ask fewer questions. “Just for internal.”
He looked tired enough not to care. “Trainer’s with him. Make it quick.”
Relief hit so hard you nearly swayed.
“Yep. Quick.”
You slipped inside before anyone could reconsider.
The room beyond was quieter than the arena, quieter than intermission, quieter than your heartbeat deserved. Not silent—there were low voices, a cabinet door closing somewhere, the rustle of medical tape—but contained in a way that felt almost intimate after the violence of the game outside.
You spotted him near the far side, seated on the edge of a training table while one of the medical staff finished checking something at his shoulder. No pads now. No gloves. Just black baselayer gear half peeled down and a towel draped nearby. He looked up at the movement of the door opening.
And saw you.
For one impossible second, neither of you said anything.
Then the trainer stepped back. “Try not to move it too much. We’ll re-check between periods if you’re staying out.”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
The trainer turned, noticed you lingering, and frowned faintly. “You needed something?”
Your courage nearly failed on the spot.
But Sidney answered before you could.
“She’s with me.”
You blinked.
The trainer, apparently deciding that was enough explanation for now, gave a distracted nod and moved off toward a supply cabinet.
That left you standing there in a stolen Penguins jacket, looking at the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins like you had not lost your mind but had in fact come here for a totally normal reason.
He glanced once at the jacket, then back at your face.
A smile touched the corner of his mouth despite the situation.
“Well,” he said. “That’s a look.”
Your throat tightened with something painfully close to embarrassment and relief all at once. “I panicked.”
“I can see that.”
“I didn’t want anyone to stop me.”
“So you stole a jacket?”
“I borrowed a jacket.”
“That’s generous.”
You took two steps closer, then stopped, suddenly aware of how absurd and vulnerable and real this all was. Up close, he looked a little paler than before, jaw tighter around the edges. Not wrecked. Not catastrophic. But sore. Pulled somewhere between adrenaline and pain. Your guilt surged all over again.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
His brows knit. “For what?”
“For—” You broke off and gestured helplessly. “For all of this. They thought you were chirping me. I heard them on the bench. They thought you were being a dick to the social media admin and now you’re hurt and I know it’s not exactly rational but it feels like this is somehow my fault and I just—I’m sorry.”
The whole thing came out too fast, tangled and breathless and humiliatingly sincere.
He stared at you for a second.
Then, very gently, “Hey.”
You stopped.
“It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
“It’s not,” he repeated, firmer now.
You looked at him, trying to argue, and found absolutely no room in his expression for the idea.
“They didn’t hit me because of you,” he said. “It’s a rivalry game. Guys get worked up. Stuff happens.”
“They literally said—”
“I know what you’re saying.” His voice softened again. “Still not your fault.”
You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms like you could hold the anxiety in place physically. “I feel insane.”
“You look a little insane.”
That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
He smiled, quieter this time. “There you go.”
You shook your head. “You’re injured and you’re still making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.”
“You are a little.”
“Maybe a little.”
Your eyes dropped involuntarily to the shoulder he’d been favoring. “How bad is it?”
“Not too bad.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s hockey.”
“That is somehow even more suspicious.”
He gave a small shrug with the uninjured side. “Banged up.”
You pressed your lips together. “I’m still sorry.”
He leaned back slightly against the table, studying you with that same steady, unreadable-open look he’d had in the hallway. “You really came back here just to apologize?”
When he said it like that, it sounded far more unhinged than it had in your own head.
You glanced down at the black and gold jacket around your shoulders and winced. “In my defense, I did realize halfway here that this was a terrible idea.”
“And you kept going.”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
Because I felt awful. Because you looked at me when you left. Because this stupid little thing between us stopped feeling little about ten minutes after you caught me in the hallway.
You did not say any of that.
Instead, you said, “Because I wanted to make sure you knew that wasn’t what happened. This morning. At the glass. Any of it.”
Something shifted in his face then—small, but unmistakable. A warmth maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the confirmation of something he’d already suspected.
“I knew,” he said.
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He looked faintly amused by the question. “You don’t exactly seem subtle when you’re panicking.”
You stared at him. “That’s rude.”
“It’s observant.”
“That is the same thing said by a meaner person.”
He laughed softly, then tipped his head toward your borrowed disguise. “Still, I gotta say…”
You narrowed your eyes preemptively. “What?”
“I like you in black and gold.”
Your breath caught so stupidly hard that you were grateful no one else in the room was close enough to hear it.
He had said it lightly.
Maybe even teasingly.
But not empty. Not casual in the way casual comments usually were. There was something in his expression when he said it that made the whole line land low and warm and dangerous.
You recovered just enough to say, “That’s actually a deeply offensive thing to say to someone in Flyers employment.”
His mouth curved. “And yet.”
“And yet nothing.”
“The jacket looks good.”
You folded your arms tighter, painfully aware of the heat in your face. “I am literally stealing from your organization.”
“Borrowing.”
“Don’t use my words against me.”
“I think I will.”
You laughed again, quieter this time, the tension finally starting to leak out of your shoulders in pieces. The room still felt strange and hidden and too close somehow, like time had narrowed just around the two of you while the rest of the game continued somewhere else entirely.
Outside, the period break would be ticking down. You knew that. You should probably go. Should probably hand back the jacket, slip out, get your head back in the game, pretend none of this had happened until you had the privacy of your hotel room to lose your mind properly.
Instead you stayed.
And he let you.
“You really watch the Flyers’ socials?” you asked after a moment.
He looked unbothered by being caught on that again. “Some.”
“Why?”
“I told you. Research.”
“That answer gets less convincing every time.”
He smiled but didn’t argue.
You shifted your weight. “So what, you score and decide to chirp me personally from the ice?”
“I wasn’t chirping you.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was asking a legitimate media question.”
You stared. “A legitimate media question.”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to believe that in the middle of scoring a goal in a rivalry game, you were concerned with my content strategy?”
He looked you dead in the eye. “Maybe.”
You laughed helplessly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Says the one who broke into the medical room in disguise.”
“Okay, first of all, that is a wildly dramatic way to describe what happened.”
“You stole a jacket.”
“Borrowed.”
“And came back here during intermission.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”
“It is weird.”
You exhaled through a smile, then shook your head at yourself. “I cannot believe I’m in here.”
“I can.”
“Why?”
He looked at you for one steady beat too long.
“Because you wanted to see me.”
The words landed softly. Not smug. Not joking. Just clear.
And because there was no easy way around that kind of honesty, all you could do for a second was look back at him and feel your pulse leap right into your throat.
“Maybe,” you said, which was not a denial at all.
His expression warmed into something that made the whole room feel smaller.
“Maybe?” he repeated.
You lifted one shoulder. “You did save me from eating it in the hallway.”
“So this is gratitude.”
“Partially.”
“Only partially?”
“Don’t push it.”
He smiled again, then glanced toward the closed doorway before looking back at you. “You know, most people wait longer than a day before sneaking into the back hallways to flirt.”
You blinked. “I was not sneaking in here to flirt.”
His brows lifted.
You held his gaze for a second and then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“That’s honest.”
“That’s humiliating.”
“Not really.”
“It is from where I’m standing.”
“From where I’m standing,” he said, voice lower now, “I’m glad you came back.”
The warmth that moved through you then was so immediate it was almost dizzying.
You looked down, just for a second, collecting yourself. When you looked back up, he was still watching you with that maddeningly calm focus, like none of this felt strange to him at all. Or maybe it did feel strange and he just wasn’t running from it.
Either way, it made it very hard to think.
“You should probably be focusing on not being injured,” you said weakly.
“I can do both.”
“That sounds arrogant.”
“It’s efficient.”
You laughed under your breath. “That was my line.”
“I know.”
Of course he knew.
You were in trouble.
The realization arrived fully formed and weirdly peaceful. Not dramatic, not catastrophic. Just true. Whatever this was, whatever had sparked in one hallway and somehow carried itself all the way here, it was real enough that neither of you was pretending otherwise now.
A noise outside the room shifted—footsteps, a voice, the beginning of movement that meant intermission was thinning. Reality, returning.
You straightened slightly. “I should go.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved right away.
Then he tipped his head toward the jacket again. “You can keep that, you know.”
You looked down at it. “Absolutely not. I think this is already ethically murky.”
“It’d suit you.”
“There you go again.”
“I’m just saying.”
You slid one arm out of the sleeve. “You are impossible.”
He watched you shrug off the jacket, amusement still sitting easy at the edge of his mouth. When you stepped forward to hand it back, he took it with his good arm, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they needed to.
It was such a small thing.
It still sent a spark straight up your spine.
You cleared your throat. “Well. Glad you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“And for the record”—you tilted your head, fighting a smile—“I still hate your arena.”
He laughed softly. “I figured.”
You started to step back.
Then he said, “Wait.”
You stopped.
His expression changed, just enough to tell you this next part mattered.
“When this trip’s over,” he said, “let me take you out.”
Your heart kicked hard.
The room went very still around the words.
Not as a joke. Not hidden in banter. Not softened into something you could politely dodge if you wanted to. Just there. Honest and direct and impossible to misunderstand.
You stared at him for maybe a second too long.
“A real date?” you asked, because apparently your brain had decided clarification was the best it could do under pressure.
His smile came back, slower this time. “Yeah. A real date.”
“With a Flyers employee.”
“With a Flyers employee.”
“That seems dangerous for your reputation.”
“I think I can handle it.”
You felt your own smile break loose before you could stop it, bright and helpless and probably giving away far too much.
“Okay,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“Okay?” he repeated.
“Yes,” you said, laughing lightly now because the happiness of it was suddenly too big to hold quietly. “Yes. I’ll go out with you.”
Something in his face softened then in a way you knew you would remember later. After the game. After the trip. After all of this. The kind of look that settled into memory before the moment had even ended.
“Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Good.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “Very smooth.”
“I’m injured. Give me some credit.”
“You know what, fair.”
A voice called from outside the room, something about timing, something about updates. The spell of the moment loosened just enough to let the rest of the world back in.
You took one more step backward toward the door.
“I should really go now,” you said.
He nodded once. “I’ll text you.”
You blinked. “You don’t have my number.”
His mouth curved. “I’ll get it.”
“Very confident.”
“Usually works out.”
You laughed under your breath and reached for the door. “Bye, Crosby.”
“Bye.”
You slipped back into the hallway with your pulse still racing and your face warm and your whole body humming with the kind of adrenaline that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey anymore.
The sounds of intermission flooded back in all at once—staff voices, skate blades clicking somewhere nearby, the deeper thud of arena life resetting for the third period. You leaned briefly against the wall just outside the door and covered your face with one hand.
This was insane.
Actually insane.
You had started the day filming rivalry content at the glass and ended the second period accepting a date from Sidney Crosby in the Penguins’ medical area while disguised in stolen team gear.
No one on earth could know.
No one.
You pushed off the wall, fixed your credential, and headed back toward your side before anyone started asking where you’d gone. By the time you reappeared near the Flyers media lane, Olivia took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes.
“What happened?”
You forced your expression into something that you hoped read as normal and not like your entire internal life had just been rearranged. “Nothing.”
“That is the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”
“Please,” you said, lifting your camera back into position as the teams prepared to return, “out of respect for our friendship, don’t ask me anything right now.”
Her stare sharpened with immediate interest. “Oh my God.”
You looked determinedly toward the ice. “Olivia.”
She made a tiny, delighted noise of horror. “Oh my God.”
The third period was about to begin, the arena roaring back to life, the rivalry still burning hot all around you.
And somehow, against all reason and all timing and all professional logic, all you could think as you lifted your camera toward the ice again was this:
Later.
After the game.
There was a real date waiting for you on the other side of all this.
And for the first time all night, the electric feeling in the building no longer belonged only to the rivalry.
TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Thoughts, Smut, Thigh Riding, Teasing, Slightest Choking (just for a moment), Dom Sid (i think 🤔), Dual POV.
Hi, lovelies. Like my last Sid blurb, I can't get him off my head. Specifically, his thighs. @mrshelenhoran can attest to this. Anyway, here is a TikTok of his ass which, of course, shows his thiCCC thighs too. No proofread again. 🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️
Thoughts List | Taglist
Sidney was supposed to clean up upon arriving home, because postgame showers in the arena didn't feel good enough especially when he could've used your soap and shampoo instead. However, you greeted him at the door, sheepishly grinning at him with your hands behind your back, already wearing your pink nightgown adorn with lace trimmings, congratulating him about his win, telling him about the show you really wanted to watch with him.
"It'll be fun, Sidney," you said with a giggle. You were up to something. Clearly. Deviousness shone in your beautiful eyes that contrasted the look of innocence you had going. "I like your suit today."
You picked his suit. You laid it out before you left for work and for him to come home to after practice. You perfectly matched the color of his tie to your fit that you sent to him through text. You blatantly didn't mention it but it had always been your thing. Matching any piece of his walk-in attire with your top. it could be his tie, his shirt, his suit, or even his socks. It was your reminder that you were always with him even when you were at work and that you would definitely be watching live as soon as you got home.
As Sidney pulled the door closed behind him, a smile was already on his face, kicking off his dress shoes and picking them up to put in the shoe cabinet. He loosened his tie with ease then grabbing your hand. His other hand reached to pull you by your waist, giving you a hug that he had been craving since morning.
"I like it too." he muttered, leaning down to give you a light kiss. "Thank you for picking it."
Your eyes were twinkling, a blush lightly blooming on your cheeks. Your hands came around him, reciprocating his hug, kissing him again. "No problem, sir," you paused, biting your lower lip, a spark of uncertainty showing from your gaze, "Keep it on for a little more?"
Ah. That explained your deviousness. You had a request when the show you wanted to see was that hockey show that you'd watched twice already, when you smelled of your shampoo and conditioner, when you were wearing your comfortable clothes and visibly ready for bed. You even called him 'sir' to help with your cause, your hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket, your lips turning into a slight pout. You were putting out everything in your arsenal to get him to agree. You were such a sweet little thing.
Didn't you know he would do anything for you? You could ask him to buy you a sundae in the middle of the night and he would do it. Wearing his suit was an easy ask. Settling with the lackluster scent from the bodywash he had in the locker room was a harder ask, but he could deal with it because you would be sitting next to him where he could breathe you in.
"Okay, princess," he hummed, shifting his cheek closer to you. "Give me another kiss first."
You cheered, grabbing his cheeks, pressing plenty of kisses on it, jokingly complaining about the feel of his scruff. You were so sweet as you pulled him through your hallways, your feet basically sliding on the smooth wooden floors because of your fluffy slippers, your hair flowing behind you.
It wasn't long until you were sitting sideways on his lap, your arms around his nape, your fingers softly scratching his scalp, while your show—one of your latest obsession that was about two hockey players falling deeper and deeper in love with each other—blasted on the screen. You really loved this show. Your rewatches and rereads led to your occasional rambles no matter what he was doing.
He could be cooking your dinner and you would be hopping to sit over the counter, telling him about the details you've noticed. He could be packing your clothes for your business trips and you would be lying on the bed, staring up at him, holding your book, directly quoting from it. He could be watching different hockey plays and you would be asking what type of plays that he thought those characters did. Sidney would oblige you, not only listening to you but also giving out his comments which had you grinning. It was amusing to see how much you obsessed over them and enchanting to see you perk up with anything about them.
Beyond that, he simply loved you talking to him. Your voice was soft. Sometimes higher with your excitement. Sometimes a little lower when you were teasing him. Sometimes shaky when you got spooked or gets nervous. Sometimes incredibly breathy when he was cock deep inside of you. Sometimes incoherent as you begged and whined. Sometimes breaking as you reached your high and past it.
He fucking loved that. Maybe a bit too much that he felt his cock stir.
He subtly shifted, gritting his teeth when your leg almost brush against his growing tent, taking a sharp inhale when he realized that your lips that he wanted to kiss right fucking now were shining with your nightly lip mask.
"Sid..."
He lifted his gaze from your lips. He marked your slight frown and felt your hand turning into a fist through his hair, lightly tugging. Oh, now you've done it. Heat rose from deep within his bones, streaking straight towards his already twitching cock. A shiver jolted through his spin when you gripped his loose tie, wrapping it around your delicate hand, tugging the opposite way. Fuck.
"You're not watching," you huffed. "Sidney," you drew out his name in a long whine, letting out another huff like a brat, "Watch with me."
Sidney didn't mind if you get demanding. After all, he loved to spoil you. He tried to give you everything you wanted and needed. Everything you deserved. However, whenever you huffed, it did things to him. So, Sidney tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you against him, pushing you down on his dilemma. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his groan.
You let out a tiny squeak, your cheeks reddening, your hold on his tie loosening. Your innocent and surprised look exposed that this wasn't part of your plans.
Well, if it was not, then...
"Keep watching, princess."
Before you could speak or huff at him again, he brushed off your hands, spinning you to face forward. He pressed a kiss on your shoulder as he spread his thighs apart, as he lifted you by your hips, his fingers grasping at the silk of your nightgown to keep them from getting in the way, putting you on one of his thighs. He couldn't stop his chuckle when your breath quickened.
"Sid..." You peeked at him, your pupils swallowing your irises.
"Eyes on your show, princess," he patiently reminded, knowing a heated scene would be coming, softly moving you over his thigh. "I'm gonna watch with you."
He would flex his thighs and grind you down the length of it and up. He would watch you crumble, trying to be so good for him by keeping your eyes on the screen, by letting your moans fill the air, by your pussy getting wetter and wetter until you were soaking through your panties and through his fucking slacks.
"Oh, princess, you are making a mess," he muttered against your ear, nipping at it, licking it, kissing it. He grinned when you tried to crane your head away but he chased after you, not letting up on his attention on your sensitive ear. "Such a pretty mess for me."
˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚
You couldn't do this.
You couldn't watch your show when you were drowning in the pleasure of riding his thighs, when he was whispering a mix of praises and teases, when his chuckled tickled and burned your skin, when his hand controlled every roll of your hips, every grind onto his thigh, every streak of pleasure spearing through your body, your mind, and your soul.
You couldn't focus on anything beyond Sidney's harsh and controlled grip on your hip that was so different from how delicate he teased your nipples, brushing and tugging them through your nightgown before he just tugged your neckline down to touch you as much as he wanted, beyond how you were basically leaking for him because of how good this felt yet your pussy only ached more and more.
"Sid," you called, trying to fight his control. "Sid, please."
You expected him to relent, but he clicked his tongue instead. "You wanted to watch with me, didn't you?"
The hair on your body stood as sweat trickled down your temple, your neck, your collarbone, your tits. Fuck. Holy fuck, you were going crazy.
His tone. The low rumble of his voice. The amusement in his words. They were all getting to your head, blurring your vision, erasing all the protests that you wanted to say. You couldn't help getting so lost in pleasure because fucking hell, Sidney was being so hot and in control. He was always in control.
You didn't understand how this all started. You just wanted to watch Heated Rivalry with him while he was still all dressed up in his suit, while he was still smelling like whatever soap he always used in his postgame shower, while he was still getting lost in his head as he processed his win. That was all you wanted until it was time for his shower where you would watch him and listen to his hockey rambles. That was all you wanted, because you knew he was tired, but obviously he had enough energy left.
You could feel his hard cock as you went up his thigh, leaving a trail of your arousal on his pants. Oh, his pants. You were ruining it again. How many times have you ruined pair after pair with your arousal? How many—
You screamed out a moan from his thigh flexing underneath you. It felt so good. It felt so fucking good that you were burning, your skin igniting into flames, your pussy clenching on nothing—On fucking nothing. This is cruel.
Simply riding his thigh in a painful rhythm was torture. If this was all you would be given tonight, you wanted to roll your hips faster and harder. You wanted to fuck yourself until you were coming. However, more than that, you wanted to be filled with his hard cock. You wanted his pre-cum creaming with your arousal. You wanted him pounding into you like he hadn't fuck you last night. You wanted him to come so deep in your pussy that you would be leaking for days.
You wanted so much more, but he wasn't giving it to you.
Your eyes stung with tears. Your lips spilled his name like a prayer that he refused to answer.
He was so cruel.
So cruel yet it made you want him more.
˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚
Sidney knew that you were breaking, getting closer to your limit, so he finally eased. He loosened his grip, letting you ride his thigh as much as you wanted, letting you crane your head back, meeting your lips in a deep and consuming kiss.
"My princess wanted to come so badly, doesn't she?" he asked, in between kisses. He reached between your thighs to tug your panties to the side so you could fuck yourself directly on his clothed thigh. He pushed down your dress to expose more of your tits and your abdomen. He greedily run his hands on your sweaty skin, feeling your shakes and your desperation. "Are you close?"
You bit your lip, hanging your head down, your hands slamming on his thigh, your hips rolling and grinding harder.
"Yes, but..." You let out a pathetic sob and shook your head. "I can't—FUCK! Oh, please harder. Harder. Pleasepleaseplease."
You begged and whined as he tweaked your nipples. As he kissed the column of your neck and sucked on your skin. As he let out his own noises from the pain of not having your pussy squeeze around his cock. As one of his hands travelled to your neck, his thumb and fingers marking your pulse, giving you a firm squeeze.
"You like that, princess?" He taunted. "You're gonna come for me, aren't you?"
"Yes," you breathed, your eyes rolling up, your thighs squeezing his. Your body tensed and shook as you reached the peak you were searching for.
"You are so good for coming on my thigh, my Love," he praised, his hand falling back on your hip, helping you ride your orgasm, his other hand brushing the underside of your tits."My lovely princess."
He would continue to praise you and help you come down from your peak until you sagged against his chest, your chest rising and falling with your pants, your legs still twitching, your eyes gazing up at him like he had given you the world. He would give you the world. He would do anything for you.
It didn't matter if his cock was twitching and dripping in his briefs, hurting so fucking bad. He didn't fucking care about it.
His sole focus was on you.
Just you.
This is supposed to be a short blurb. 🧍🏻♀️ Woops. I have a few more stuff to add but...I must be stopped. 🙂↕️🙂↕️ Good night! 🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙
Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.
Part 41 | Series Masterlist | Part 43
Chapter Word Count: Over 3.8k
Chapter Summary: You and Bucky take a trip down memory lane.
Chapter Warnings: Kissing, mention of death, mention of violence, referenced oral sex and dirty talk, flashbacks, stalking, inner turmoil, possessive behavior, world building, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.
A/N: More Hold You Tight and thank you for sticking with me! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @firefly-in-darkness . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky kept your hand in his as he drove, thumb moving in small circles. The emotional aftermath from the cemetery settled over you, making your body sink more into the seat. That combined with how passionate he was the night before and sparring with Natasha, you were more exhausted than you realized. But you didn’t complain. In the grand scheme of things, it was on the lighter side of what you experienced.
You glanced out the window when Bucky made a turn. He wasn’t headed in the direction of the penthouse at all. “I thought you said we were going home,” you said.
“Thought we’d take a stroll down memory lane first,” he said.
Your throat tightened after a few more turns, taking in the familiar street as he slowed to a stop. Your old apartment building looked brighter than you remembered. The day you moved in, you were so optimistic and thrilled to finally have your own place. Laughter echoed in your mind, memories from when your friends visited. A small apartment with bright touches that you did your best to make it a home.
It was yours.
Looking at the building now, you pictured Bucky on your couch that fateful night.
“Keep moving your hips if you want, but don't scream again… There’s time for that later.”
“I didn't mean to startle you, but I couldn't wait any longer to see you.”
“It’s time for you to get the love life and man you deserve.”
“The club may have been the first place I saw you, but this is where you saw me the first time,” he said, squeezing your hand gently.
He had been a king selecting a peasant to make his queen. You foolishly thought you were stubborn enough to win the fight because he didn’t pursue you the right way. At the end of the day, you let him place the metaphorical crown on your head.
“I still haven’t been back since…”
Clark.
“Do you even want to be with Bucky or are you just afraid of him? Or is it because he’s rich? You think he’ll spoil you if you spread your legs for him?”
“He doesn't deserve you. He isn't good for you, but I am. Just let me help you.”
“Look what you made me do.”
Your heart seized, but you kept your breathing even. Clark couldn’t hurt you again. He wouldn’t hurt Lois again either. She was free.
But your freedom was limited.
Bucky urged you to look at him. “Do you remember when I dropped you off after you met my friends and I helped remove your shoes?”
Unexpected heat flooded you. “I remember,” you whispered.
It was impossible to forget how your heart pounded when he sank to his knees and touched you like he wasn’t worthy. How he kissed your mound through your clothes. He hadn’t even kissed your mouth at that point.
“It scares you how much your body wants mine, doesn’t it?”
“Look at me like you love me. Please.”
“You know, I’ll sleep a lot easier once you’re in my bed.”
“I hated leaving you that night,” he admitted, leaning across the seat to kiss your lips. “Maybe if I had brought you home sooner…”
Darkness and guilt clouded his eyes. “Bucky?”
“No,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I’m not bringing him up today.”
You knew he meant Clark, and you didn’t want to think about him either. “You did save me,” you reminded him. “The night with the shoes, I remember you took a picture of me before you left,” you said, steering the conversation away from a topic neither of you wanted to dwell on.
A smile touched his lips. “I feel your love when I look at it,” he whispered, his eyes lighting up when he took out his phone. “Remember the photos Addison took of us before the winery?”
Your breath caught when he swiped through them. The pictures shocked you before because they didn’t catch any of your fear or uncertainty and seeing them shocked you all over again. The two of you looked like a loving, happy couple. And your friends were absolutely thrilled that you had someone like him by your side.
“I’ll treat her like a queen. My girl deserves nothing less than that.”
“I still need to frame these,” he sighed, closing out the album. “I need to fill our home with photos of us.”
He’d probably have an entire room with photos of just you if he could.
“Is the photo of us kissing your screensaver?” you asked.
It shouldn’t have surprised you.
“Of course, it is.” He snuck a quick glance at the building. “You still haven’t closed that chapter in our story.”
You sighed. You did need to go through your boxes still and you owed it to yourself to go into the apartment for closure. Today wouldn’t be that day.
“I will,” you promised.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you more good memories there in the end,” he said sincerely.
You studied him. He always believed your apartment was temporary, a stepping stone to end up with him. It didn’t mean he wanted the place you once called your home tainted. You didn’t deserve that, especially since you didn’t do anything wrong.
“I had more good times there than bad,” you said honestly. It was wonderful while it lasted. “And we can make new memories.”
He nodded and pulled away from the building. You didn’t look back. Not because it hurt to do so, but because you wanted to look forward. It was tiring to drag your feet through the mud stubbornly just to prove you had control of your life. How were you living if you were constantly battling?
It didn’t feel like a battle so much today. His words at the headstone stayed with you. He was going to try for you. He was going to love you the way you wanted and needed him to.
You had to believe that.
“Where are we going?” you asked when you noticed that he once again wasn’t headed toward the penthouse.
“The trip isn’t over,” he said, coming to a stop again and nodding across the street.
You gasped when you looked out the window and spotted Marc in front of his bookstore, carefully changing the small sign outside the door. He looked well. You smiled before you could stop yourself. It was such a relief to see him.
“You met Bucky Barnes?”
“You’re too sweet to get mixed up in any of that.”
“Surprised to see him?” he asked, his voice a little too calm.
At least he was keeping his jealousy in check.
“A bit,” you admitted, squeezing his hand to ground him.
“I did assure you that he was perfectly fine,” he reminded you.
“You did,” you agreed. But you also saw what he did to John, so you couldn’t help but wonder if anything had happened to Marc. The latter didn’t insult you, but still. “I just haven’t seen him since you found me at his shop.”
Your eyes misted over before you blinked. Turn the Page used to be one of your comfort spots and you weren’t sure if it ever would be again. Would Marc even want you to set foot in his place? Would you find little spots like that again where you could lose yourself for hours and feel a sense of peace?
“You practically dared me to find you that day.” He smirked when you huffed but didn’t disagree. “And I did.”
“I think you were testing me because you wanted me to find you. You want me more than you want to admit.”
“I care more than anyone else.”
“I’m the most dangerous man in the city, but you're safe with me.”
“Maybe we can get more books for your library soon,” he mused when you stayed quiet.
Your library. The one place Bucky promised to never venture into without your permission. That was your true sanctuary if you needed to ever separate yourself from him.
“Maybe,” you whispered, watching Marc go back inside and silently wishing him well.
Bucky didn’t pull away from the curb immediately, both of you exhaling slowly. First your apartment building, and now this. You weren’t sure if the knot in your chest was grief or nostalgia. What you did know was that you were letting go of something before his lips brushed your knuckles.
“Ready?” he murmured.
You nodded before the car moved again.
The city passed by in a blur. Bucky remained quiet as he drove, not rushing to get to his next destination. You imagined him driving out of the city, the two of you on an open road. No buildings, no shadows looming over you.
It was funny because days ago you wouldn’t have imagined him on that path with you.
Your brows furrowed when he stopped by the flower shop. It was a welcoming place thanks to Mrs. Crandle and the atmosphere she created. It was a place where you spent hours coaxing beauty out of stems and built arrangements that made strangers smile. You made a difference to people in small ways.
And Mrs. Crandle wanted you to be happy.
“Don’t be too apprehensive, dear. It’s okay to let someone in.”
Your mind for some reason drifted to your parents and how they never supported your career choice. Your heart ached because they never believed in you. Bucky did wholeheartedly.
“You know, I think I know now why you wanted to become a florist. You’re surrounded by warmth and brightness and you get to watch things bloom and grow and thrive because you never had that.”
“You create beautiful things here,” he said, turning your hand over to kiss your palm. “My hands destroy while yours build something warm. Comforting.”
“I try to,” you said softly.
Now you had the chance to make small and big differences. You could continue to thrive as a florist while giving back to others. It brought you a sense of peace that you had the opportunity to spread light from the darkness of your situation.
“Steve’s girl loved the tulips,” he said happily.
You did your best not to shiver when you recalled Steve stepping into the shop the day of your first “date” with Bucky. He was just as intimidating as his best friend and sounded just as in love when he mentioned getting the tulips. You thought something was off and you blamed it on feeling paranoid about the break in. You had good reason to feel suspicious.
“Your partner must feel very lucky to have you.”
“Good luck on your date.”
“And you had him buy stargazer lilies,” you mumbled.
It was your first of many ways to show that he would always have eyes on you. To be his girl meant someone would always be watching. He’d always find a way to get to you.
He kissed your palm again. “It would’ve been too much if I stopped in the shop that day.”
You nodded. Everything about the man had been too much, he was all-consuming. He also wanted to love and give with his entire being.
“You say your hands destroy, and they have, but you’ve built me warm and beautiful things, too. The library. The garden,” you pointed out with a faint smile. “I’d like to think your mom would be proud of those thoughtful things.”
His mouth parted and his eyes sparkled, like he hadn’t expected the compliment. You thought he was going to kiss you when he reached across the seat, but he wrapped you up in a tight embrace instead. You closed your eyes when he buried his face in your neck. He held you tight, not loosening his grip for a second.
“You smiled even when you didn’t think anyone was in your corner,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes remained shut. Your friends were always in your corner, even when they were busy with lives of their own. Bucky ensured his men would be on your side as well, though Curtis and Ray seemed to care without any of his influence dictating them. Steve did, too.
“I’m proud of you, Kotyonok. For everything you’ve survived, everything you’ve done, and everything you do.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I’ll keep being proud of you no matter what.”
You nodded, your throat too tight to form a reply.
He pressed his lips to your forehead before settling back in his seat. You stared at the shop until it was out of sight. You’d be back there in your element soon enough. It would be good for you.
“Why the stroll down memory lane?” you finally asked after a few minutes.
He didn’t answer right away. Was this a way of processing grief or distracting himself from it? Was he merely appreciating the alone time with you in the car without Curtis or Ray?
“Because it’s important to remember where we started,” he said, releasing your hand so he could place his on your thigh. “Helps us appreciate where we are now.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but he chuckled as he passed an alley.
“Steve used to get in fights there before he grew into his body. I lost count how many times I had to save his scrawny ass.”
You smiled softly. “It’s nice that he had you to back him up.”
“I swear, he started half of those fights on purpose just to see if I’d step in,” he muttered affectionately.
You tried not to laugh. It was hard to believe that Steve was once a small guy. As dangerous as they were, there was also something somewhat pure in their friendship.
“I can’t say my friends have ever been in a fight.” You tilted your head. “Unless you count the time Dana threw a drink in a girl’s face after she called her a skank.”
Bucky’s laughter grew. “She didn’t.”
“Yes, she did. The girl’s boyfriend hit on her and instead of getting mad at him, she blamed Dana.” You giggled and shook your head. “The best part was Dana didn’t even use her own drink. She took hers and threw it in her face because she didn’t want to waste the one she paid for.”
The normalcy of the conversation was endearing to you. It was the kind of thing you pictured when you thought of what love looked like. It was little moments just like this, not just the huge declarations of love.
His nose scrunched up. “Birds of a feather,” he said, glancing at you. “Our first date, you said the only reason you didn’t toss the wine on me was because it was delicious and it would have been a waste.”
You snorted. You did say that. “And you said your mom would’ve loved me.”
You felt bad mentioning that when it went silent again, but the air in the car didn’t feel heavy. If anything, it felt lighter, like it was okay to talk about her today. He didn’t have to live in the pain and neither did you.
“She did,” he whispered, his gaze flickering to the bracelet. “She does.”
You looked out the window when he stopped again, your eyes wide. You were back at the Red Room, a place elegant and full of secrets, just like the circle Bucky spun with precision. But at the end of the day, it was Natasha’s domain.
Who would’ve thought she would become an ally of sorts?
“You went here the first time you demanded time away from me,” he said, pride in his voice. “And I could hardly stay away.”
“I promised her the day to herself, but that day is up and I have to see that she’s okay. I just need to see her with my own eyes.”
“I missed you.”
“Thank you for letting me hold you.”
You swallowed hard. It was the first night you and Bucky slept in a bed together. It was the beginning of something you hadn’t wanted to accept.
“It was also here that you told me the truth,” you said, placing your hand over his.
By saving Winifred on the street years ago, you gave her more time. You didn’t do it to be a hero. You didn’t know it would put you on Bucky’s radar later.
“You know, one of the last things she said to me was that she hoped I found my other half one day. To love her completely, hold her tight, and never let her go. I only wish she was alive so she could see us together.”
“I told you that traditional dating never worked for me. Seeing you in my club, it all made sense as to why.”
“Don’t you see now why I’m so desperate to keep you close? To keep you safe? Had I looked into it then, we could’ve met and been together this whole time.”
“I owed you that and more,” he said, sighing as he leaned back in his seat. “And now we’re giving Addison and Brady a day here that they’ll never forget.”
It was truly a way to entwine your worlds.
“One more stop,” he whispered.
You snuck glances at him, wondering where the last stop was.
It wasn’t long until you saw the sign for the 107th.
He stopped across the street, something serene crossing his features.
“This was my mom’s place and keeping it alive is almost like keeping a part of her alive,” he stated, ducking his head for a moment. “Even if she wouldn’t approve of some of my… activities.”
You trembled. Violence lived between the spaces of the neon lights. It was a legacy framed as luxury with bloodstains that never truly washed away. John, Clark, and even Zemo spilled blood there.
How many others?
“This is where I saw you the first time,” he said, rubbing your thigh like he had to keep touching you. “This is where my past and future touched.”
Your heart almost stopped when you looked at him.
He looked back at you like you were his entire world.
He fell for you when he spotted you in the VIP section with your friends, lamenting about wanting love. His men cared for you when he took you around the club and his office. Natasha and Bucky comforted you after Clark.
Jesus, the first time Bucky went down on you was at his desk.
“You deserve to shine, and I want to destroy everything that dims your light.”
“Is my love a cage? Or is it the thing that can set you free?”
“Not God, Kotyonok. Just me.”
You had to look away when the heat of that moment flooded you. You gave him a piece of yourself that night while still feeling powerful. You continued to give him parts, even when you weren’t trying. The puzzle was almost complete. There was only one thing left to give him.
Your heart.
“You were my new beginning,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “You became my everything.”
You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The silence spoke volumes.
His lips brushed yours tenderly, both of you sighing. “Let’s go home.”
You both settled back in your seats. “Are Ray and Curtis following us?”
“Yes.” He smirked a little. “I’m sure the detours are driving Ray crazy since we’re stopping and not getting out.”
“Those men deserve a raise,” you muttered.
“They do,” he agreed. “They really do.”
The penthouse was quiet once you got there, the city still humming softly beyond the glass. Bucky didn’t turn on any lights after he set his keys down. He grabbed a thick blanket from the living room and led you straight to the balcony. You didn’t get a chance to protest when he helped you sit and wrapped the blanket around you both.
The air felt cool, but his body warmed yours under the fabric.
He urged you to lean again and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“This is where we had our first date,” he whispered.
“In my line of work, everyone wants something from me. Money, power, favors. It’s hard to trust people. But not you.”
“I like who you are, doll. You’re loyal and caring and real. The kind of person I want and need.”
“You’re good for me and you may not believe I’m good for you, but I am. We’re right for each other. And aren’t you tired of being lonely? I know I am.”
“I can’t wait to take you out again,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Today was nostalgic… healing.”
You let the words settle between you briefly.
“There’s nowhere else you want to go to honor your mom?” you asked.
Almost every place he stopped had to do with the two of you.
“I thought about stopping at the hospital where we both saw her,” he replied, swallowing hard. “But I think she’d be happy that I’m not letting myself sit in sadness today.”
Your heart clenched. It didn’t matter how long she was gone. The pain would never fully fade. He was allowed to feel sadness.
“And I think she’d be happy that I’m spending the day with you,” he added quietly. “Not grieving her, but… living the life she hoped I’d have.”
His arm tightened around you under the blanket.
“Let’s sit here a little longer,” he suggested, turning just enough to look at you, his eyes soft. “Then we can have pizza and watch a movie?”
His thumb brushed along your jaw. You weren’t looking into the eyes of a club owner or mobster at that moment. There was something too vulnerable to be dangerous.
It was love.
“Okay,” you whispered.
His mouth found yours. It was a gentle kiss at first before he angled your head back and deepened it. Your fingers curled in his shirt when he groaned low in his throat. His heart beat wildly in his chest, you could feel it, but he broke the kiss before the heat consumed you.
He ran a hand through his hair and took a steadying breath. “Tomorrow, we truly move forward.”
“Move forward?” you repeated, your heart still pounding.
“Yes. No more going in circles. We don’t forget the past, but we don’t let us rule the future.” He looked out at the skyline and you could see the hopeful smile on his face. “I’m going to put a ring on your finger very soon, Kotyonok.”
“That sounds like a promise,” you breathed.
His smile widened. “It is.”
You followed his gaze as his thumb found your ring finger, brushing the bare skin. The city was his kingdom and he intended to share it with you. There was no escaping that.
And he meant what he said.
He was going to put a ring on your finger very soon.
How about that trip down memory lane? And an engagement? How? When?!
Summary: you don’t realize how much you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s life until you’re forced to look at the pieces. It starts with an Olympic gold medal and a boyfriend who laughs when your entire sport is treated like a political punchline. But it shifts with Sidney Crosby in the Milan cold, pointing out the devastating difference between a boy you have to make excuses for and a man who actually respects you. Sometimes, moving on isn’t just a breakup … it’s an absolute upgrade
The fact that upsets me the most is that i saw all the signs, the living with the Tkafucks, all the pics with the Tkafucks, the pics with Snoop Dogg, and I still decided to give them the benefit of the doubt… like i’m more disappointed in myself than them. Should’ve trusted my gut but i’m an idiot
