Pairing:Â Din Djarin x F!Reader
Summary: In the dark of the night, Din always calls you by another womanâs name. And itâs starting to wear on you.
Wordcount:Â 1.9k
Warnings: References to sex.
A/N:Â First fic for our boy! Crossposted on AO3.
By the time you join the Mandalorian he has already been through so much.Â
The death of his parents, the loss of his people, the absence of his son.
It only makes sense that there was someone before you. Someone that knew him better than you, probably. Someone heâs shared his face with in the daylight, where you imagine the tone of his skin, the brown of his eyes, shines richer than it does in the dim of the hull.
warnings Û¶à§ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis Û¶à§ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony starkâs guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evieâs input Û¶à§ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony starkâs guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. âthis is a hate crime,â you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. âagainst me, specifically.â
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. âif youâre dead in there, say something,â she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. âiâm suing you.â
âfor making you look hot?â
âfor elder abuse.â
âyouâre younger than me.â
âfor emotional elder abuse.â
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. âyeah. youâre wearing it.â
âyou didnât even pretend to think.â
âi did think. silently. very sexy of me.â
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. âitâs too much,â you say, quieter.
âitâs a pool party.â
âexactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.â
âtragic.â nat takes another sip. âpeople might also have necks. horrifying world.â
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone youâve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and youâll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. youâve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for natâs sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
âheâs already here,â nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. âwho?â
âthe pool boy.â
âtony has a pool boy?â
âno, but if he did, iâd respect his commitment to the theme.â nat watches you through the mirror. âbarnes. heâs outside with steve and sam.â
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. âthrilling.â
âhe asked where you were.â
âto insult me?â
âprobably to write a poem.â
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. âiâm putting clothes on,â you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. âyou can wear whatever you want. but if youâre changing because barnes might see you, iâm going to be annoying.â
âyouâre already annoying.â
âi have levels.â her hand squeezes your shoulder once. âheâs one guy.â
âheâs a large guy.â
âstill one.â
âthatâs debatable. he has the surface area of three men.â
she smiles into her glass. âcome outside.â
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably wonât even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. âfine,â you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. âbut if i cry, iâm pushing you into the pool.â
nat opens the door, smug and fond. âdeal. i swim beautifully.â you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tonyâs summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailorâs bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. âhey, finally! we were about to send a search party.â
âi was in the bathroom for seven minutes,â you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
âseven minutes in woman time,â tony says, lifting his drink. âso either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.â
ârich men shouldnât speak,â you say, and tony points at you like youâve wounded him.
âsee, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.â
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. samâs laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tonyâs glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.âdrink?â she asks.
âyes.â
âalcoholic?â
âaggressively.â
tony hears that and brightens. âfinally, someone with taste.â
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. âfor the lady with the aggressive liver.â
âthank you. sorry about your personality.â
âaccepted. i bought another one.â
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. âDamn. Look at you.â
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. âis that surprise?â
âthatâs respect,â sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. âlittle fancy thing going on. i see you.â
âitâs swimsuit technology.â
âno, thatâs a whole look. hey, buck.â sam turns his head before you can stop him. âyou seeing this?â
murder becomes briefly understandable.
buckyâs shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. âyeah,â he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. âi see it.â
that is worse than silence. you swallow. âfantastic. all votes counted.â
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. âyou okay over there, terminator?â
buckyâs mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. âfine.â
âsounds painful.â
âsam.â
âwhat? iâm checking on my friend.â
âcheck quieter.â
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. âyou getting in?â sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. âor did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?â
âboth can be true.â
âcome on. clintâs cheating and i need a witness.â
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Buckyâs head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. âiâm a terrible witness,â you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. âi lie under pressure.â
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. âperfect. weâll frame clint together.â
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. âvery athletic,â clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. âiâm preserving my mystery.â
âyour mystery is that you suck at catch.â
âmy mystery is that i havenât drowned you.â
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
Thereâs a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. âyou alive?â sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. âunfortunately.â
âyou looked like you were plotting.â
âI plot as cardio.â
âthat explains the stamina.â
Buckyâs jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. âteach me to throw better,â you say.
He narrows his eyes. âthis a trick?â
âiâm asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.â
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. âokay, elbow up. no, less like youâre threatening the ballâs family.â
âI am threatening its family.â
âgentle. release here.â His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. âattempted murder.â
âself-defense,â you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. âyou had criminal energy.â
âYou hit me in my innocent head.â
âno jury would convict her,â sam says, wiping his eyes. âthat was art.â
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. âi need another drink,â you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clintâs tragic head injury. Natâs sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
âcareful,â he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Buckyâs fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. ârelax, barnes.â You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. âyou donât have to touch me longer than necessary.â
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. âWhat?â he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. âNothing.â
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. âThat didnât sound like nothing.â
âYouâre very observant.â
âDonât do that.â
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. âDo what?â
âAct like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.â
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. âyou looked away,â you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Buckyâs face tightens. âWhen?â
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. âForget it.â
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. âWhen?â he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead youâre wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. âWhen I came out,â you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. âWhen sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, youâve been consistent.â
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say youâre imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Buckyâs name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. âDrink,â you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. âHydration adjacent.â
âyour discretion is unsettling.â
âiâm multifaceted.â
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it âlight snacks,â which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?â nat asks.
âNo.â
She hums, sipping from her straw. âDo you want to lie about it?â
âDesperately.â
âGo ahead.â
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. âIâm having a nice time.â
âTerrible lie. Try again.â
âI enjoy sunlight.â
âWorse.â
âBucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.â
Natashaâs mouth curves. âAlmost funny enough to pass.â
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tonyâs towels have better career prospects than you. âHe looked at me like he wished Iâd worn a tarp.â
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. âThatâs what you saw?â
You glance at her, defensive already. âI have eyes.â
âUnfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. âHeâs been weird all day,â nat says.
âHeâs always weird.â
âWith you, yes.â
âThatâs very comforting.â
She nudges your knee with hers. âYou two are exhausting.â
âThere is no two. Thereâs me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.â
âBroad?â
âDonât make me defend my vocabulary. Iâm injured.â
âYou slipped.â
âEmotionally.â
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. âSlow down.â
You glare. âThis is theft.â
âThis is friendship.â
âFriendship would let me make poor choices.â
âI let you buy the swimsuit.â
âThat was attempted murder.â
Her hand squeezes your knee once. âHeâs looking again.â
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. âGood for him,â you say.
Natâs smile turns small and unbearable. âYouâre allowed to like being looked at.â
âBy normal people, maybe.â
âBarnes is many things.â
âNormal does seem optimistic.â The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another personâs eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Natâs terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.Â
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tonyâs obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. âYou ever think about joining a league?â
You stare at him. âFor what, pool homicide?â
âFoam football. Youâve got raw talent.â
âI injured one man.â
âThatâs how legends start.â
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Buckyâs fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Samâs shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.Â
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
âComing in?â sam calls from the pool.
âApparently.â
Buckyâs head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. âYou coming?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. âWhat?â
âIn the pool.â You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. âThat large wet rectangle behind you.â
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Buckyâs eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. âIâm fine here.â
âTragic. Weâll notify the rectangle.â
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Buckyâs mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. âYou scared?â you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. âOf you?â
âOf fun.â
âTerrified.â
âFigures.â You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is âmorally participating.â The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
âDuck!â Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Buckyâs hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. âCareful,â he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. âYou need a new line.â
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. âYou need to stop slipping.â
âIâm sure the tiles are honored you blame me.â
âWasnât blaming you.â
âNo, youâre just leaping into pools now. Very casual.â
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someoneâs wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. âEverybody alive?â
Bucky does not look away from you. âYeah.â
âYou sure? That looked like a rescue.â
âWilson,â Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
âWhat? Iâm just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.â
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. âIâm fine,â you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. âFine,â he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. âIâm getting out,â you say, mostly to the water.
Buckyâs brows pull together. âAgain?â
âTry to survive it.â
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tonyâs expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. âstealing dessert before dinnerâs fully over?â
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Buckyâs voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
âTell tony,â you say. âHeâll have me arrested by the pastry police.â
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
âI was checking on you.â
âVery heroic. Iâm eating a tart.â
âSo I see.â
âThen your work here is done.â
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. âMove,â you say.
âTalk to me.â
Your laugh is small and mean. âAbout dessert?â
âAbout what you said outside.â
âIâve said many beautiful things today.â
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. âAt the pool steps.â
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. âI said you didnât have to touch me.â You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. âSeems clear.â
âNo.â His jaw tightens around the word. âIt doesnât.â
âIt really does.â
âIs that what you think Iâm doing?â
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. âStanding in a kitchen?â
âTrying to stop touching you.â
A humorless sound leaves you. âArenât you?â
Buckyâs hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. âYou think thatâs why I looked away?â
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. âIâm very tired of talking about where your eyes go.â
âIâm not.â
âCongratulations.â
His voice lowers. âLook at me.â
âNo.â
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. âPlease.â
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. âHappy?â you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. âNo.â
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. âI looked away,â he says, each word measured like it costs him, âbecause if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.â
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. âKnow what?â
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. âDonât do that.â
âIâm asking.â
âYou know what.â
âI really donât.â
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. âThat I wanted you.â
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
âYouâve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,â you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. âIt does.â
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. âYou walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like Iâd lost my damn mind.â
âThat thing?â
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. âThe swimsuit.â
âYou hate it.â
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. âI hate that Sam got to tell you first.â
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. âHe was being nice,â you say.
âI know.â in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
âHe looked at you like a friend,â Bucky says. âThat made it worse.â
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. âWhy?â
His eyes come back to yours. âBecause I didnât.â
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Buckyâs expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
âFantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.â He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. âPretend Iâm rich furniture.â
âTony,â Bucky says, voice tight.
âGone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.â Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. âPeople are going to come looking.â
âLet them.â
Your eyes flick to his. âThatâs a bad idea.â
âYeah.â
âYouâre agreeing?â
âTrying something new.â
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Buckyâs face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
âI thought you were embarrassed,â you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. âOf looking. Of me.â
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. âJesus.â
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
âHey.â His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towelâs edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. âNo. Iâm angry at myself. Not you.â
âYou keep looking away.â
âI was trying to be decent.â
âThat felt awful.â
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. âI see that now.â
âGreat. Character development.â
He huffs, but thereâs no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. âIâm sorry.â
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.Â
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. âI donât want your pity apology,â you say.
His thumb stops. âPity?â
âYes.â
âYou think Iâm standing here half naked in Starkâs kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?â
âWhen you put it like that, it sounds stupid.â
âIt sounded stupid before.â
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. âCareful.â
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Buckyâs hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. âThere,â he says, voice rougher. âNo pity.â
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. âThat was unsanitary.â
âPool waterâs worse.â
âComforting.â
His hand stays around yours. âYou always do that.â
âWhat?â
âMake a joke when youâre shaking.â
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tonyâs floor.
âIâm cold,â you say.
Buckyâs eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. âYeah?â
âYes.â
âWant me to get you dry?â
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. âI can manage a towel.â
âI saw.â
âYou saw me almost fall.â
âI saw a lot today.â
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. âYou looked away for most of it.â
âI looked back.â
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. âI looked back all damn day.â
You try to swallow. It takes effort. âBuckyâŠâ
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
âPeople are asking about dessert,â she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Buckyâs hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. âThey can wait.â
Natashaâs brows rise. âCan they?â
âYes,â he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Natâs eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. âRight,â she says. âIâll tell them the kitchen is occupied.â
âNat,â you hiss.
Her mouth curves. âWhat? By wet people.â
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. âRomanoff.â
âRelax, Barnes. Iâm leaving.â She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. âUse one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.â
Your soul leaves your body. âWhat?â you choke.
Tonyâs voice carries from outside. âI do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.â
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. âIâm moving.â
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. âWhere?â
âInto the ocean.â
âPoolâs closer.â
âToo many witnesses.â
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. âGuest roomâs closer too.â
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. âThis is a terrible idea,â you whisper.
âProbably.â
âPeople are outside.â
âYep.â
âYou were ignoring me two hours ago.â
His mouth tightens. âI was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.â
âAnd now?â
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. âNow I heard what you thought.â
Your chest aches. âAnd?â
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. âAnd Iâm done letting you think it.â
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Buckyâs mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. âNo,â you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. âNo?â
âYou donât get to kiss me like Iâm fragile after making me feel insane all day.â
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. âGuest room.â
Buckyâs forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. âYeah.â
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tonyâs absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. âWhat?â
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. âNothing.â
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. âTry again.â
Your fingers tighten around his. âIâm wet.â
His brows lift a fraction. âFrom the pool,â you snap, heat flooding your face. âDonât look at me like that.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face did.â
âMy face is having a day.â
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. âCan I?â
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. âDonât hide from me.â The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. âThatâs ambitious.â
âI can be patient.â
âYou? Since when?â
His mouth twitches. âSince about three seconds ago.â
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. âIâm going to look at you,â he says.
Your face burns. âThat sounds like a threat.â
âItâs a warning.â His thumb moves over your wrist. âA fair one.â
âVery gentlemanly.â
âTrying.â
You swallow. âDonât try too hard.â
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You donât. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. âOh,â you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. âYou actuallyâŠâ
Buckyâs gaze snaps back to your face. âYeah.â
âYou looked away.â
âI was an idiot.â
âThatâs established.â
His smile is brief and strained. âFair.â
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuitâs edge. âYou thought I didnât like this?â he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. âYou looked like you were suffering.â
âI was.â His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. âSweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.â
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. âYou recovered fast.â
âI didnât recover. I panicked.â
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. âThat was panic?â
âSteve asked if I was having a stroke.â
Your mouth opens. âHe did not.â
âHe did.â
âWas he concerned?â
âVery.â
You laugh fully this time, and Buckyâs hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. âSam complimented you,â he says.
You blink, following the turn. âYes.â
âYou smiled.â
âHe was nice.â
âI know.â
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. âYou hated that?â
âI hated how easy it was for him.â Buckyâs voice goes rougher. âHe could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.â
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. âWould it?â
âYeah,â he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. âMaybe.â
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. âYou couldâve said something,â you murmur.
âI thought I had time to figure out how.â
âFigure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?â
âHow to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.â
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. âToo much?â
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. âNo,â you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. âContinue.â
His laugh is quiet. âContinue?â
âYou heard me.â
âI did.â One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. âTrying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.â
Your knees feel untrustworthy. âYouâre taking suggestions?â
âFrom you?â He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. âAlways.â
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. âYeah?â His lips brush your ear now. âThat where it goes when I say that?â
âShut up.â
âBeen trying all day.â
âTo shut up?â
âTo keep from saying worse.â
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
âBucky,â you whisper.
He hums against your neck. âThat sounded nice.â
âDonât get smug.â
âToo late.â
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
âOh,â you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. âThatâs, um. Thatâs there.â
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. âYeah. Itâs been there.â
Your mouth parts.
âAll day,â he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. âYou want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.â
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. âNo. Look at me.â
You do, barely.
âIâm gonna say things,â he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. âAnd youâre gonna believe me this time.â
Your throat works around nothing. âThatâs demanding.â
âYeah.â
âUsually people ask.â
âI spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.â His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. âIâm done asking me.â
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Buckyâs hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Buckyâs hands move to your hips.
What if the door isnât locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
âYou were hiding under that towel,â he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. âIt was cold.â
âLiar.â
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
âBuckyâŠâ
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. âYeah?â
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. âThatâsâŠâ
âWhat?â
You glance away. âYou donât have toâŠâ
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. âDonât.â
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. âDonât say I donât have to. I know I donât have to.â
âI didnât meanââ
âI want to.â His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. âI have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.â
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. âSince before that.â
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Buckyâs thumb slides along your inner thigh.
âYou thought I didnât wanna look.â He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. âYou thought I looked away because I didnât like your body.â
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuitâs edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. âI looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.â
âBucky,â you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. âWanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.â
âHe was helping.â
âI know.â His teeth graze your thigh. âStill wanted to.â
âYouâre terrible.â
âToday?â His eyes flick up. âYeah.â
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. âWords, baby.â
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
âTake it off,â you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
âDonât hide,â he says again, rougher now.
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
âYouâre staring.â
âYeah.â His thumbs slide higher. âI missed a lot today.â
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. âYou canât just say that.â
âI can.â He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. âI am.â
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Buckyâs hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
âHey.â
You glare, but there is no force behind it. âWhat?â
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. âCome here.â
âI am here.â
âCloser.â
âThere is physically no closer unless I climb you.â
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. âThen climb.â
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. âYouâre very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.â
âI had a hard day.â
âYou had a chair.â
âI had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.â
âThat must have been so difficult.â
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. âIt was.â
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
âShit.â His forehead drops to your collarbone. âDo that again and Iâm gonna embarrass myself.â
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
âBaby,â he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Buckyâs head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
âYou like this?â you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. âOr are you going to look at the curtains?â
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. âSay it again.â
Your lips part. âWhat?â
âWhat you said outside.â
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
âYou donât have to touch me longer than necessary,â you murmur, quieter now.
Buckyâs jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. âThat.â His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. âEvery time you thought that today, I want it back.â
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
âLong enough?â he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. âShut up.â
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
âAnswer me.â
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. âNo.â
âNo?â His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. âStill not long enough?â
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. âBuckyâŠâ
âThatâs not an answer.â
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. âFuck, sweetheart.â His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. âYouâre soaked.â
âPool,â you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. âYeah? Pool did this?â
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
âGuess I owe the pool an apology,â he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. âBeen mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.â
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
âBucky,â you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
âThere,â he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. âYeah, right there?â
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
âUse words.â
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
âOh, you like that.â His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. âAll that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.â
âI hate you.â
âNo, you donât.â His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. âYou hated thinking I didnât want you.â
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
âYou hated me looking away,â he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. âHated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.â
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
âI didnâtâŠâ You try. Fail. âI didnât wantâŠâ
He kisses under your ear. âLiar.â
âBucky.â
âYou did.â His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. âYou wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.â
Your nails dig into him.
âThere,â he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. âThat one.â
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
âGod, do that again.â
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. âNo, no, no, donât stop.â
Buckyâs hand tightens at your back. âIâve got you.â
âYou keep saying things like that,â you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
âYeah?â
âItâs annoying.â
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. âCum, then complain.â
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
âThatâs it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.â
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. âGreedy.â
âShut up.â
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. âSaw that.â
âYou see too much.â
âNot enough.â His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tonyâs laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. âIâm making up for it.â
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. âBy staring at my vagina?â
His brows lift.
Your face burns. âDonât.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face again.â
âMy face likes you.â
âYour face is an idiot.â
âYeah.â He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. âItâs got company.â
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. âMove your hand.â
Your fingers loosen over your lips. âTheyâll hear.â
âLet them hear the pool wasnât the reason you left.â
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
âBucky,â you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. âMove it, baby.â
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. âThank you.â
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
âPlease,â you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
âSorry,â you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. âDo it again.â
âWhat?â
His teeth scrape your thigh. âPull my hair again.â
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
âBucky, I canât,â you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. âCanât what?â
âAgain. I canâtâŠâ
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. âYou can.â
âYou have too much confidence.â
âI have evidence.â His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. âLook at you.â
âNo.â
âYeah.â He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. âYou gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?â
âI was making a point.â
âYou made it.â His lips brush yours. âVery persuasive.â
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you donât pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Buckyâs mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. âYouâre gonna cum on my hand, then Iâm gonna fuck you. If thatâs what you want.â
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a manâs hand between your legs.
âI want it,â you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. âYeah?â
âYes.â Your grip tightens around his wrist. âI want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I canât think about any of it.â
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
âThatâs it,â he mutters against your cheek. âThereâs my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.â
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. âI was wounded.â
âYou were jealous.â
âYou were avoidant.â
âI was hard enough to see God.â
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. âThatâs vulgar.â
âYou asked for honesty.â
âI did not ask for theology.â
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
âYeah, baby. Give me that one too.â His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. âNeed it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.â
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
âToo much,â you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
âYouâre impossible,â he murmurs.
âYour fault.â
âYeah.â His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. âIâm starting to like that answer.â
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
âYou really wanted me?â you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. âAll day.â
âBefore today?â
He presses a kiss to your palm. âYeah.â
âHow long?â
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
âLong enough to act stupid about it.â
âThat could be any amount of time.â
âMonths.â
Your chest squeezes. âMonths?â
âMaybe longer.â
âYouâre terrible at flirting.â
âI panicked,â he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. âI need these off.â
âFinally, a smart idea.â
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. âCondom?â
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tonyâs guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. âUnless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I donâtâŠâ
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. âVery prepared seduction, Barnes.â
âI was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.â
âYou did great.â
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. âI have one in my wallet.â
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. âDonât look at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike youâre judging.â
âI am judging.â
âIâm a grown man.â
âWith pool-party condoms?â
âOne condom. Singular. Emergency.â
âWhat emergency did you anticipate?â
He gives you a look. âApparently this one.â
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. âWallet,â you say.
Buckyâs eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
âDonât,â he warns.
âYou left your emergency outside?â
âI didnât plan to need it indoors.â
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
âIâll go,â he says.
âYou are not going outside like that.â
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. âFair.â
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. âRobe.â
âIâm not wearing Starkâs sex robe.â
âGuest robe.â
âSame thing.â
âYou want the condom or a philosophical debate?â
Bucky points at you. âStay there.â
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. âWhere would I go?â
âKnowing you? Window.â
âOnly if things get worse.â
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
He narrows his eyes. âThat smile says something.â
âIt says hurry.â
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tonyâs guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone elseâs hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: âBarnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?â
Bucky, low and deadly: âMove.â
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: âThat is Egyptian cotton, by the way.â
Natasha laughs. âLet him live.â
Sam again, audibly grinning: âIs there a fire?â
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, âOh my god.â
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. âDonât.â
âI said nothing.â
âYouâre laughing with your whole face.â
âI would never.â
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cottonâs lineage. âWilson knows.â
âOh no.â
âTony knows.â
âTony knew before we did.â
âSteve looked proud.â
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
âLaughing at me?â he asks.
âYes.â
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. âThatâs brave.â
âIâm very brave.â
âYou slipped twice today.â
âPhysically brave and spatially cursed.â
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. âYou okay?â
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
âYes,â you say. Then, more honest, âNervous.â
His hand stills on your thigh. âAbout me?â
âAbout you seeing me.â
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
âI see you,â he says. âI want you. Same sentence.â
Your throat tightens. âThatâs unfairly effective.â
âTrying to be clear.â
âTerrible habit.â
His mouth brushes yours. âCan I keep seeing you?â
You nod. âYeah.â
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. âCan I keep touching you?â
Your legs part wider around him. âYeah.â
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. âCan I fuck you?â
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
âYes,â you breathe. âPlease.â
Buckyâs eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
âStill judging my emergency condom?â he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. âLess now.â
âThought so.â
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. âTell me if you need slow.â
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
âI need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,â you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. âSweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.â
âThen stop hanging.â
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
âOkay?â
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. âMore.â
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
âFuck,â he breathes, almost helpless. âYou feelâŠâ
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. âIâm gonna lose my mind.â
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. âDo that again and this ends fast.â
âMaybe I want that.â
He lifts his head, eyes dark. âNo, you donât.â
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. âAnnoying.â
âYou want me to take my time now.â He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. âYou wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?â
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. âIâm looking.â
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
âBucky,â you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
âThere?â he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. âThere, please, there.â
âYeah, baby.â His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. âKnew youâd sound pretty begging.â
Your face burns. âIâm not begging.â
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
âThat sounded like begging.â His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. âPool made you mouthy. My cockâs fixing it.â
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. âShit, you like that.â
âYouâre so smug.â
âIâm inside you,â he says, breath hot against your mouth. âI earned a little.â
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
âOh, thatâs it.â His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. âThereâs my girl.â
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. âYeah? That one?â
âBuckyâŠâ
âMy girl,â he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. âMine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when sheâs trying to make me jealous.â
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
âNo?â His thumb presses harder on your clit. âYou didnât like me jumping in after you?â
âYou looked ridiculous,â you gasp.
âYeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasnât thinking clearly.â
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. âNo.â
âTheyâll hear.â
âGood.â
âBucky.â
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. âSpent all day watching you think I didnât want you. Let them hear me prove it.â
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
âYou close?â
You nod, helpless.
âSay it.â
âIâm close.â
His mouth brushes yours. âAsk me.â
Your eyes open. âWhat?â
âAsk me to make you cum.â
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
âYouâre impossible,â you whimper.
âAsk.â
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. âDonât slow down.â
âAsk me, baby.â
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
âPlease,â you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. âPlease make me cum.â
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
âWanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didnât have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I havenât been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.â
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
âThatâs it,â he groans. âThatâs it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.â
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
âWhere?â he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
âInside,â you breathe. âYou have the condom, inside, please.â
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. âIf thatâs about us, Iâm moving to Siberia.â
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. âThat was my plan.â
âWe can carpool.â
âAfter you get off me. Youâre heavy.â
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. âYou wound me.â
âYou crushed me.â
âYou wrapped around me.â
âYou were available.â
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. âIâm gonna move.â
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. âYeah?â
âDonât start.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYour face is speaking.â
âMy face has been through a lot today.â
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Starkâs guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
âYou donât have to do that,â you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. âI want to.â
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. âDonât insult it. Weâve all grown.â
Buckyâs mouth twitches. âI owe it an apology.â
âYou owe me an apology.â
âI gave you one.â
âI want another.â
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. âFor what?â
âFor being weird at the pool.â
âIâm sorry.â
âFor looking away.â
âIâm sorry.â
âFor making me think you hated it.â
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. âIâm sorry.â
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
âAnd for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,â you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
âYou looked beautiful,â he says, voice low. âYou looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And thatâs on me, not you.â
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. âYou need to stop saying decent things after sex. Itâs confusing.â
His lips press to your hair. âWould it help if I said something indecent?â
âYes.â
âYour thighs almost killed me.â
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. âBucky.â
âIâm serious. National threat.â
âYouâre so stupid.â
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. âYeah, but you like me.â
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Buckyâs hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
âYou like me too,â he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. âMaybe.â
âMaybe?â
âDonât get greedy.â
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. âToo late.â
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tonyâs voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. âAs the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.â
You bury your face in Buckyâs chest.
Bucky sighs. âGo away, Stark.â
âGladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.â
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. âI hate everyone.â
Buckyâs hand slides possessively over your hip. âWant me to get your clothes?â
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
âEventually,â you say.
He hums. âEventually sounds good.â
âYou canât keep me in Tonyâs guest room forever.â
âNo,â he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. âBut I can try for another ten minutes.â
âThatâs ambitious.â
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. âI can be patient.â
âYou said that before.â
âI lied.â
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
ê±áŽáŽáŽáŽÊÊ âș bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
áŽáŽÉȘÊÉȘÉŽÉą âș roommate!bucky x female reader
áŽáŽÉŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ áŽĄáŽÊÉŽÉȘÉŽÉąê± âș roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᎥáŽÊᎠáŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ âș 11.3k
áŽáŽáŽÊáŽÊê± ÉŽáŽáŽáŽ âș and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
âYou could stay here for a while,â Sam had said.
âNo.â
âYou don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.â
âNo.â
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
âYou know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.â
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. âNot taking charity.â
âIt ain't charity.â
âFeels like it.â
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
âI know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.â
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
âYou won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,â he said. âYou'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.â
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, âYou look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.â
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
âMustard, onions, no kraut,â the guy says, already reaching for the buns. âAnd a Coke.â
âYou're getting too comfortable,â Bucky tells him.
âYou keep showing up, that's on you.â
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
âYou can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.â
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
âYeah, well, that's not my problem,â you say into the phone, quieter now. âI sent everything over already.â
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
âHold on,â you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look⊠real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
âSorry,â you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. âI didn't know you were coming home.â
âYeah.âBrilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. âHope that's not dinner.â
He looks down too. âIt was the plan.â
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. âYou eat like a divorced dad.â
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, âI have to call you back,â before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
âSorry about that,â you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. âWork call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.â
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
âDon't worry about it.â
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
âI don't think we've actually been properly introduced.â You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
âNo. I don't think we have.â His hand slips from yours after only a moment. âI'm Bucky.â
âI know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.â You give him a small apologetic smile. âI'm sorry. My job is very⊠time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.â
âYeah,â he says. âGood to meet you too.â
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
âSo what do you do?â
âHow are you liking the place?â
You stop. He stops.
âSorry,â he says, motioning for you to go first.
âI was just asking how you're liking the place.â Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. âHave you settled in well?â
âOh, yeah.â He nods once. âPlace is great. Thank you.â
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. âGood.â
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
âAnd you? Were gonna say...?â
âOh.â He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. âI was just wondering what you do... that's so...â He makes a vague motion with one hand. âTime demanding.â
âOh. Right.â You shift your weight against the windowsill. âI work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.â
He blinks once. âWow.â
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
âThat sounds awesome.â
âIt used to be,â you say with a wry little smile. âNow it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.â
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
âIf you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?â he asks. âNasty commute.â
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
âI got this place before I got that job,â you say. âAnd I liked it.â Then, quieter, âStill like it.â
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
âThat's actually why I wanted a roommate,â you admit. âI love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...â You shrug one shoulder. âI just don't have the time to do that.â
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
âWell,â he says, voice quieter now, âI'll... I'll do my best.â
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
âI'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,â you say. âWork's been insane.â
âYou leave good notes.â
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. âThat's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.â
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
âSorry,â you say, already answering it. âI have to take this.â
âYeah. Sure.â
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
âHey.â
âHey.â
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
âSoup still alive?â you ask.
âBarely.â
You drop your bag onto a chair.
âWell.â You glance toward the fridge. âSoup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.â
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
âRude,â you say.
âYou weren't home yet.â
âYou could've texted.â
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
âYou're lucky you're cute,â he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
âWhat are you doing?â
âFixing it.â
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. âYou know, normal people usually just call maintenance.â
âNormal people don't have metal arms.â
That makes you laugh. âFair point.â
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. âDo you ever sleep?â
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
âSometimes.â
âYou sure?â
âNot particularly.â
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. âYou know it's two in the morning, right?â
You glance down at your laptop clock. âOh.â
âYou didn't know?â
âI thought it was maybe midnight.â
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. âWhat are you even doing?â
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
âI'm⊠up for a promotion.â
Bucky looks over at you. âWhat kind?â
âA curator position.â
He leans back against the counter. âAt the museum?â
You nod.
âIn the anthropology division.â Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. âIf I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.â
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
âThat sounds...â He shakes his head once. âThat sounds awesome.â
âIt would be.â You smile a little, staring down at your notes. âI mean, it would be everything.â
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. âI've wanted it for years.â
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
âBut it's probably unrealistic anyway.â
Bucky frowns. âWhy?â
You laugh softly to yourself.
âBecause you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,â you say. âIt's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.â
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
âIt's just wishful thinking,â you say quietly. âThen you die trying.â
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. âThat sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.â
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
âYou know that, right?â he says. âThe way you talk about it.â
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
âI don't know,â you say after a second.
âYeah, you do.â
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. âThanks, Buck.â
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
âYou got me one?â
âYou looked tired.â
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
âWhere's the pretty museum girl?â he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. âWho?â
âThe roommate you said you have.â The guy grins. âI wanna meet her.â
âNo. Not happening.â
The guy laughs. âOh, so that's what we're doing now.â
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
âWhat happened?â
âNothing.â
âMm.â
You take the hot dog from his hand. âYou have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.â
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. âYou said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.â
You look up from your book. âYeah.â
âSo what was the first?â
You smile immediately.
âThere was this used bookstore in Queens,â you say. âI was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.â
He watches your face change as you talk.
âThe cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.â
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
âI used all the money I had to buy it.â
âAnd then?â
âAnd then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.â You laugh softly. âThat was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.â
âYou found all of them?â
âAlmost.â You shake your head. âNever found the last one.â
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
âI already sent the file,â you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. âNo, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterdayââ
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
âHappy birthday.â
You stop and blink at him.
âOh,â you say after a second. âRight.â
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. âI completely forgot.â
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
âYou forgot your birthday,â he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
âBucky...â is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
âIt's not a big deal,â he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. âI just...â He looks down for a second. âFigured somebody should celebrate you.â
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
âYou got me a cake?â
âYeah.â
âWith candles?â
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
âThat's usually how birthdays work.â
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
âYou didn't have to do this,â you say quietly.
âI know.â
âBut you did anyway. Why?â
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
âOkay,â you say softly. âThen I guess I should make a wish.â
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
âAnd this is... also a thing.â
You blink. âYou got me a present?â
âYou don't have to sound so surprised.â
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
âThe last one,â you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. âThe last volume of The Canterbury Tales.â
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. âWhere did you evenââ
âJust found it.â He shrugs.
âBucky.â
âTook a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 soâŠâ he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
âWhat'd you wish for?â Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
âCan't tell you,â you say. âState secrets now.â
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
âSo you've always been weird about books.â
âThat's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.â
âThose are different.â
âThey're really not.â
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
âYou're falling asleep.â
âNo, I'm not.â You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. âYou absolutely are.â
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
âBuck?â you mumble sleepily.
âI got you.â
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
âHappy birthday,â he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. âI got an interview.â
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. âWhat?â
âFor the curator position.â You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. âNext week.â
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
âOh,â you say quietly. âOh no.â
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
âYou okay?â he asks, already knowing the answer.
âNo,â you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. âWhat's wrong?â
You stare down at the papers in your lap. âWhat if I embarrass myself?â
âYou won't.â
âWhat if they ask me something I don't know?â
âYou'll know it.â
âWhat if I freeze?â
âYou won't.â
You glare at him a little. âYou don't know that.â
He leans back against the couch.
âI know you.â
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
âI didn't go to the right schools,â you say finally. âI don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified andââ
âThey're gonna be lucky if they get you.â
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
âYou mean that?â you ask softly.
âYeah.â He doesn't even hesitate. âI do.â
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
âOh my God,â you whisper, pulling back immediately. âI'm sorry, I shouldn't haveââ
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
âOkay,â you say softly.
âOkay,â he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You blink. âNo.â
He smiles a little. âYou're gonna do great.â
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. âYou legally have to say that because you live with me.â
âNo,â he says. âI have to say it because it's true.â
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
âStill feels like I'm gonna throw up.â
âYou'll throw up after,â he says. âLike a professional.â
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
âKeys,â you mutter to yourself. âWallet. Phone. Museum badgeââ
âHey.â
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
âIt's crooked.â
âOh.â
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
âYou got this,â he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
âHey,â he says carefully from the couch. âHow'd it go?â
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
âI didn't get it.â
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
âOh.â
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. âYeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.â
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
âBut...â You look down for a second. âThey gave me a raise.â
He blinks, surpised. âOkay.â
âAnd they're opening a new assistant position to âlessen my workload.ââ
That takes him a second to process.
âSo...â He leans forward a little. âYou still got something?â
âI guess.â You look exhausted more than anything. âI don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.â
Bucky nods slowly.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âI get that.â
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
âCome on.â
You look up. âWhat?â
âLet's go get hot dogs.â
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
âOkay.â
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
âUh oh,â he says. âThis feels emotional.â
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
âDon't encourage him,â he mutters.
âToo late,â the guy says. âI like her.â
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
âYou had a bad day.â
âSo?â
âSo let me buy you a hot dog.â
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
âHey, Buck?â
âYeah?â
âYou ever hear that whole ârejection is just redirection' thing?â
He glances over at you. â...No?â
You laugh softly under your breath. âIt's just this thing people say.â
âOkay.â He nods once.
âBut that's not what I was getting at.â
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
âYou know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?â
âYeah?â
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.â
He frowns a little. âYou⊠wished to get passed up on the promotion?â
âNo,â you say with a breath of laughter. âNo.â
You look at him then, really look at him.
âI wished...â Your voice goes quiet. âThat I could spend more time with you.â
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
âState secrets, huh?â he teases softly.
You blush immediately. âShut up.â
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
âYou're home early,â he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
âI know. Weird, right?â
He smiles a little. âYou get fired?â
âNot yet.â You step farther into the kitchen. âI actually have tomorrow afternoon off.â
âWow.â
âI know,â you say again. âI'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.â
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
âDo you wanna come by the museum?â
He looks up. âThe museum?â
âYeah.â You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. âI could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.â
He tries to act casual. âSure.â
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
âHey.â
âHey.â
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
âAnd this one,â you say, pointing toward an old display case, âpeople never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.â
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
âEvery museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,â you say.
Bucky looks over at you. âYours probably happened after a meeting.â
You scoff. âNo. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.â
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
âI'm serious. It was humiliating.â
âYou cried over a label?â
âI care deeply about accuracy.â
âYou're insane.â
âMaybe,â you say, smiling up at the whale. âBut I'm right.â
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
âI used to come here when I first got the job,â you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
âI'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.â You smile faintly to yourself. âSo I'd come sit in here.â
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
âIt helped me remember how small I am.â A pause. âHow insignificant everything is.â
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
âYou're probably the most important thing...â He swallows a little. âTo me.â
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
âIt's pretty, huh?â
He smiles.
âYeah...â
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
âWhat are you gonna do now?â
You blink. âWith what?â
âNo promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?â
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
âYou know,â you say, âI have no idea.â
You lean your head against his shoulder. âFor as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.â
He tilts his head lightly against yours. âWhat do you want now?â
You look up at him and smile softly.
âYou.â Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.â
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
summary: born the quiet, overlooked sister, youâve learned to survive in the shadowsâuntil a ball places you before duke bucky barnes, war-scarred, steel-armed, and whispered about by all of london. the ton declares you ill-matched, but in stolen quiet and candlelit corners, you discover a love that makes you feel seen at last.
authors note: i love the regency era and i loveeee this trope. the concept of duke barnes saving me from my family that doesn't understand me has melted me in an absolute puddle!! please note, in this fic, it is understood that the Queen grants each home with a "name". Ashford is the name of readers home and to make the story flow better in my head, is often called upon as such!
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The first thing your mother does, every time she looks at you, is count.
Not with her fingersânot so crudely. With her eyes. With the faint pause between breath and greeting. With the way her gaze passes over your sisters first, as if she must take inventory of what she is proud of before she can bear to acknowledge what she is not.
Arabellaâoldest, already married and radiant in it, a hostess in the making with a laugh that never trembles.
Seraphinaâclever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.
Daphneâpretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.
Imogenâsharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.
Cordeliaâyoungest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.
And then you.
Your father calls you âquietâ as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you âbookishâ as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worseâbecause it implies you are not a thing worth naming.
Youâve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.
Youâve worn the colors your mother prefersâpale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. Youâve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. Youâve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.
But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.
So you do the one thing youâve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.
You read.
In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.
Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.
Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in Londonâher first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.
Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.
âThe ton must see us,â she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. âWe must make an impression.â
âWe always do,â Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.
âPrecisely,â your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. âAnd you, my dearâplease do try to look⊠pleasant.â
You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?
Instead, you nod. Because youâve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.
Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. âDo not frighten away Arabellaâs guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.â
âI donât write poetry,â you say softly.
âYou read it,â Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. âWhich is nearly as bad.â
Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. âI like when she reads to me.â
Imogenâs gaze cuts. âThat is because you are still a child.â
Cordeliaâs mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.
Something in your chest twistsânot dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache youâve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordeliaâs hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though youâve offered her a rescue rope.
Your mother misses the exchange entirely. âRemember,â she says, âyou are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like aââ She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. âLike an unsociable girl.â
Seraphinaâs eyes glint. âLike herself, Mama means.â
Daphne laughs, sweet and light.
Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives thereâunder her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.
âBe kind,â she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.
Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphinaâs smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something elseâto you, perhapsâand then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.
And you follow, as you always do.
The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.
The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleamsâpolished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.
Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.
You stand where you are placedânear a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your motherâs hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.
âDo not slouch,â she murmurs.
You straighten.
A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safeânumbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.
Your gaze drifts without meaningâpast laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.
And then you see him.
He is not bright.
He is not easy.
He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroomâs light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too stillâsoldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.
The first thing people notice is his arm.
Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a womanâs eyes widen in fascinated horror.
The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.
Duke.
War-torn.
Scarred.
A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.
You should look away. It is what everyone else is doingâstaring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.
But you donât.
Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.
As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.
His eyes find you across the room.
They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something elseâsomething older than the ballroom, older than polite society.
His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.
Then his expression shiftsânot into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.
As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.
You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.
But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.
You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.
It isnât the crowd, not really. Itâs the sense of being pressed into placeâof existing as a piece on someone elseâs board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.
The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if youâve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded framesâHarrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.
A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.
A library.
Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.
You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.
The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.
You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.
Your fingers brush a spineâMilton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.
âYouâre hiding.â
The voice comes from behind youâlow, roughened by disuse, as though he doesnât speak often unless he must.
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurateâthough no one says âBuckyâ in ballrooms. They say âYour Grace,â and they say it with a tremble.
He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The otherâmetal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.
He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.
âI could say the same of you,â you manage, and it surprises youâhow easily the words come.
His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. âI wasnât subtle.â
âNo,â you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.
He doesnât seem offended. If anything, he looks⊠relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.
âYou shouldnât be in here alone,â he says after a moment. âPeople talk.â
You glance at the book in your hand. âPeople talk no matter where I stand.â
He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. âThat so?â
You shrug, a small movement. âMy sisters are the sort people notice. I am⊠not.â
His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. âYou came here for the books.â
âYes.â
âAnd not,â he adds, almost cautiously, âbecause you were hoping to catch someoneâs attention.â
The question is strangeâalmost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is⊠checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.
âNo,â you say, honest. âI came because it is quiet.â
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. âGood.â
You blink. âGood?â
âQuietâs⊠rare.â His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. âAnd Iâve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.â
The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pityâpity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.
You find yourself speaking before you can stop. âDoes it hurt?â
His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.
You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.
But he doesnât lash out. He doesnât sneer.
He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. âSometimes,â he admits. âNot like it did at first. But⊠there are things a body remembers.â
You swallow. âIâm sorry.â
He lifts his eyes again. âDonât be. You didnât do it.â
It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room youâve never dared enter.
You shift the book in your hands. âYou fought in the war,â you say, not a question.
He nods once. âAnd I came home less⊠whole than I left.â
Thereâs no self-pity in it. Just fact.
You gesture helplessly to the library around you. âThey talk as if you are a monster.â
His expression hardens, just a little. âThey talk as if Iâm entertainment.â
Anger rises in youâa slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.
âItâs cruel,â you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.
Something flickers across his faceâsurprise, and then something warmer, softer. âYeah,â he says quietly. âIt is.â
You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. âI donât think youâre a monster,â you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. âI think youâre⊠tired.â
His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you werenât watching him the way you watch stories unfold.
âTired,â he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. âNo oneâs called me that.â
âWhat do they call you?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
His jaw tightens. âScarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.â A humorless exhale. âAs if those are the only things a man can be.â
You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. âTheyâre wrong.â
His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels chargedânot with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.
âYou got a name, MissâŠ?â he prompts gently.
You hesitate. Not because you donât know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.
But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.
You give it. Quietly.
He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.
âIâm James,â he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, âMost call me Bucky, when theyâre brave enough to forget Iâm a duke.â
You almost smile. âBucky.â
The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.
He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something youâve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.
âYou like books,â he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.
âI like stories,â you correct quietly. âI like⊠the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.â
His gaze drops again to the book. âRead to me,â he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. âIf you want. I mean. You donât have to.â
You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.
But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isnât, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.
So you sit.
You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chairânot too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.
You begin to read.
At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythmâwords like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.
He simply lets you exist.
When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.
He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.
âWhat?â you ask, flustered.
He blinks, as if caught. âYou look⊠different in here.â
âDifferent?â
âLike you belong to yourself.â His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. âIn thereââ his eyes flick toward the ballroom ââyou were trying to disappear.â
You swallow. âItâs easier.â
He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. âDonât,â he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. âNot for them.â
Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.
Before you can answer, the door opens.
Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.
âThere you are,â Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changesâbecoming polished, predatory. âOh.â
Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.
You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. âMamaââ
Your motherâs eyes lock on Buckyâs arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.
âYour Grace,â she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. âI did not realize you would be⊠joining us in private.â
Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.
âLady Ashford,â he says evenly.
Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. âHow extraordinary. I didnât know you were acquainted.â
You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. âMy daughter has a habit of wandering,â she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. âI was just reminding her of proper conduct.â
Buckyâs gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?
You nod, barely.
Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. âOf course, Miss Ashford is not⊠accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.â
The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.
Buckyâs metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.
âShe reads well,â he says, voice calm. âBetter than most Iâve heard.â
Seraphinaâs eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. âHow charming. I didnât realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.â
Buckyâs gaze is flat. âI enjoy honesty,â he answers.
Imogenâs voice drifts from the doorway nowâshe must have followed. âAnd what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?â
Your motherâs eyes flash. âImogen.â
Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. âItâs true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.â
You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.
But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steadyâlike a hand offered in the dark.
âShe didnât flee,â he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. âShe stepped away from the noise. Thereâs a difference.â
Your motherâs smile grows tighter. âA young ladyâs duty is to be seen.â
Buckyâs gaze sharpens. âAnd a young lady is also a person.â
The room goes very still.
Your motherâs nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. âYour Grace,â she says, warning threaded through the title, âI do not believe you understandââ
âI understand,â he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. âI understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.â
Your motherâs composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. âCome,â she says to you, voice clipped. âYou will return to the ballroom.â
Your feet feel rooted.
Buckyâs gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.
But he stays.
So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.
âOf course,â you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.
But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.
Metal, cool and careful.
Not grasping. Not claiming.
Just⊠there.
A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.
Your breath catches.
His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. âDonât disappear,â he murmurs. âNot entirely.â
You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like youâve done something wildly improperâlike youâve done something dangerously brave.
After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.
They always talked about Bucky Barnesâabout the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.
But now, they talk about you too.
Because the Duke of Barnes calls.
He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.
Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. âThis is highly irregular,â she says.
Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.
Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. âHe is⊠wealthy.â
Your motherâs mouth tightens. âAnd damaged.â
Your stomach twists. âMamaââ
âI will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,â she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. âYou are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.â
You go cold all over. âHe wasnâtâ I didnâtââ
Seraphinaâs smile is syrupy. âPerhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.â
Bile rises in your throat. âI donât pity him.â
Imogen tilts her head. âThen what do you feel?â
You donât answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.
Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.
Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. âYou will not be alone with him,â she declares. âYou will not encourage him.â
âAnd if he asks to dance with you again?â Daphne asks, bright-eyed.
Your motherâs gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. âIf he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.â
Seraphina straightens, hopeful.
Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. âBut it will not be you.â
The room goes silent.
Your father does not contradict her.
Your sisters do not protest.
Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.
You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. âOf course,â you whisper.
You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.
You take refuge where you always doâin a book.
But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.
Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.
He does not stop.
Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.
So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.
Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.
Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.
You sit where you are told.
And then he enters.
In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your worldâdark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.
Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. âYour Grace.â
He bows, controlled. âLady Ashford. Miss Ashford.â His gaze flicks over your sistersâand then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. âMiss Ashford,â he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.
Your breath catches.
Tea is poured. Questions are askedâthe kind meant to assess rather than understand.
âHow is your estate?â your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.
âManaged,â Bucky answers, polite, clipped.
âAnd your health?â Seraphina asks, voice sugared. âYou must have suffered terribly.â
His gaze is flat. âI recovered.â
Imogenâs eyes narrow. âCan you dance with that arm?â
The room freezes.
Your cheeks flame. âImogenââ
Buckyâs metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesnât change. âI can,â he says simply.
Daphne leans forward, eager. âAnd do you plan to marry, Your Grace?â
Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.
Buckyâs gaze drifts, slow, to you.
âI plan,â he says carefully, âto marry someone who doesnât look at me like a spectacle.â
Seraphinaâs smile falters.
Your motherâs eyes sharpen. âAnd where might you find such a woman?â
Buckyâs eyes do not leave you. âIâve already met her.â
The air goes thin.
Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot meanâ Surelyâ
Your mother laughs, brittle. âYour Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.â
âI know enough,â he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. âI know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesnât flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like sheâs speaking the truth.â
Your motherâs face tightens. âMiss Ashford is notââ
âNot what?â he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. âNot charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?â
Your motherâs mouth opens, shocked.
Cordeliaâs hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.
You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.
And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.
Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. âYour Grace,â she says coldly, âyou are not welcome to make sport of my family.â
âIâm not making sport,â he says. âIâm asking permission to court her.â
The word her lands like thunder.
Your sisters stare.
Seraphinaâs cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.
Your mother turns her gaze to you.
It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.
âYou will not,â she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.
Buckyâs eyes are on you again, steady. He doesnât beg. He doesnât pressure.
He waits.
For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.
Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.
You think of the libraryâof quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.
You think of your motherâs words: You would embarrass us.
And then you realize something terrifying.
Perhaps you are done trying not to.
You swallow. âI would like,â you say, voice shaking but real, âto be courted.â
Your motherâs breath hitches, a sound like outrage.
Buckyâs expression softensânot into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.
âAs you wish,â he murmurs.
Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.
He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a strangerâs effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.
He brings you books.
The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.
âA gift already,â she snaps. âYour Grace, this isââ
âA book,â he says, calm. âNot a diamond.â
âIt is still an impropriety.â
He glances at you, eyes quiet. âDoes she think it is?â
Your motherâs gaze darts to you, warning.
You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. âNo,â you say softly. âI think it is⊠thoughtful.â
Buckyâs mouth twitches. âGood.â
He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your motherâs hovering like bad weatherâpresent, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.
Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.
He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.
At first, you donât know how to do itâhow to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.
And every time you do, he notices.
âYou donât have to edit yourself for me,â he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novelâs heroine.
Your cheeks heat. âIâm notââ
âYou are,â he says gently. âI know that look. Itâs the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.â
You swallow. âWhat was it like?â you ask quietly.
His gaze drops to his tea. âLoud,â he says after a moment. âAnd cold. And⊠lonely, even with men beside you.â
Your chest tightens. âAnd now?â
He lifts his eyes. âNow itâs loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.â
You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.
He goes very still.
Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.
The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has pausedâwatching with something like horrified fascination.
Buckyâs eyes stay on yours. âYou can,â he says, voice low. âIf you want.â
Your breath catches.
You reach out.
Your fingertips meet cool steel.
It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply⊠part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didnât expect.
Survival.
A body refusing to be ended.
A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.
You donât know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.
Buckyâs gaze softens. âHey,â he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. âDonât cry for me.â
âIâm not,â you whisper, voice breaking. âIâm⊠angry for you.â
His throat works as he swallows. âNo oneâs ever been angry for me,â he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.
Your fingers curl slightly around his metal onesânot tight, not possessive, just steady.
âI am,â you say. âAnd I think⊠I think you deserve better than their whispers.â
His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something tooâsomething sharp and painful and hopeful.
âSo do you,â he says.
It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.
It is your family.
It begins with little cruelties. Imogen âaccidentallyâ misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your âstrange tasteâ in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, âBut imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone⊠normal.â
Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.
âYour hair is too plain.â
âYour laugh is too quiet.â
âDo not look at him like that. Youâll encourage him.â
One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.
âYou think this is romance,â she says, voice harsh. âYou think youâve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.â
âMen like what?â you ask, quiet but steady.
âBroken men,â she spits.
Your chest aches. âHe isnât broken.â
âHe is,â she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. âAnd he will break you too.â
You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. âYou donât know him,â you say.
âAnd you do?â she scoffs. âBecause he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?â Her voice sharpens. âYou are vulnerable, and he sees it.â
Your throat tightens. âHe sees me,â you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. âNo one else bothers.â
For a heartbeat, your mother looks struckâas if youâve slapped her without touching her.
Then her face closes. âYou are my daughter,â she says, as if it is ownership. âAnd you will not disgrace this family.â
You feel the familiar pullâthe urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.
But the memory of Buckyâs steady gaze, his gentle donât disappear, holds you upright.
âIâm not trying to disgrace you,â you say softly. âIâm trying to live.â
Her eyes narrow. âThen live quietly. Live properly.â
You swallow. âI have done that my entire life,â you whisper. âAnd it has never been enough for you.â
She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.
But footsteps echo from the entry hallâBucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.
Your motherâs face hardens. âWe will speak of this again.â
And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.
The next ball you attend is not yours.
It is Seraphinaâsâa smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashfordâs. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.
âHe must prove himself,â she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.
Bucky arrives late.
When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.
You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.
âThere he is,â Cordelia whispers.
You look.
Buckyâs gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.
When he reaches you, he bows. âMiss Ashford.â
Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. âYour Grace.â
He doesnât flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. âWould you grant me this dance?â
A hush seems to fall around youânot because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.
Your motherâs fingers dig into your arm. âYou must considerââ
âI have,â you say, and you step forward.
Buckyâs metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.
You place your gloved hand in it.
His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.
He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the tonâs gaze like needles.
The music begins.
Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.
âYou alright?â he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.
You swallow. âTheyâre staring.â
âI know,â he says softly. âLook at me.â
You do.
And the ballroom blurs.
Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointmentâjust a person worth holding.
âGood,â he murmurs, as if praising bravery you donât feel.
Halfway through the dance, you hear itâa sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.
âShe must be desperate.â
Another: âNo one else would have her.â
Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.
Buckyâs hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. âHey,â he murmurs.
You blink rapidly, fighting tears. âIâm sorry,â you whisper, humiliated. âI shouldnâtââ
âDonât apologize,â he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. âNot for existing.â
You swallow hard. âTheyâre right,â you whisper, the old poison rising. âNo one else wouldââ
His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in himânot wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.
âTheyâre not right,â he says quietly. âAnd if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, Iâll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.â
Your breath catches. âThe rest of yourââ
His gaze holds yours. âIf youâll let me.â
The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted againânot because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.
Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.
Seraphinaâs lips are pressed into a thin line.
Imogen looks disgusted.
Daphne looks conflicted.
Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.
And youâ
You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff youâve been afraid to approach your whole life.
Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.
Instead, he turns to face the room.
The ton leans in, hungry.
He bows to you first, respectful.
Then he turns his gazeâcold, calmâtoward your mother.
âLady Ashford,â he says, voice carrying just enough. âMay I speak with you.â
Your motherâs smile is rigid. âNow?â
âNow,â he says.
Whispers erupt.
He doesnât wait for her to approve. He leads herânot by force, but by presenceâtoward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.
You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.
You cannot hear every word, but you see your motherâs expression changeâanger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.
You see your fatherâs shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.
Then Bucky turns.
He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.
He stops in front of you.
âYou told me once,â he says quietly, âthat people talk no matter where you stand.â
Your throat tightens. âYes.â
He nods. âThen stand with me.â
The simplicity of it steals your breath.
He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.
And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:
âI intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.â
The room erupts.
Your mother makes a soundâhalf gasp, half protest.
Seraphinaâs face goes red.
Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.
Daphneâs mouth falls open.
Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.
Arabellaâs eyes shine with something like pride.
Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.
He doesnât assume. He doesnât claim. He asksâwith his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.
âWill you?â he murmurs.
Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.
You think of your motherâs disappointment, your fatherâs silence, your sistersâ cruelty.
You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.
You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.
And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.
Love is not a performance.
Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.
You take a breath.
Then you step forward.
âYes,â you say, voice trembling but sure. âI will.â
Buckyâs eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.
He bows over your handânot for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.
When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.
The engagement is a storm.
Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.
Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.
He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.
Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your âluck,â as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, âI didnât know you could be⊠chosen,â and you realize she never believed you could be either.
Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, âHe looks at you like youâre his whole world,â as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.
And ArabellaâArabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.
âIâm sorry,â she says quietly.
Your throat tightens. âFor what?â
âFor not noticing sooner,â she admits, eyes glossy. âFor letting Mama and the others make you feel small.â She swallows. âI was so busy trying to be perfect that I didnât see what it cost you.â
You blink, stunned. âArabellaâŠâ
She shakes her head. âHe sees you,â she says, and the words are soft, aching. âAnd Iâm glad. Iâm glad you found someone who does.â
You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if sheâs been holding guilt for years.
On your wedding day, the world is still loud.
There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.
But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.
He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.
About you.
About doing this right.
As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.
His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.
You take it anyway.
You do not flinch.
You do not hide.
And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.
Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escapeânot into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.
Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.
He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like heâs guarding you from the world.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You smile, small. âI should be asking you that.â
He huffs a quiet laugh. âFair.â
You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.
âYou lookâŠâ You search for the word.
He tilts his head. âLike what?â
âLike you can breathe,â you whisper.
His gaze softens. âYeah,â he admits. âBecause youâre here.â
Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.
You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.
He doesnât.
Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like itâs a kindness he still doesnât fully trust.
âYou know,â you whisper, âtheyâll still talk.â
He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. âLet them,â he says, voice steady. âThey can spend their lives whispering. Weâll spend ours living.â
You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. âI donât know how to be⊠loud.â
His mouth tilts, gentle. âThen donât be.â He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with itâcool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. âI didnât fall in love with loud.â
Your breath catches. âYouââ
âI did,â he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. âIn that library, when you read like you werenât afraid to exist. Iâve been done for ever since.â
A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. âThatâs not how courtship works.â
âIt is for me,â he murmurs.
He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.
You donât.
His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.
âYou donât have to disappear anymore,â he whispers.
You close your eyes, breathing him inâthe scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.
âI wonât,â you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.
Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.
But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.
You are chosen.
And in Bucky Barnesâs careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.
âŠBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŠ
âŠsummary: 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?âŠ
âŠwarnings/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 smutâŠ
âŠwc: 13.9kâŠ
âŠAuthor's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!âŠ
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesnât 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 wouldnât deserve that, and youâd just end up homeless on the street. Youâd have to sell your body, but youâve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldnât get you anywhere when youâd just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldnât deserve that. Heâs perfect. Heâs a mountain youâd love to scale, if you hadnât always been horrid at climbing. Youâd 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.
Youâre a member of that rare club. Itâs taken years of small kindnessâ and lingering in Steveâs shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, youâd never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasnât taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, itâs not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. Itâs too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When youâd asked Natasha whyâSteveâs a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you donât tell HRâsheâd just shrugged.
âItâs not Steve thatâs making them quit.â Sheâd hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadnât. You still donât. 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. Youâre trying to call him James, in your head. Itâs 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 heâs there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that heâs loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he canât 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 doesnât just stare at you. Itâs one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, heâs lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Buckyâs perfect. When youâd met him, heâd seemed as if heâd fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. Youâd never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. Youâd barely been able to breathe, and itâs only gotten harder since youâve known him.
At first look, Buckyâs a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. Heâs 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 doesnât waste time on things that donât matter, and youâd 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 itâs fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage youâve 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.
Itâs 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 itâs incredibly rude that he wonât just cut it out so you can focus.
âHowâs your mother?â You ask one night, when itâs just you and Bucky.
James. When youâre alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, itâs important to remember you should be calling him James.
âMy⊠Mother.â
Heâs staring at you like youâre crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesnât get to win.
âYou said she was moving.â You shrug, and Buckyâs tongue flicks over his lips.
âI did say that.â
âYeah. I know.â You pretend to turn over a paper. âI was there.â
Bucky snorts, and itâs enough to yank your attention up. Heâs shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
âWhat?â
âNothinâ.â Â
âWhat-â
âMy motherâs doinâ just fine.â Bucky says, staring at you across the room. âShe loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.â
You swallow. âOh, I- I didnât mean to-â
âDonât hurt yourself.â BuckyâJames, but itâs impossible to remember when he looks at you like thatâsmirks. âIâd want you over me every time, too.â
Thereâs no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isnât humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Buckyâs low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You donât succeed.
But thatâs a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because thatâs where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but youâve 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, youâve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. Itâs just⊠Never happened. And youâre certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You donât have a death wish, and youâre certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, youâre never going to risk anything. Youâve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every dayâtechnically he buys himself lunch, but youâre allowed to get whatever you wantâand 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 havenât 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.
Buckyâs might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothingâs worth it. Not when Bucky wouldnât even want you anyway.
Youâd rather have the gloves.
âYou get a plus one to this event, you know?â
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. âHuh?â
Steveâs lips twitch. âYou get a plus one.â
âOkay?â
âWasnât sure you knew.â He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
âOf course I knew. I send out all the invitations.â
âHm.â
âWhatâs hm? What does hm mean?â
âJust hm. Do you have the numbers, about-â
âTheyâre in front of you, Steven.â You narrow your eyes. âWhatâs hm mean.â
âTold you, nothing-â
âWhat.â
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Buckyâs mother, and you. At the time, youâd laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, youâre starting to think that last part might be true.
âYouâve just always had that plus one offered.â Steve mutters, looking at the reports like theyâve suddenly turned into something interesting. âNoticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.â
âI knew.â You snap, and Steve sighs.
âYeah, I thought you did.â
âThen whyâd you ask-â
âYou wanna get lunch?â Steveâs voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. âI think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?â
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you canât stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. Youâve never needed to.
Thereâs 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. Youâve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steveâs sideâbecause he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, youâll slack when youâre deadâand glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Buckyâs 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 wouldnât mind that youâre not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steveâs noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe heâs noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if heâs noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, heâs going to realize that youâre in love with his best friend, and heâs going to tell Bucky, and youâre going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you arenât emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
Itâs 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 donât want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You canât 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 youâre not even sure where youâd 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. Youâre by no means ugly, and youâve 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 youâre not sure what youâre looking for, because youâre really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people youâre Steve Rogerâs personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They wonât see. None of them will see.
And youâll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
âYou never tell me about your family.â
Buckyâs words are so low you almost donât hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
âYou never ask.â
His lips twitch down. âIâve told you about my family.â
âSo?â
âUsually.â He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. âWhen you tell someone about yourself, itâs an⊠Exchange of information.â
âAn exchange of information?â You snort. âIs that a CIA thing?â
âNot everything I do is a CIA thing.â
âEverything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.â
âNat was better at it than I was.â He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when heâs frustrated. For a grown man, itâs always rather adorable. âIâd like to know about your family.â
âIâŠâ You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
Heâs staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
âWhy?â
âBecause. Weâve worked together a while. I know⊠A lot about you.â He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. âYou know about me.â
âUh huh. Thatâs usually how being friends works.â
Bucky sighs. âYeah, well. Youâve met my mother. She adores you.â
âShe doesnât adore me-â
âShe adores you.â
He says it like itâs really not up for debate. You flush. âOh- Okay.â
âEveryone you meet adores you.â Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. âAnd I tell you everything about me.â
You donât think thatâs true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Buckyâs just like thatânot big on sharingâso you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but itâs far from everything. âBu- James-â
âBucky.â He corrects, and you sigh.
Heâs not making that part easy, either.
âBucky.â You say, smooth and careful. âYou know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But Iâm not all that interesting.â
âI disagree.â He mutters. âYouâre impossibly interesting.â
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldnât 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 heâs got those big, deft fingers that youâve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and heâs giving you compliments. Compliments like theyâre just breathing, like he doesnât even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
âWhat do you want to know?â You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, itâs going to drag you under like quicksand.
âWhatâs your favorite kind of flower?â
âMy favorite flower-â
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
âI donât know. Iâve never really thought about it.â
Bucky grunts. âWell, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.â
âI- Iâve never been given flowers.â
âYouâve never-â Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. âEver?â
You can hear the what about that he wonât say. What about a boyfriend.
If heâs not brave enough to ask itâalthough you donât understand why heâd careâyou donât have to be brave enough to answer it.
âNo. Never ever.â You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Buckyâs attention, and you both wish heâd take it back and never want him to stop pushing. Youâve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and youâd rally rather not explore what that means right now.
âYou need to sign these.â You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Buckyâs hands again.
Theyâre curled in fists. Youâd like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. âSteve told me not to let you go home, until you did.â
Bucky chuckles at that, though thereâs still a strange look in his eyes. âNot let me go home, huh.â
âYes, sir.â You drawl.
Buckyâs knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
âAnd how would you stop me from gettinâ home, kid?â
âWith lots of talent.â You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. âAnd my body.â
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee mustâve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
âFine. Iâm fine.â He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. âPapers.â
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
âJames, are you-â
âBucky.â He grunts. âPapers, sweetheart.â
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. Youâre not sure whatâs happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you donât want to overthink it.
Itâs only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You canât blame him. He canât 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.
Steveâs on a conference call, and youâre lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. Youâre only there in case he forgets something, and you donât 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 youâre saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
Itâs 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 youâre 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 heâs built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength youâve seen straining through Buckyâs suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kidsâhis sisterâs, according to the captionâbut you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the childrenâs hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person youâd been worried youâd get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but theyâre not as pretty as Buckyâs. Cal is in the military, but heâs 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 doesnât make you feel bubbly like Buckyâs. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobsâall their photos showing them driving Maseratiâs and drinking expensive whiskeyâbut one of the things youâve always loved about Bucky is how he doesnât brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150âhe always grumbles that he just needs it to tell timeâand he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damienâs profile, and heâs got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you donât 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 glanceâbeefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photoâand squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. Jamesâ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual funâyou canât be causal, or have fun, but itâs always nice to pretendâlocated 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. Â Â
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. Jamesâ next photo doesnât show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. Youâve 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. Sheâd taken him home, and youâd heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. Youâd been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. Youâd 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 heâs made of stars.
Heâs seen this photo. Everyone whoâs 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 Buckyâs profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words Itâs a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like youâre insane. You feel insane.
âAre you-â
âI need to go to the bathroom!â You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but youâre already running.
You have to pass Buckyâs officeâright next to Steveâsâto get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
Heâs 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.
âBut- I can help-â
âI know. Iâm telling you not to.â He gives you a small smile. âYouâve earned the break.â
âSteve-â
âYouâre allowed to just rest,â he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. Youâre not.
âPlease give me something to do.â You plead, and Steve sighs.
âKid, you donât have to prove something-â
âPlease.â If you donât have anything, youâre just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And thatâs 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 theyâre 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 hasnât seen it at all, and youâre 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.
Itâs your best hope. That heâll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. Thatâs a thing you hear men do.
Buckyâs not the type to do that.
Heâs also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you donât know him as well as you thought you did.
But youâre pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someoneâs been catfishing as James Barnes, but thereâs no real hope of that with the bar photo. Youâre 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. Youâre not very patient. And youâre 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 doesnât push you to come back. If anything, heâs still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
âItâs going to help more than⊠What youâre doing right now.â He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
âThis is helping plenty.â You mutter. Steve sighs.
âLook, Iâm really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldnât take it if you didnât need it.â
âBut?â You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
âBut I wish youâd tell me what was goinâ on.â He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. âSo I could help.â
You give him a tight smile. âSteve-â
âAnything you need. If I canât get it, Iâm sure Bucky or Nat could-â
âSteve.â You donât want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why youâve gone into hiding. âI- I really donât want to talk about it.â
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.
âCan you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?â He asks after a week. âPeople are noticing Iâm missing my brain.â
You laugh softly. âIâm sick.â
âBut youâre not.â
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Buckyâs sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and youâve read none of them. You donât want to hear his gentle rejection, because itâs going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
âWeâre worried about you.â Steve says. âAnd again, no rush to come back, but I donât know how to work my own schedule and Buckyâs started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-â
âBuckyâs pacing?â You blurt, and Steve blinks.
âYeah? Think he misses you, too.â
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you donât want to know. That heâs been thinking about. That heâs been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
âIâll be back soon.â You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You donât want to know. âJust- A few more days.â
Steve looks at you like he doesnât believe you. You donât believe you.
But youâre a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesnât have to be anything at all.
Youâre going to keep going, and this wonât have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that youâre okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a rowâand you think heâs blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasnât snitched about anythingâbut 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.
Heâs staring more than he used to, and heâd always stared quite a lot. When youâre 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 Steveâs 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 wasnât paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
âWhat?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?â
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you donât see it.
You still havenât looked at the messages. Youâre not going to. And he hasnât brought it up, so itâs like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now youâre suspended in a world where Bucky doesnât even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
âDid something happen?â He asks softly. âDid Bucky⊠Say something to you?â
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. âWha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, itâs fine.â You laugh, high and nervous. âEverythingâs fine.â
Steve hums, and he doesnât believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. âYou know⊠Iâve known Bucky a long time.â
âI know. Iâve read the about page.â
He laughs, shaking his head. âNo. I mean, yes, but-â He sighs. âBuckyâs not good at⊠Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.â
âOkay.â Heâs shown you nothing but silence and stares.
âAnd he, um- Heâs a good guy-â
âIâm aware.â
âI know you are, but-â Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. âJust, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you donât want to, donât. Iâd rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that heâd pressure you,â he adds quickly. âBut if thereâs ever⊠Anything. And Iâve been wrong about⊠Stuff. Just know youâre as valuable as he is.â
Heâs speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. âOkay.â
âOkay.â Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. âAnd is there⊠Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?â
Itâs a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steveâs 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 donât 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.
âNo.â You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. âWhy, is there something you need to tell me?â
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. âNo. Just⊠You were missed.â
Thereâs a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
âBy everyone.â
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steveâs office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Buckyâs 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 youâd like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like heâd grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and youâve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if heâs disgusted, just from the sight of you.
âYou look nice.â He rasps, and you canât tell if youâre glowing or burning out.
âThank you.â
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. âWe all missed you.â
âIâve been told-â
âI missed you.â He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming youâre not even sure what to do with yourself.
Youâve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
âI, uh- Iâll leave you to it-â
âYou too.â You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. âI- I missed you too.â
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you donât 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 itâs 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.
Thereâs a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You donât move from the couch at first, because you think itâs a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. Thatâs Buckyâs voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you havenât even seen him yet, but heâs already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like youâre made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You canât really stand at all.
When you finallyâsomehowâmake it to the door, Buckyâs standing on the other side like heâs awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like youâre 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.
âHi.â You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
âHey.â
âWhatâre you-â
âI wanted to check on you.â He blurts, and you freeze. âAnd- Talk.â
You ignore that last part. Itâs the last thing you want to do. âIâm fine.â
Buckyâs pretty lips tug down. âYou took two weeks off.â He mutters. âYou donât even take sick days.â
You swallow. âI- I was trying to take care of myself-â
âBy working the whole time?â He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
âYouâre supposed to be takinâ tonight off too.â He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
âYouâre not my boss.â
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. âTrust me, doll. Iâm fully aware of that.â
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
âJamesâŠâ
âBucky.â He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
âBucky, I- Iâm fine, really-â
âI brought you flowers.â He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
Heâs holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. Itâs 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 theyâll dissolve the moment you touch them. They donât. And Bucky clears his throat.
âI, uh- I gave you options, and-â He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. âCan I come in? Please?â
You canât think of a good reason to say no. You donât even think youâd get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Buckyâs 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 canât think like that. Itâs 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 youâve ever seen on his handsome face.
âTell me if Iâm steppinâ over the line.â He starts, urgent and pleading. âYou gotta tell me if Iâm steppinâ over the line.â
âBucky-â
âWe both know why Iâm here.â He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
âI- Iâm sorry.â You mumble. âI didnât mean to-â
âYou didnât?â Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. âAt all?â
You blink. âNo, I- I donât know.â
âYou donât know if you meant it?â
You nod, and Buckyâs jaw works tight.
âCould you?â
âWhat?â
âCould you mean it?â He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
âJa- Â Bucky.â You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, youâre too fragile to fall for it. âI- I donât know.â
âWhy not?â He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. âIs it me?â
âIs it you?â
âYeah, I- I mean- You donât really date.â He clears his throat. âAnd Stevieâs never told me why, âcause- Iâm not your boss, but Iâm not not your boss- âs what Sam says-â
Youâve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like heâs not sure of the next work. Itâs just as endearing as the display at the desk, but youâre even less sure what to do with it. âBucky-â
âIf itâs just me that youâre not- Thatâs the reason.â Heâs standing over you now. Bowing his head. âThen thatâs fine. Iâm not gonna be an ass about it. ButâŠâ His shoulders slump. âIf itâs not that. Then I- Iâd like toâŠâ
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But youâre lost. Nothing heâs saying is making sense, and youâre almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
âWhat?â You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
âYou never answered my messages.â He mutters. âFigured Iâd need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.â He clears his throat, lips twitching. âEven if itâs a no.â
âEvenâŠâ You frown. âEven if whatâs a no?â
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. âIâm⊠Asking you out. On a date?â
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club. Â
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
âYou read my messages, right?â
You shake your head, and he groans.
âI- Iâm sorry-â
âNo, itâs- Itâs my fault.â He mutters. âNat told me you were oblivious-â
You cut him off indignantly. âI am not oblivious-â
âWe matched on a dating app.â He drawls, lips twitching slightly. âAnd youâre shocked Iâm askinâ you out.â
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. âI thought you made a mistake.â 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 thatâs 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, Buckyâs arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Buckyâs tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. Youâve been swept out to sea, and thereâs no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Buckyâs looking at you, youâre not sure youâd ever ask to be saved.
âYou.â Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. âAre not a mistake. And if someoneâs been tellinâ you that you are.â He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. âTheyâre damn lucky youâre lettinâ them make it.â
Dear God. Youâre not strong enough for this.
âJamesâŠâ You breathe out, and his brows knit. âBucky. Donât.â
He tenses around you. âDonât?â
âDonât.â You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. âDonât do this.â
Bucky leans a little back, but doesnât pull fully away. âWhy not? I told you, if itâs not âcause of me, we can work it out-â
âBucky-â
âIâll quit.â He says suddenly, and you gape.
âYouâre the boss, you canât quit-â
âThere are like, four bosses.â Bucky waves you off. âFive if weâre countinâ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckinâ work. Iâll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-â
âBucky.â You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. âJust- Stop. You canât quit, you shouldnât-â 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. Itâs so pathetic, but youâre tired and overwhelmed and you canât take him doing this to you twice. Youâre not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you canât handle him pretending you are.
âItâs not nice.â You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as youâd always imagined. You wish you werenât crying when it finally happened.
âWhatâs not nice.â Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
âYou.â
âMe?â
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
âWhat about me isnât nice?â
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You canât stop. Itâs like a reflex. âYou canât- You canât say that stuff. âS mean.â
âMe tellinâ you Iâd quit for you is mean?â
âYou donât mean it.â
Bucky tenses. âI do mean it-â
âNo, itâs not- Iâm not-â You swallow, breathing him in. âI donât just wanna beâŠâ
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. âBe what?â
âBe fun.â You mumble. âI canât do fun, you know than, and- And if youâre not serious, then-â
âIâm dead serious.â Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
âJames-â
âNo. Listen to me.â He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so youâre 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 youâre the most important thing in the world.
âI am serious about this. About you.â He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. âI have wanted you since I met you. Donât look at me like that,â he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. âI have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and Iâve been obsessed with you so much, Natâs slapped me about it twice.â
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You canât look at him right now. âYour profile said looking for casual.â You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
âLast year, Sam made that thing for me. âCause I was obsessed with Stevieâs new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.â
âHm.â You peek at him. He looks sincere. âDid you?â
âI got under many someoneâs.â He shrugs. âDidnât have Samâs intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.â
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
âI want you.â Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and heâs still not looking away. âYouâre in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. Itâs all I need. Please.â
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesnât even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and youâve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
âIâm a virgin.â You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
âOkay-â
âI canât do what others can. For you. And I- I donât 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-â Youâre rambling. âI just donât know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and Iâm not- Youâre very- You.â
You gesture over his everything, and Buckyâs lips twitch.
âThat a problem, doll?â
âNo. God, no. Youâre perfect, Iâm just- Not? And thatâs not really fair to you-â
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
Youâve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. Itâs 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 secondâhis lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then rebootsâand then itâs 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 Buckyâs, 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 Buckyâs 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. Heâs 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.
âI like you.â Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
âBucky-â
âYouâre what I want.â He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. âYour body.â He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. âIs a bonus.â
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky mightâve sucked your soul out with that kiss. Youâd 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.
âYou like me too.â He mutters, watching you like heâs somehow still unsure.
âMhm.â You say, and he stands a little taller.
âHow long-â
âThe same.â
âOh.â He grins. âGood. Thatâs- Good-â
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. Itâs not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. Itâs almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. Youâre going to punch him.
âJesus.â He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. âYou gotta slow down, baby-â
âDonât want to.â You breathe, pulling at his shirt. âWant you, Bucky. Want you now.â
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. âYou⊠Youâre a virgin-â
âThen show me.â
Bucky says your name, and now heâs the one begging. But youâre not letting him off this easy.
âShow me, Bucky.â 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.
âPlease.â You whisper. âAnything. I just want to feel you.â
âFeel me.â He echoes, like he canât believe it. âYou wanna feel me?â
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
âAnd you want me to show you.â He rasps. âAll the different ways I can make you feel good.â
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Buckyâs eyes shoot open.
âYeah?â He grunts, and you whine.
âYeah. Yes. Please-â
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like heâs trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like heâs trying to leave a mark.
âWanted this for so long.â He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. âWanted you. So fuckinâ bad.â
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You canât have enough of him. Heâs warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. Youâd like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
âSo gorgeous.â Buckyâs hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. âThought about you all the time, hated beinâ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havinâ you be mine.â
âI- I wanted you too.â You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. âAlways wanted it to be you, never- Oh-â
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. Heâs 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.
âNever anyone else,â you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Buckyâs thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
Itâs a perfect pressure where youâd been craving any of his attention, and itâs 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. Â
âNo one else.â He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. âNever gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,â he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. âSure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkinâ of you.â
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. âBucky, you donât have to-â
âIâm not lying.â 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 youâre looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
âNo one,â he murmurs. âWas ever gonna live up to you. First few months Iâd fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like Iâd done you wrong.â
âYou- You didnât-â
âYeah, I did. We coulda been doinâ this a lot sooner.â
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Buckyâs 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.
âWhat if Iâm notâŠâ You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. âWhat if I donât-â
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
âWhat if Iâm not the fantasy, Bucky.â You look back up with your best pleading eyes. âWhat if that- That idea of me isnât worth what you thought?â
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You canât 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 canât reach him again.
Buckyâs 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.
âI love you,â he mutters. âI told you. And remember,â he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. âIâm helpinâ you through it, right?â
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
âTrust me?â
âYes.â You breathe, and he grins.
âGood girl.â
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. Youâre shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like heâs reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. âYou enjoyed other things before?â
You nod, unable to tell if thatâs another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
âLike what?â He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. âTell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.â
âI- I want to be under.â You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you wouldâve rather died with an hour ago. âWant you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.â
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
âTell- Tell me how good Iâm doing. And- Other stuff.â
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like heâs going to eat you alive. âOther stuff?â He rasps, and you nod weakly.
âIf you can- Can do that.â Itâs hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until youâre voice is high and breathy. âDo that, and- and be-â
âBe a little mean?â He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
âA little mean.â You echo, and Bucky grins.
âYes, maâam.â He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. âThink thatâs enough outta you for now.â
âWha- Bucky-â
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 canât follow.
âBucky, come back-â
âNope.â He grins, like he knows youâre already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. âYou want me to show you?â
You scowl. âJames-â
âCall me whatever you want, baby. You ainât gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.â He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. âWant me to show you.â
He wonât come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and youâre hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesnât even lean closer.
âAlright.â He stands a little taller. âStrip.â
You blink at him. âWhat?â
âStrip.â
âLike, completely?â
âHm.â He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldnât make you feel more turned on. âYep. All of this, off.â
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like heâs expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, youâre going to explode if he doesnât make you cum. And youâve 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. Buckyâs 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 youâve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like heâs trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
âPants.â He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
âPlease?â
Bucky chuckles, like he canât believe you. âJesus, woman-â
âItâs polite-â
âIf you donât take your pants off.â He grunts, giving you a firm look. âIâm gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.â
You swallow. That doesnât 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.
âNext time?â
He softens slightly, and nods. âNext time. Pants.â
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 Buckyâs mercy.
And heâs 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 heâs back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
âLook at you.â He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. âBetter than a dream.â
âThank you.â Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. Youâve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, itâs simply not enough. âBucky- You-You need to touch me-â
âI know.â He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. âNeed you to be ready, just-â
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. Youâre panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
âShirt.â He grunts. âGet my shirt off.â
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Buckyâs relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
âI know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.â He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. âTold you Iâve been thinkinâ about it forever. âBout every single way Iâd take you if I got the chance. And Iâm gonna show you all of them,â he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. âBut tonight, weâre takinâ it easy.â
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. âI- I donât want easy-â
âI know, baby.â He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. âBut youâre so sensitive.â
If you had the power right now, youâd 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.
âYou need to take care of the buttons.â He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. âThey need a little extra attention.â He rubs his thumb back and forth. âBefore we get goinâ.â
âFuck- Bucky-â 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. âFuck you-â
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. âWeâre getting there, needy girl.â
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what heâs 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.
âThatâs it.â Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. âDoesnât that feel good, baby?â
You nod, watching him move on you. âBu- Bucky-â You pull on his collar. âHelpâŠâ
âYouâve got it.â He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. âJust keep tryinâ.â
There is no world where you have it, but Buckyâs 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.
âAll the ways Iâve pictured havinâ you.â He mutters. âThis is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.â
âYouâre- Youâre touching me-â
âNot like I could touch you.â He says, a deep promise in his voice. âTold you, Iâm going easy on my best girl. But if I wantedâŠâ
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. âBucky-â
âEvery time Iâve seen you, layinâ on the couch.â He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. âIâve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckinâ body. Touching these tits,â he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. âTouchinâ this sweet little pussy.â He plays with your clit like it a toy. âAnd makinâ you squirt all over Stevieâs nice cushions.â
âIâd look at you.â You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. âIn your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.â
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. âShit, Iâve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock âtill youâre sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever youâd bend over Iâd just want to drag your ass back and fuck it âtill you were drooling.â
âFuck, yes.â Youâve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Buckyâs crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
âShit, you- Canât just fuckinâ-â Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
âNeed it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-â
âNo.â He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. âCanât be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad youâre just grabbinâ for it, wasnât even able to get my shirt off-â
âItâs a mean game.â You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
âYou started it.â He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until youâre just groping for something of him to hold onto.
âWhy canât you just- Just fuck me-â
âBecause you wanted to be a good girl.â Buckyâs kisses are turning slow. Lazy. Heâs 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 youâd be happy to lose for him, if heâd just take it.
âAnd I want to show you.â Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. âBut youâve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?â
You shake your headâyou do not want a breakâbut Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
âBu- Bucky-â
âLook at me.â He orders, and you donât 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.
Itâs a risk youâre willing to take.
âHi.â He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
âHi.â
âYou still in this?â
You nod, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
âIâd like you to say it-â
âYes, sir.â You canât help yourself from saying it.
Itâs supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like youâve lost your mind.
âYouâre lucky youâre so pretty.â He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. âOtherwise youâd be a really fuckinâ brat.â
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like youâve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
âOne day.â He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. âIâm gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckinâ suffocate between your legs.â
Youâre shaking, watching him. Heâs talking like heâs 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-
âYouâre so reactive,â he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. âThink I could make you squirt on me. Itâll be like this,â he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. âLike this. But my tongue,â he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. âAnd your needy clit beinâ sucked like Iâve got some fuckinâ candy.â
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. Itâs almost blindingly good.
âYouâre makinâ such nice sounds for me.â Bucky mutters. âBet youâll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.â
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think itâs going to snap, Buckyâs hand moves back down.Â
âYou feel this, baby?â He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. âSheâs ready for me.â
âYes.â You breathe. âReady, Bucky, please- Wait-â
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time itâs for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
Heâs 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.
âLegs around me.â He orders, and you obey. Itâs 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.
âShit- Bucky!â You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. âOh- Ooh-â
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 itâs a nice wealth to be crushed under. Youâre losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You donât know how heâs kept it together so long. You feel like youâre going to cry with desperation, and youâre fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. Itâs a hot pressureâstill far from what you need, but enough to tide you overâand Buckyâs wall of muscle around might be the best things youâve 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.
âBu- Bucky-â
âIâm gonna start slow.â He murmurs, low and commanding. âThen pick it up. Fuck you âtill you canât walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.â He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. âThat sound good?â
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
âGood girl.â You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. âStay down.â
You donât understand the request until heâs 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.
âEasy.â He murmurs. âRelax.â
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.
âLet me see you.â His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. âNice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.â
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You canât stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. Youâve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
âYou just walk around all the time?â He teases. âWaiting for some cock to fill you up.â
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
âYeah?â
âMhm.â You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. âNeed to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.â
He swears under his breath. âLegs a little wider. Now.â
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.
âDirty girl.â He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. âSo fuckinâ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldnât you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.â He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. âMy smart fuckinâ baby, begging for my cock.â
âDonât- Donât tease-â You mumble, and Bucky grins.
âBut youâre so pretty when I do.â
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Buckyâs hands are gentle against you. And you know.
Heâs going to treat you well.
âYou think you can let go for me?â His question is gentle. Almost soft. âAlways workinâ so hard.â He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. âIâm gonna take care of you, arenât I.â
âYes.â You whisper. âPlease.â
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. âThatâs right. You just gotta take it.â
You donât get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And youâre not a blushing nun. Youâve 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.
âBreathe.â He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. âBreathe, baby.â
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Buckyâs 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 isnât feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or youâre going to lose your mind.
âMore.â You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
âAre you-â
âYes- Fuuuuck-â
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 couldâve ever felt possible. Your body feels like itâs singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you werenât even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
âShit- Relax.â His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. âLet me in, babydoll, come on-â
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Buckyâs head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. Youâre just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
âYou feel⊠fuckinâ perfect.â
Buckyâs voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
âYou too.â You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
âOh⊠God.â You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
âYou gotta stop doinâ that-â
âCanât.â You whine. ââS- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-â
His muscles shift around you, and thatâs 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.
âFor someone who asked me to teach her, youâre bad at takinâ directions.â
âYou- Bucky-â Heâs fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. âYou- You knew that already-â
âI did.â He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. âItâs something that I love about you, yâknow? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.â
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.
âNot right now, though.â His lips twitch. âBet youâd tell me anythinâ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?â
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. âAny- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-â
His thumb swipes your clit, and itâs like a tiny shock you canât even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
âThink I donât want you to talk right now.â Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. âWeâre a little past that, arenât we sweetheart?â
Thereâs 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.Â
âYe- Yes.âÂ
âMightâve fucked you nicely, if weâd just talked a month ago.â He raises his brows. âBut you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.â
âI- I was-â
âI know.â He kisses your nose. âYou are a fuckinâ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.â
âI- I did.â You confess. âNeeded your cock, Bucky. Youâre- Youâre so big-â
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 Buckyâs sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
âYou feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?â He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. âAll yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.â
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
âYouâre a natural.â He groans against your skin. âMade for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-â
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
âYouâre trying so hard, arenât you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.â
âI- I am, Bucky- Please-â
âYou gonna be good and listen to me, now?â
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
âHands on my shoulders.â He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. âMouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.â
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Buckyâs lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
âJust like that. Good, isnât it?â
âSo good.â You whine, and Bucky hums.
âStay just like this for me, doll.â He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didnât know you could make is pulled from your chest.
âBuuccky-â
âI know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.â He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. âIâve got you now.â
And he does.
Buckyâs got you so good, youâre already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way heâs been kissing and touching you. Like heâs trying to lay a claim. Make it so thereâs no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but itâs not rapid. Itâs the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what heâs doing.
If thereâs a pleasure point on your body, Buckyâs 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 canât think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. Youâre 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. Youâre so wet itâs 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 itâs going to explode.
Buckyâs 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 donât. Youâre probably already screaming.
âI- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-â
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. Youâre writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
âYou having some trouble, babydoll?â Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
âLet go for me.â He squeezes your ass. âJust let go.â
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before youâre coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and youâve 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.
Thereâs 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. Itâs slower, like heâs trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
âThat wasnât too-â
âPerfect.â You whisper, and he relaxes.
âGood. Good.â 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 youâre the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like youâre a princess, a treatment you never thought youâd 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.
âWe got things to talk about.â He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
âI know.â
âI was serious, about all of it-â
âI believe you.â
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesnât matter if youâre the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And thatâs more than enough.
âIâd like to take you out.â He says. âOn a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-â
âYes.â You beam. âYes, please. Iâd like that a lot.â
âŠEnd note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.âŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
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Summary: Backstage, you were just the agencyâs trusted makeup artist... until the calls got urgent, the secrets got heavier, and Steve and Bucky realized you werenât only hiding stress⊠you were hiding a whole identity. When the truth finally comes out, they have to decide whatâs real: your name, your power, or the feelings youâve been trying so hard to protect.
Wordcount: 20k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Warnings:Â MDNI, hidden identity, secret relationship, friends to lovers, mutual pining, polyamory, triad, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, confession, protective steve, protective bucky, comfort, emotional intimacy, fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), protected p in v, praise and degradation, panic/anxiety symptoms, fear of being used for money/status, family pressure / succession / corporate control, injury mention (minor fall / sprained ankle), workplace stress, invasion of privacy (calls/pressure)
Elixir's Arcade Event: Pair with secret billionaire + model AU
A/N: This is my last entry for the event, and trust me when I say this was the one where the plot was the hardest to find until my brain finally came with an idea. This was beta read by Cassie, a big thank you to you my dear as always.
Masterlist
Backstage always felt like its own country â stitched together from clipped voices, hanging fabric, and the soft, constant hiss of steamers. The air was warm from the lights and heavy with the scent of hairspray and powder, sweet florals from perfume samples, and the faint bite of coffee that somebody had set down and forgotten. There were mirrors everywhere, each one framed in bulbs that turned skin into something almost cinematic. People moved fast but quietly, like the whole place had learned to breathe around the fact that the camera could start rolling at any second.
Youâd been here long enough that the chaos didnât pull at you anymore.
You stood at your station with a belt of brushes around your waist and your kit open like a surgeonâs tray â clean, orderly, exactly where your hands expected everything to be. Someone from wardrobe hurried past with a garment bag, murmuring a quick âSorry â excuse me,â and you shifted half a step without even looking up, still focused on the palette under your fingers.
âFive minutes,â a production assistant called, somewhere behind you.
You didnât flinch. Five minutes could be an eternity or a heartbeat in your world. Youâd learned how to stretch it.
Bucky was already in your chair, legs stretched out like he owned the place, elbows braced on the armrests. He looked unfairly good even before youâd done anything â bone structure that makeup artists would sell their souls for, lashes that didnât make sense, that stubborn line of his mouth that photographers loved because it always looked like he was about to say something he wasnât supposed to.
He was watching you with that particular, lazy focus he had when he wasnât pretending not to pay attention.
âYouâre doing that face,â he said.
You glanced up, one brow lifting. âWhat face?â
âThe one where youâre about to commit a crime with a blending brush.â
âThatâs not a crime.â
âIt is if you turn me into a dewy woodland creature again.â He tipped his chin as if that was evidence enough. âThe magazine called it âethereal.â Iâm still recovering.â
You huffed a laugh and reached for a sponge. âIt was one editorial. And you liked it.â
Buckyâs mouth quirked. âI liked that you liked it.â
That â soft, almost accidental â landed somewhere warm in your chest. You masked it by leaning closer, tapping concealer beneath his eye with practiced precision. Up close, you could see the faint freckles on his cheekbones that the camera never quite caught unless the lighting was cruel. You could also see the small scar near his brow that he pretended wasnât there, as if ignoring it would make it disappear.
Your fingertips were gentle, but not apologetic. Youâd never treated him like he was breakable. He trusted you for it.
âYouâre early,â you said, because routine mattered. It was a safe line. A normal one.
âIâm not early,â Bucky argued immediately.
âYouâre in my chair. That means youâre early.â
He blinked as if youâd surprised him with logic. âThatâs⊠not how that works.â
âItâs exactly how it works,â you said, and smoothed the edge of the concealer until it melted into his skin. âYouâre early because you like to sit here and be annoying.â
Buckyâs eyes narrowed. âI do not.â
You caught your own reflection in the mirror behind him â your posture calm, your mouth tilted like you already knew the outcome of this exchange. âYou do.â
A beat.
Bucky leaned in just a fraction, voice low enough that it felt like a secret. âAnnoying you is what Iâm best at.â
For a second, you forgot the noise around you. Forgot the bright bulbs, the rush, the assistant counting down time. Your hands stayed steady because they had to, because you couldnât afford tells, but the warmth slid up the back of your neck anyway.
You pressed the sponge once more under his eye, a little firmer than necessary. âGood,â you murmured. âAt least youâre specializing.â
Bucky chuckled, and it was the kind of sound that made people turn their heads. It didnât carry far, but it carried enough.
Across the room, Steve looked up.
He was standing near wardrobe, halfway into a tailored jacket that somebody was adjusting at the shoulders. Even surrounded by hangers and fussing hands, he had this steady gravity to him â as if the whole set organized itself around where he stood. His hair was half-done, pushed back off his forehead, and his expression was the calm, polite one he wore when he knew people were watching.
Bucky looked like he wanted to say something else, something that edged too close to truth, but the room shifted â someone calling for Steve, a stylist tugging at fabric, the photographer stepping onto the set and clapping once to get everyoneâs attention.
âSteve,â the photographer called, âyouâre up first.â
Steve turned, nodded, and then â before he stepped away â his eyes found yours again. He raised two fingers to his temple in a little salute, like he was some kind of dorky soldier acknowledging his spotter.
Bucky made a sound of disgust. âGod, heâs so wholesome itâs offensive.â
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Steve walked toward the set, the jacket settling onto his shoulders like it had been made for him alone. People parted for him instinctively. He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that didnât need to be announced. Under the lights, heâd look like a myth. Off them, he still did, just with softer edges.
You watched him go longer than you meant to.
When you looked back at Bucky, he was already smirking.
âWhat?â you said, flat.
âNothing.â
âBarnes.â
He held up his hands, innocent. âI didnât say anything.â
âYou donât have to,â you muttered, and reached for a clean brush to blend around his jawline, putting a little more distance between yourself and whatever that look was trying to tell you.
Buckyâs voice dropped again, just for you. âYou worry too much.â
Your brush paused.
He wasnât talking about the makeup.
You resumed blending, slower now, careful. âItâs my job.â
Buckyâs gaze stayed on you, steady and unguarded in a way that still startled you sometimes. âYour job is to make us look good.â
âSame thing,â you said automatically, and immediately hated yourself for it.
Buckyâs expression softened, almost imperceptible. He didnât call you on it. He didnât tease. He just said, quietly, âYouâre allowed to be taken care of too, you know.â
You swallowed, eyes dropping to your kit as if you could find an answer between lip liners and setting spray.
Before you could respond, your phone buzzed.
Once. Twice.
A third time, insistent.
You didnât look at it right away. You didnât want to. Even seeing the screen would yank you out of the bubble youâd carved out here â a bubble where you were just you, where your name didnât come with a shadow, where your hands did something useful and real.
The buzzing continued.
Bucky noticed. Of course he did. His gaze flicked down to your pocket, then up to your face. He didnât say anything this time. He just watched, patient, waiting to see what youâd do.
Steveâs voice carried faintly from the set â easy, cooperative, thanking someone for an adjustment. The photographer laughed at something he said. The shutters started, rapid-fire, like a heartbeat.
Your phone buzzed again.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, then pulled it out, angling the screen away on instinct. The name flashing across it made your stomach drop, even though youâd been expecting it.
Adam.
You didnât answer â couldnât, not here. Not in front of them. Not when one slip of tone could crack the careful life youâd built.
You silenced the call with a practiced swipe and slipped the phone back into your pocket like it hadnât mattered.
Except your hands had gone a little too still.
Bucky saw that too. His eyes narrowed, not suspicious yet â just attentive. âEverything okay?â
You forced your fingers to move again, reached for setting spray, clicked the nozzle once to test it, like the tiny ritual could anchor you. âYeah,â you lied, smooth as silk. âJust⊠family stuff.â
Buckyâs gaze stayed on you, and it wasnât the teasing kind anymore. âDo you wantââ
âIâm fine,â you cut in gently, then softened it with a small smile. âPromise.â
Bucky didnât look convinced, but he didnât push. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
Across the room, Steve stepped off the set for a wardrobe change, cheeks faintly flushed from the heat of the lights. His eyes swept the backstage area like he was looking for something to orient himself.
They found you.
You smiled automatically â small, careful, meant to reassure.
Steveâs expression shifted, just a fraction. Like heâd noticed something behind the smile. Like he could feel the crack even if he couldnât see it.
He started to walk toward you. And then a stylist called his name, tugging him back into place, and the moment snapped like a thread.
You turned back to Bucky, lifted the spray, and misted a fine veil over his face. âClose your eyes.â
Bucky did, obedient for once.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the simple things: the soft click of the bottle cap, the clean line of his jaw under your brush, the familiar hum of work. The kind of work that made sense.
The kind of work that didnât ask you to choose between being wanted and being known.
âOkay,â you said, stepping back to assess him critically. âYouâre done.â
Bucky opened his eyes and blinked at you. âHow do I look?â
âLike trouble,â you said, because it was true.
His grin returned, easy, relieved. âPerfect.â
He stood, rolling his shoulders, and for a second he leaned in, close enough that only you would hear.
âIf that family stuff gets worse,â he murmured, voice low and careful, âyou tell us, yeah?â
Us.
Not just him. Not just Steve. Both of them, like you were already a unit and nobody had said it out loud yet. Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to keep your smile steady. âYeah,â you said, softer than before. âI will.â
Bucky held your gaze a second longer, like he was memorizing the promise, then stepped away toward the set, sliding into his role like it was second nature.
You watched him go, then glanced toward Steve again.
Steve was under the lights now, waiting for his next shot, posture relaxed, expression composed. He looked like the kind of man who never had to worry about masks slipping.
But when he caught your eyes, there was something there â quiet, sincere, almost pleading.
A question he wasnât asking.
Not yet.
Your phone stayed heavy in your pocket, silent now but loaded with everything you were trying not to become.
You squared your shoulders, picked up a brush, and turned back to your kit like it could keep you safe.
Backstage roared on around you â fabric and laughter and camera clicks â while, somewhere under all that noise, the softest crack widened, waiting for the moment it would finally be seen.
The next time it happened, you almost missed it.
Backstage was the usual controlled storm â racks of clothing rolling over cables, assistants weaving through bodies with clipboards pressed to their chests, stylists calling out last-minute changes like prayers. A makeup artist somewhere laughed too loudly; the photographerâs voice carried from the set, upbeat and commanding. Someone sprayed hairspray and the scent drifted across your station in a sweet, chemical cloud.
Your hands moved on autopilot. Powder. Concealer. A small tap of highlighter on the inner corner of Steveâs eye, because the lights on set were harsh today and you knew exactly how to soften them.
Steve sat in your chair, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on his own reflection as if he was trying to pretend he wasnât being fussed over. He had a way of being patient that wasnât passive â he made stillness look like something heâd chosen.
âYouâre quiet,â he said, voice low enough that only you would hear over the chaos.
âIâm always quiet,â you lied lightly, leaning in to blend along his cheekbone.
Steveâs mouth twitched. He didnât call you out. He just watched you in the mirror, his eyes tracking the smallest shifts in your expression like heâd been doing it for weeks now â like heâd learned to read the difference between your focused calm and the kind of calm that came from holding something down.
Before you could answer, your phone vibrated against your thigh.
One short buzz.
You kept your face neutral. Didnât reach for it. Most people wouldnât even have noticed, not with the noise and movement around you.
But Steve noticed everything.
His eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, then returned to your face â careful, not intrusive, like heâd been trained not to stare at wounds.
You ignored the phone. Finished the blending. Reached for setting powder.
The phone buzzed again.
Longer this time.
You felt it like a heartbeat you hadnât asked for.
You set the powder down with a touch too much precision. âHold still,â you murmured, just to give yourself something to say.
âIâm holding still,â Steve replied, obedient, but his gaze sharpened a little. âYou donât have to pretend with me.â
You froze â not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it. You forced your hand to move again, sweeping powder across his forehead with the gentlest strokes.
âItâs nothing,â you said.
Steveâs expression didnât change. But his voice softened. âOkay.â
He didnât push. He never pushed. That was part of what made him dangerous to your composure â he gave you room, and the room made it harder to hide.
The buzzing stopped. The moment passed. You breathed again.
And then, ten minutes later, it happened again.
Not a buzz this time. A call. Your phone lit up in your pocket and the vibration was insistent â continuous, urgent in a way personal calls rarely were during shoots. You felt the screen heat against your skin like it was trying to burn a hole through the fabric.
You didnât look at it. Not at first.
You kept your face smooth and reached for a brush, as if youâd planned to do that all along. You tilted your body slightly, using your shoulder to block the line of sight from anyone standing behind you.
You were good at angles. You built your whole life on them.
Steve watched you in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed â not suspicion, not accusation. Concern.
âDo you need to take that?â he asked quietly.
You forced a smile. âNo.â
The phone vibrated again, like it didnât believe you.
Across the room, Bucky was in wardrobe, halfway through shrugging into a coat that probably cost more than your first apartment. He was talking to a stylist, all casual charm, but his gaze lifted at the exact moment your smile faltered. It locked onto you like a hook.
You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that old instinct: donât let them see.
You stepped back from Steve. âIâll be right back,â you said, making it sound like a normal thing â like you were just grabbing another product.
Steveâs head turned slightly as you moved. âHey,â he called, soft and careful, not wanting to draw attention. âYou sure?â
You paused with your hand on your kit, fingers hovering above a compact you didnât need. You met his eyes in the mirror. For a second, you wanted to say yes â wanted to let the truth spill out, not the whole truth, but something real enough to breathe.
Instead you nodded once. âYeah.â
You slipped toward the edge of backstage, weaving between racks and people until you found a narrow corridor that smelled like dust and fabric and the bitter tang of black coffee. A quiet pocket. A place where the light didnât reach as hard.
You pulled your phone out.
The name on the screen made your chest tighten.
Adam.
Not âGrandpa.â Not a nickname. The contact label youâd chosen on purpose â formal enough that if anyone saw it, it could belong to anybody. A habit born from fear.
You let it ring one more time, because you were stubborn, because you were still clinging to the illusion that you could choose when your life demanded you.
Then you answered, voice pitched perfectly neutral. âHello?â
A breath on the other end, followed by his voice â warm, composed, threaded with something you almost never heard from him.
Impatience.
âWhere are you?â he asked.
âAt work,â you said, as if that should be answer enough.
âI know youâre at work. I meanâ are you alone?â
You glanced down the corridor. Nobody. You lowered your voice. âYes. Whatâs wrong?â
A pause. You could hear faint hospital ambience behind him â wheels on tile, a distant announcement, the murmur of another voice.
âMy ankle,â he said, as if heâd only just remembered. âItâs nothing. A foolish misstep. Your grandmother scolded me as if I were twelve.â
Your stomach dropped anyway. It didnât matter that he said ânothing.â It mattered that heâd called you like this, in the middle of a shoot, with urgency in his tone.
âWhat happened?â you asked, too quickly.
âI fell,â he admitted. âDo not worry. I am not breaking apart yet.â Then, softer: âBut it was a reminder.â
Your grip tightened around the phone. âA reminder of what?â
âTime,â he said simply. âAnd risk. We have been careful, you and I. We have been⊠perhaps too careful.â
You swallowed. You already knew where this was going. Youâd felt it circling for weeks, in the way heâd been asking about meetings, in the way heâd started bringing up succession as if it were weather.
âIâm in the middle of something,â you said, trying to keep your voice steady. âCan we talk later?â
âYou can,â he replied. âBut the board cannot. They want to see you. They want assurances. They wantââ
âNot now,â you cut in, sharper than you meant to. You closed your eyes, inhaled slowly. âIâm sorry. Not now.â
There was silence long enough that you could hear your own pulse.
When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. âIâm not calling to frighten you.â
That was, in itself, terrifying.
âI just need you to understand,â he continued, âthat I wonât be able to keep you hidden much longer.â
Hidden.
You pressed your free hand to your forehead as if you could physically hold yourself together. âYou promised,â you whispered.
âI promised to protect you,â he corrected. âNot to build you a cage.â
Your throat tightened.
âI like my job,â you said, and it came out too raw for a work call. âI like being⊠normal.â
âYou were never normal,â he said with a fondness that hurt. âYou were simply unseen.â
Unseen. Incognito. Safe.
Not real.
You swallowed hard. âI canât do this right now.â
âI know,â he said quietly. âBut you will. Soon. I need you in the office tomorrow morning. Ten oâclock. And I will need you to stop declining the boardâs invitations. They are beginning to take it personally.â
You could almost hear the unspoken part: They will start asking questions. The wrong people will start looking.
Tomorrow. Ten oâclock. An office you hadnât stepped into as yourself in months.
You rubbed your thumb over the edge of your phone. âOkay,â you said, voice flat with resignation. âIâll be there.â
âGood,â he replied, and you could hear relief slip into his tone. âAndâ my dearââ
âWhat?â
âBe careful,â he said. âNot of them. Of yourself. You have a habit of carrying things until they become too heavy.â
Your chest ached. You forced a thin laugh you didnât feel. âYouâre one to talk.â
He made a sound that mightâve been amusement. Mightâve been affection. âGo,â he said. âDo your work. We will speak later.â
The call ended.
You stared at the dark screen for a second too long, as if it might offer you another path. Then you slid the phone back into your pocket and leaned your head against the wall.
Just for a moment.
You let the weight settle behind your ribs. Let the fear take shape: the board, the announcement, the name that wasnât supposed to be attached to your face in a room full of people who would smile at you like sharks.
Then you pushed off the wall and walked back toward the light.
You knew what you looked like. You could already feel the difference in your posture â still composed, still efficient, but with something taut pulled tight under your skin. Youâd learned to be polished. You hadnât learned to be unafraid.
As you rounded the rack of clothes and stepped back into the hum of backstage, Steveâs gaze snapped to you immediately, like heâd been waiting for your return.
Buckyâs did too.
Steve didnât speak right away. He just watched you, eyes searching your face with quiet patience, giving you the chance to decide what to offer.
Bucky was less subtle. He leaned slightly forward from where he stood, the line of his shoulders sharpening, his expression alert.
You forced your mouth into the right shape. The familiar one. The one that said everything is fine, keep going, nothing to see here.
âSorry,â you said, light, breezy. âJustâ family.â
Steve didnât nod immediately. His eyes flicked to your pocket, then back to your face.
âEverything okay?â he asked again, softer this time.
You held his gaze and lied as smoothly as you could. âYeah. He just⊠worries.â
Buckyâs eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He crossed his arms, leaning back like he was playing it cool, but youâd worked with him too long to miss the tension in his jaw.
âMust be some kind of family,â he drawled, aiming for teasing and missing by a hair. âYouâve been getting those a lot lately.â
You laughed â too quick, too practiced. âHeâs dramatic.â
Steveâs expression stayed gentle. âDo you want a break?â
âNo,â you said immediately, because you couldnât afford breaks. Breaks gave people time to look at you closely.
You turned back to your kit and picked up a brush you didnât need, just to keep your hands moving. The familiar motions steadied you, like they always did.
But you could feel it now â the shift. The way the calls werenât just background noise anymore. The way they had teeth.
And you could feel Steve and Bucky watching, not like clients, not like coworkers, but like people who cared enough to notice when the air changed.
They didnât know what was coming.
But you had the sinking certainty that they were starting to sense it.
It didnât happen all at once.
Your life didnât split cleanly down the middle with one dramatic announcement, one headline, one explosive argument. It fractured the way ice does â quietly, invisibly â until you looked down and realized the surface youâd been standing on was webbed with cracks.
One morning, a few days after meeting with the board, you woke up to a calendar that no longer belonged to you.
Your phone was already lit when you reached for it, the screen glowing an accusing blue in the dimness of your bedroom. Notifications stacked like a second alarm clock: emails flagged urgent, messages marked high priority, meeting invites that had been accepted on your behalf by an assistant you didnât employ â at least, not in the life you were pretending to live.
Your ârealâ job â your actual day, the one you loved â was supposed to start with a shoot at nine. Steve and Bucky had back-to-back editorial looks, two hair changes, one wardrobe swap that would take a miracle and a prayer. You were meant to be there early, coffee in one hand, brush belt on your hips, ready to catch the chaos before it spilled.
Instead, your phone buzzed again.
A message from a number saved under a name you never used out loud.
Car is downstairs. Weâll take you through the service entrance.
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You didnât answer. You couldnât.
You dragged yourself out of bed, got dressed on autopilot, and forced your face into something composed in the bathroom mirror. You could do composed. Youâd built your entire adult life on it. You just hadnât expected to need it at eight in the morning with a meeting agenda you hadnât even agreed to.
When you arrived at the studio, the familiar backstage smell â warm lights, hairspray, fresh fabric â hit you like a memory. It shouldâve soothed you. It almost did.
Almost.
You stepped into your station with your kit, and your hands began doing what they always did: laying out brushes, wiping palettes, checking products. Normal. Grounding. A ritual that made your body believe you still had control.
Then your phone vibrated. Again.
You didnât even have to look to know it wasnât casual.
You angled the screen away from any wandering eyes and saw an email subject line that made your throat go tight:
You locked the screen and slid the phone under your makeup bag as if you could hide it there the same way youâd hidden yourself.
âHey.â
Steveâs voice, soft and close.
You looked up to find him standing at the edge of your station, still in sweats and a white tee, hair damp like heâd showered at the studio. Heâd brought you a coffee â he always did now, as if it had quietly become part of his routine to look after you in small ways you could pretend werenât meaningful.
He held it out. âThought you might need this.â
Your smile came too fast. Too bright. âYouâre a saint.â
Steveâs eyes flicked over your face, as if he was checking the way your smile sat. âYou okay?â
You reached for the cup, forcing your fingers not to shake. âYeah. Just⊠busy.â
âBusy like normal busy?â he asked, gently, like he was offering you the chance to correct the lie without calling you a liar. âOr busy like⊠something happened?â
Your chest tightened.
There was a moment â half a second â where you almost told him. Not everything. Not the name. But the simplest truth: my grandfather fell, and now the world Iâm hiding is knocking at the door.
Instead, you shrugged, light as air. âNormal busy.â
Steve didnât argue. He just nodded, but the nod was slow, thoughtful. Like he was storing the answer somewhere, filing it away.
From across the room, Buckyâs laughter cut through the noise â bright, sharp, and a little forced, the kind he used when he was playing âfineâ for other people. You glanced up instinctively and caught his eyes.
He was sitting in wardrobeâs chair, a stylist adjusting his collar, but his gaze was locked on you like a compass. He lifted an eyebrow, wordlessly asking: Whatâs going on?
You mouthed nothing back. You didnât know what you could say.
The day went like that â tightrope walking between your hands and your phone.
You did Steveâs base in record time, blended his contour like your life depended on it, fixed the way the lights made his skin look too harsh. You adjusted Buckyâs brow with a careful brush and pretended you didnât notice how his eyes kept flicking to your pocket every time your phone buzzed.
The calls werenât constant, not enough to justify panic.
They were worse.
They were patterned.
A buzz at 09:12. A call at 09:47. A calendar invite at 10:05. A voicemail at 10:06. An email marked âconfidentialâ at 10:07.
Like someone had put your day on a leash and was giving it short, sharp tugs.
You started slipping away in small increments â thirty seconds here, a minute there. Youâd step behind a rack, answer a call in a whisper, then return with your posture straight and your smile intact.
And every time you came back, the air around you felt a fraction different.
Not because anyone could name what had changed â but because Steve and Bucky could feel it.
They knew you. That was the problem.
It was midday when the first domino actually fell.
You were crouched by your kit, searching for a specific lip liner Bucky insisted was âthe only one that doesnât make me look like Iâm dying,â when your phone rang â an actual call, full volume, because youâd forgotten to put it on silent after the last one.
The sound was sharp and out of place in the backstage hum.
You froze.
For a second, the whole room seemed to hear it. Not because it was loud â because it was you. You werenât the person whose phone went off. You werenât the one who got interrupted. You were the calm center people moved around.
Steveâs head turned immediately.
Buckyâs too.
You snatched the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, and caught the name before you could stop yourself.
Not âAdamâ this time.
A different contact. One you never shouldâve been receiving calls from on set.
Chairman â Private Line.
Your blood turned cold.
You didnât answer. You couldnât â there were too many eyes, too much risk. You silenced it, heart pounding, then forced yourself to straighten like nothing had happened.
But the second you looked up, you knew youâd lost something.
Bucky was staring.
Not playful. Not teasing.
Alert.
Steveâs expression had gone very still, a quiet kind of concern sharpening into something closer to⊠calculation.
âWho was that?â Bucky asked.
He tried to make it casual. He failed. His voice was too careful, like he was stepping on glass.
You swallowed. âJustâ someone from my family.â
Buckyâs eyebrows lifted. âYour family has a chairman?â
Your breath caught.
Steveâs gaze flicked to Bucky â donât push â then back to you. Steveâs voice was softer when he spoke, almost a rescue rope. âYou donât have to tell us,â he said. âWeâre just⊠noticing.â
You forced a laugh, thin and brittle. âItâs not that dramatic.â
Buckyâs eyes didnât leave your face. âIt kind of looks dramatic.â
You set the phone down with deliberate calm, picked up the lip liner, and turned it between your fingers like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to avoid the fact that your chest felt too tight to breathe properly.
âIâve got stuff going on,â you said finally, steadying your voice. âThatâs all.â
Steve nodded slowly. âOkay.â
He didnât believe you. But he accepted what you were willing to give.
For the next hour, you worked like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts. You kept your focus on the faces in front of you because faces were easy â skin tone, symmetry, light. You could fix those. You couldnât fix the way your world was tightening around you.
And your agenda â your real agenda â kept mutating in real time.
At 14:00, you were supposed to be on set for the second shoot. You were supposed to touch up between shots, correct shine, fix flyaways, be the invisible pair of hands that kept everything perfect.
Instead, you got a text: Your grandfather needs you at the office. Now.
You stared at the words until they blurred. Your throat went dry.
There was no graceful way out of this.
You found the producer, lied smoothly about a âfamily emergency,â promised youâd be back before final looks. You grabbed your kit, but not all of it â only the essentials â because taking everything would look like an exit.
You felt Steveâs eyes on you the whole time.
When you turned, he was already moving toward you, a quiet urgency in his stride.
âHey,â he said, stopping just close enough that you could smell his cologne â clean, understated. âWhatâs going on?â
âNothing,â you said automatically.
Steveâs jaw tightened, the smallest sign of frustration youâd ever seen from him. Not anger â worry that didnât know where to go.
âOkay,â he said, voice low, âthen tell me why it feels like youâre disappearing.â
The words hit harder than they should have.
You blinked, and for a second you couldnât pretend. You couldnât do breezy. Your lungs forgot how to work.
âIâm not disappearing,â you managed, but it came out too quiet. Too honest.
Steveâs eyes softened. âIt feels like you are.â
Behind him, Bucky had drifted closer too â not in a confrontational way, but like he was drawn by gravity he didnât control. His posture was casual, arms crossed, but the tension sat high in his shoulders.
âYouâve been leaving,â Bucky said, blunt but not cruel. âA lot. And youâre not⊠yourself.â
You forced a smile that didnât reach your eyes. âIâm fine.â
Buckyâs gaze sharpened. âYou keep saying that like itâs a spell.â
Steve didnât interrupt. He just watched you like you were something precious he didnât want to handle wrong.
You hated how much you wanted to lean into that.
You hated even more that you couldnât.
âI have to go,â you said, and it wasnât an excuse this time. It was a fact. The leash tugged again, and you had no choice but to follow.
Steve stepped back slightly, giving you space, but his voice caught you before you could turn away.
âText me,â he said.
You paused. Looked at him.
He didnât say where are you going. He didnât say why are you leaving. He didnât demand details.
Just Donât vanish. Let me know youâre okay.
Bucky added, quieter than usual, âYeah. Justâ donât ghost us.â
The word landed wrong because it was too close to the truth.
You nodded once, throat tight, and then you turned and walked away before they could see the fear crack your composure.
In the car, the city moved past the tinted windows like a film you couldnât quite follow. Your phone buzzed again â another invite, another reminder, another demand dressed up as a request.
Somewhere in that constant pull, you realized the worst part wasnât the schedule itself.
It was the way it was starting to take you away from the only place youâd felt real.
And the way Steve and Bucky were starting to notice the gaps you left behind.
By the end of the month, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.
It wasnât just the phone calls anymore â though those were bad enough, constant little jolts of urgency that made your smile thinner and your movements sharper. It was the way you started arriving at the studio already braced, like youâd been carrying something heavy long before you stepped through the doors. It was the way you vanished between looks and returned with your eyes too bright, cheeks faintly flushed as if youâd been breathing air that tasted like pressure.
It was the way you kept apologizing.
You never used to apologize. Not like that.
Steve noticed first because Steve noticed everything that mattered.
Bucky noticed second because Bucky noticed everything you tried to hide.
They didnât talk about it the first week. Or the second. They exchanged glances, little wordless check-ins across mirrors and racks of clothing. Steveâs look was worried and patient, the kind that asked permission before stepping closer. Buckyâs was sharp and restless, the kind that circled like a guard dog pretending he didnât care.
And you, stubbornly, kept doing what you always did: you kept working.
You kept fixing details and smoothing edges, as if you could make the whole world behave if you blended hard enough.
On a Friday, the studio had booked a late shoot â one of those glossy, high-concept editorials where the set looked like a dream and the hours dragged into exhaustion. There were fewer people around by evening. The energy changed when the caffeine wore off and the lights made everyoneâs skin look sallow. It grew quieter, almost intimate, the way a place does when youâve been in it long enough that it stops feeling public.
You were still moving fast.
You were packing your kit with the brisk efficiency of someone trying to outrun the moment the room went still enough for feelings.
Steve watched you do it from the edge of the set, towel around his shoulders, hair damp from a quick rinse between shots. Bucky was sitting on a folding chair nearby, hands clasped loosely, his gaze fixed on you as if he was trying to memorize your movements.
Your phone buzzed again â one of those short, vicious vibrations that didnât even pretend to be casual.
You didnât look at it.
You just⊠flinched. The tiniest reaction. Barely there.
Steveâs jaw tightened.
Buckyâs head tilted, eyes narrowing.
You zipped your bag like that ended the conversation.
âIâll be right back,â you said, too quickly, already stepping away.
You didnât make it three steps before Steve spoke.
âHey.â
Not loud. Not a command. Just your name â careful, as if he was reaching for your wrist without actually touching you.
You stopped anyway, because some part of you always stopped for Steve.
You turned, forcing that smile into place again. âWhatâs up?â
Steve didnât answer right away. He glanced toward Bucky â silent communication, a check of agreement. Bucky nodded once, barely perceptible, like he was giving Steve the go-ahead.
That was the first domino you couldnât pretend you hadnât seen: they were coordinated.
Bucky stood up, slow and deliberate, and moved closer. Not crowding you. Just⊠present.
Steveâs voice stayed low. âWe need to talk.â
Your stomach dropped.
You tried to laugh. âIs this an intervention? Because if itâs about the concealer I used on you last week, I stand by it.â
Bucky snorted â almost â but it didnât reach his eyes. âNot about concealer.â
Steveâs gaze held yours, steady. âNot about work, either.â
The edges of the room seemed to sharpen. You became hyper-aware of everything: the hum of the lights, the faint music playing from someoneâs speaker, the distant click of a camera being packed away. The smell of perfume samples and fabric and heat.
You swallowed. âOkay.â
Steve took a slow breath, like he was choosing every word on purpose. âWeâve been noticing⊠things.â
You opened your mouth to deny it. To dismiss it. To make a joke and slide away.
Bucky spoke first, and it was so unexpected it stopped you cold.
âWeâre not mad,â he said.
His voice was rougher than usual, stripped of the teasing. Honest in a way that made your chest tighten.
Steve nodded, backing him up without hesitation. âWeâre not mad,â he echoed. âWeâre just⊠concerned.â
Your heart beat too hard. âAbout what?â
Buckyâs gaze flicked to your pocket where your phone had buzzed. Back to your face. âAbout you.â
That was the problem, wasnât it?
If it had been about makeup, about schedules, about a difficult client, you could have handled it. You could have fixed it, managed it, controlled it.
But they werenât asking about your work.
They were asking about you.
You forced your shoulders to stay relaxed. âIâm fine.â
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest he got to frustration. âYou keep saying that.â
Steveâs voice softened even more, like he was trying to give you a safe landing. âAnd maybe you are,â he said. âBut you donât look fine. You look⊠like youâre holding your breath all day.â
You stared at him, throat closing.
Bucky shifted, weight rolling from heel to toe, restless but contained. âYouâve been disappearing,â he said. âYou get those calls, and you go somewhere, and you come back like youâve just⊠stepped out of a different life.â
You flinched, barely, because that was too accurate.
Steveâs eyes sharpened. âWe donât need details,â he said quickly, like heâd seen the way you tensed. âWeâre not asking to pry.â
Bucky cut in, quieter now. âWeâre asking because we care.â
The words hit like a bruise.
You looked between them â Steveâs steady concern, Buckyâs wary protectiveness â and felt something inside you want to give. Want to fall into the honesty they were offering you like a bed.
But honesty had consequences. Honesty had headlines. Honesty had a board of directors and a grandfatherâs voice in your ear telling you it was time.
Honesty had the risk of Steve and Bucky looking at you differently forever.
You swallowed hard. âItâs family stuff,â you said, because it was the only truth you could say without detonating your life.
Buckyâs gaze held yours. âOkay.â
The single word was deceptively gentle. Not permission. Not dismissal. Just acknowledgment.
Steve nodded too. âOkay.â
Then Steve took another breath, slower, and his voice dropped into something almost intimate. âAre you safe?â
The question stole your air.
You blinked. âWhat?â
Steve didnât look away. âAre you safe,â he repeated, carefully. âBecause the way youâve been⊠it looks like somethingâs chasing you.â
Your mouth went dry. You hated that your eyes stung. You hated that your body wanted to answer like a confession.
You managed a tight, brittle laugh. âNo oneâs chasing me.â
Buckyâs gaze sharpened. âFeels like they are.â
He sounded like someone who knew what it was like to be cornered.
Steve took a small step closer â not into your space, just close enough that you could feel his presence. âWeâre not trying to corner you,â he said, as if reading your panic. âWe just⊠donât want to keep guessing.â
Bucky nodded, jaw tight. âWeâve been guessing all month,â he admitted. âAnd it sucks.â
There was a beat of silence where you could hear the studio settling, people leaving, the night stretching out beyond the walls.
Then Steve glanced at Bucky again, a quiet exchange you caught only because you knew them both well now â Steve asking is this okay, Bucky answering yeah.
Bucky spoke, voice lower. âWe talked about this,â he said, and something about that made your stomach twist.
We talked about this.
Theyâd been discussing you behind your back â not in a cruel way, not with gossip, but with worry. With care. With strategy.
Because they didnât want to scare you.
Steve nodded slightly, as if confirming the same thought. âWe did,â he said. âBecause we didnât want to do it wrong.â
You stared, pulse racing. âDo what wrong?â
Buckyâs eyes didnât soften, but his voice did. âCome at you like an accusation.â
Steveâs gaze was gentle but unwavering. âOr make you feel like you owe us answers.â
Bucky shifted again, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and didnât trust himself to. âSo,â he said, blunt but careful, âhereâs what we decided.â
Your breath caught.
Steve lifted his hand slightly, palm open, an instinctive calming gesture. âYou can tell us nothing,â he said. âAnd weâll accept it.â
Bucky nodded once. âBut you canât keep telling us youâre fine when youâre clearly not.â
Steveâs eyes held yours. âWe just need something real,â he said quietly. âEven if itâs small.â
Buckyâs gaze flicked to Steve, then back to you. âLikeâ do you want us to back off?â he asked. âOr do you want us to stay close?â
Stay close.
The words landed like a promise and a threat all at once.
You felt your throat tighten, the urge to say please stay and please donât look at me too closely colliding so hard it made you dizzy.
You looked down at your hands â empty now, because your kit was packed, because your work shield was gone. You had nothing to hide behind.
âIâŠâ Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat quickly. âI donât know.â
Steveâs expression softened, not pity â understanding. âThatâs okay,â he said.
Buckyâs jaw worked, like he was chewing on something bitter. âJust donât shut us out,â he murmured, and it sounded like it cost him to say it.
Silence stretched again.
You could feel the shape of the truth pressing against your ribs â your name, your money, your grandfather, the board, the fact that you werenât just the woman with the brushes.
You couldnât say it. Not yet.
But you also couldnât pretend they werenât right.
So you did the only thing you could manage: you gave them a sliver.
âItâs complicated,â you said quietly. âAnd itâs⊠bigger than I want it to be.â
Steve nodded slowly. âOkay.â
Buckyâs eyes didnât leave your face. âBut youâre safe.â
You hesitated just long enough to be honest. âYes.â
Steve exhaled like heâd been holding his breath. Buckyâs shoulders eased a fraction.
Steveâs voice was gentle. âAnd youâre not in trouble.â
You almost laughed. Almost cried. âNo,â you whispered. âNot trouble.â
Buckyâs mouth twisted, something like relief and frustration tangled together. âGood,â he muttered. âBecause if someone was messing with youââ
âBuck,â Steve warned softly, not scolding, just grounding.
Bucky shut his mouth, but his eyes stayed fierce.
Steve looked back at you. âWeâre not asking you to fix it,â he said. âWeâre just⊠letting you know you donât have to carry it alone.â
That was the part that nearly broke you.
You forced your chin up, trying to keep your composure intact. âI appreciate it,â you managed. âI do.â
Bucky tilted his head, studying you. âIs that all we get?â
It was half-tease, half-test, like he was trying to give you a way out that didnât feel like surrender.
You managed a tiny smile, shaky at the edges. âFor now.â
Steveâs smile was soft, faint. âOkay,â he said again. âFor now.â
Buckyâs gaze lingered a beat longer, then he nodded, as if locking the agreement into place. âFor now.â
Steve stepped back, giving you your space again, but his voice caught you once more before the moment could dissolve.
âJust⊠text,â he said. âWhen you leave like that. So we know youâre okay.â
Bucky added, quieter, almost grudgingly sincere, âYeah. A thumbs-up emoji would do.â
You let out a breath that trembled. âI can do that.â
Steveâs eyes warmed. âGood.â
Buckyâs mouth quirked, the barest hint of his usual mischief returning. âAnd if your mysterious family stuff involves you being kidnapped by some rich vampire cult, Iâm gonna be pissed.â
You laughed â real this time, a short burst that surprised you. It eased something tight in your chest.
Steveâs expression softened further, relief hidden behind a calm façade.
âNo vampire cults,â you promised, as if that was something you could control.
You shook your head, still smiling, and for a moment the room felt almost normal again.
Almost.
But even as they let the subject drop â carefully, respectfully â you could feel it: the shift had happened.
Theyâd named the distance. Theyâd reached for you together and, for the first time, made it clear they werenât going to look away just because you wanted them to.
They werenât trying to corner you.
They were trying to be close enough that, when the truth finally fell, you wouldnât hit the ground alone.
It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.
Not easy â nothing was easy when the call sheet was packed and the lighting crew was behind schedule â but normal in the way youâd learned to love. Controlled chaos. Predictable problems. A zipper that wouldnât cooperate, a model who needed water, a photographer who wanted âmore shineâ and didnât realize that shine meant sweat under these lights.
Normal meant you could fix it.
You were moving between stations with your kit half-open, brush belt snug at your hips, eyes scanning faces and fabric like a checklist only you could read. Steve was on set, framed by a white cyclorama and a fan that made his shirt billow just enough to look effortless. Bucky was next up, pacing near wardrobe with that restless energy he got when he had to wait â hands flexing, jaw working, gaze occasionally snapping to you like he was making sure you were still there.
Youâd promised them youâd text when you stepped away.
Youâd even meant it.
But your phone didnât care about promises.
It started with a vibration at your hip â short, insistent, the kind that wasnât a friend checking in. You ignored it, finishing a quick touch-up on Steveâs collarbone where the light caught too harshly. Another buzz followed immediately, longer.
You felt Steveâs eyes on you from the set.
He couldnât look away for long, not when something was off. Heâd gotten good at watching you through reflections â mirrors, shiny floors, the dark glass of a monitor. Youâd learned to keep your face neutral even when your pulse picked up, but he still saw the tiny shifts: the way your shoulders went tight, the way your smile became a fraction too smooth.
Bucky saw too. He always did. He didnât say anything yet, but you could feel his attention like a hand at the back of your neck.
You told yourself youâd handle it after the shot. After the next shot. After the next one.
Then your phone rang.
Not a buzz. Not a silent little demand. A full, bright ringtone â because youâd forgotten to switch it back to silent after youâd used it for a playback clip earlier. The sound cut through the backstage hum like a blade.
For a split second, everything in you went cold.
Your hand shot to your pocket on instinct, silencing it, but it was too late. Heads turned. A PA glanced up. Someone from wardrobe looked irritated.
Steveâs head turned sharply, a flicker of concern on his face even under the bright, controlled expression he wore for the camera.
Bucky stopped pacing.
You forced a laugh you didnât feel, a quick, apologetic gesture. âSorryâ sorry. My bad.â
The photographer waved it off, already refocusing. âAll good. Steveâ chin down. Perfect. Hold that.â
You swallowed, heart pounding, and stepped back from the set. You needed a corner. A rack to hide behind. Thirty seconds of privacy.
You could feel Steveâs eyes tracking your movement as if he was trying not to make it obvious.
Bucky, on the other hand, didnât even bother pretending. His gaze followed you like a tether.
You slipped behind a tall rack of coats â heavy fabric, designer labels, the faint smell of new wool â and pressed your back to the metal frame, pulling your phone out.
You didnât look at the name at first.
You already knew it wouldnât be a friend. Wouldnât be your grandfather â he usually texted when he knew you were working, keeping the urgency disguised.
This call had teeth.
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
The name staring back at you made your stomach drop anyway.
Elliott â Chairmanâs Office.
The contact wasnât supposed to exist on your phone as you. It was supposed to belong to the version of you that sat at the head of a table, not the one who carried a brush belt and had foundation smudged on her knuckles by noon.
You closed your eyes for a beat, then answered, voice controlled and low. âHello.â
âFinally,â a manâs voice replied immediately â professional, clipped, the kind that was trained to sound calm even when delivering pressure. âIâve been trying to reach you all morning.â
âIâm working,â you said, and even that sounded like a lie in your mouth now.
There was a pause â tiny, polite, sharp. âYes. Weâre aware youâre at the studio. I wonât take long.â
Your throat tightened. âWhat do you need?â
âThe chairman would like confirmation,â he said. âFor Monday.â
Your grip on the phone tightened. âI told him I canât commit yet.â
âWith respect,â the man replied, and there was no respect in it, âthat isnât sufficient. The board wants clarity. Theyâre asking whether youâll attend the meeting in person or appear remotely. Theyâre asking whether youâll be prepared to address â â
âNo,â you cut in, sharper than you intended. You took a breath, forced your tone back into neutrality. âNo. I canât confirm to the board before Monday.â
You didnât hear the end of your own sentence at first. All you heard was the silence that followed.
Because silence, in a room like backstage, had weight.
You realized â too late â that you werenât as hidden as you thought.
The rack of coats wasnât a wall. The fabric didnât block sound the way youâd wanted it to. And youâd angled yourself in a rush, focused on escaping eyes, not on where those eyes might have followed.
A shadow shifted on the other side of the rack.
You froze, every nerve in your body firing at once.
ââMiss?â the voice on the phone continued, oblivious. âIf you could just give us a sense of your preference, we can manage expectations. The partners are asking questions. Press is alreadyââ
âElliott,â you hissed, voice low and tight, âIâm in the middle of a shoot. I will call you back.â
There was another pause, a breath. âUnderstood. But Iâll need something concrete by end of day.â
You swallowed the panic down. âI said Iâll call you back.â
You ended the call before he could respond.
For a heartbeat, you stared at the dark screen as if it could help you undo what youâd just said out loud.
Board.
The word echoed in your skull like a dropped glass.
You felt the prickle of being watched.
Slowly â so slowly â you lifted your gaze.
Bucky was standing on the other side of the rack.
Not close enough to invade you. Not far enough to pretend he hadnât heard. His posture was deceptively casual, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were sharp and fixed on your face like a lock picking at your mask.
Behind him, half a step back, Steve hovered in the corridor of open space â drawn there without meaning to be, the way he always moved toward someone in distress. He wasnât staring at your phone. He was staring at you, expression gentle but too focused to be neutral.
Neither of them spoke.
And that, more than anything, made your stomach twist.
Bucky broke the silence first.
âBoard,â he said, softly.
It wasnât a question yet. It was just the word youâd dropped, offered back to you like evidence.
Your throat went dry. You forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to your own ears. âYeah, uhââ
Steveâs voice cut in, quiet and careful. âYou said⊠the board.â
The way he phrased it â no accusation, no sharp edges â gave you a chance to steer. A chance to explain it away. The kind of chance that made the lie harder.
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Buckyâs eyes flicked from your face to your phone and back. âWhy does a board need you to confirm anything?â he asked. âYouâreââ He stopped himself, as if he was trying not to say what he was thinking. Youâre our visagist. Youâre backstage. Youâre notâ
You could see the thought running across his face, colliding with all the little inconsistencies heâd been collecting all week.
Steve stepped forward half a step, palms open at his sides, body language gentle. âHey,â he murmured. âYou donât have to explain everything. Butâ are you okay?â
The question landed like a hook behind your ribs.
You swallowed. Your voice came out thin. âIâm fine.â
Buckyâs jaw clenched. âStop saying that.â
The words werenât harsh, but they were loaded. You could hear the worry in them â worry disguised as irritation because that was how Bucky kept his fear from showing.
Steve glanced at Bucky, a silent request: easy. Buckyâs shoulders rose and fell once, like he was forcing himself to dial it down.
Then Steve looked back at you, eyes warm and steady. âTalk to us,â he said softly. âJust⊠a little.â
You looked between them and felt the walls of your careful life narrowing.
There were a hundred lies you could tell. A hundred versions of âconsulting,â âfamily investments,â âan old job I used to have,â âI help with admin sometimes.â
But your body had already betrayed you. The flinch. The urgency. The way your hand had gone tight around the phone like it could hold your world together.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, voice lower now. âIs this why you keep disappearing?â
You inhaled, slow and shaky. âItâsâ complicated.â
Steve nodded like heâd expected that answer. âOkay,â he said. âComplicated is allowed.â
Buckyâs gaze didnât soften, but it steadied. âIs it dangerous complicated?â he asked, blunt.
You blinked. âNo.â
Steveâs eyes stayed on yours. âIs it something youâre ashamed of?â
The question hit differently â gentle, but precise.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your throat burned.
âIâm not ashamed,â you whispered, and the truth of it hurt. âIâm⊠scared.â
Buckyâs expression shifted, quick and involuntary. âOf what?â
You let out a breath that trembled. âOf you looking at me differently.â
The words were out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too raw.
Steveâs face softened, immediate understanding flashing in his eyes. Buckyâs jaw tightened like heâd been punched â not because he was angry, but because the implication landed hard.
You flinched. Not because he was wrong. Because he was right.
Steveâs voice was a quiet anchor. âHey,â he said again, closer now. âWhatever this isâ whatever the board isâ it doesnât change who you are.â
You almost laughed at that, bitter and afraid. Because it did change things. It had to. Names and money and power always changed things, even when people swore they wouldnât.
Bucky took a small step closer, then stopped himself, like he didnât want to crowd you. âJust tell us one thing,â he said. âAre you in charge of something?â
Your breath caught.
Your silence was answer enough.
Steveâs eyes widened just a fraction, the pieces sliding into place. Not all of them. Not yet. But enough to shift the ground under the three of you.
âOkay,â Steve said slowly, voice gentle as ever, but now threaded with something new â shock, maybe, or awe. âOkay. Thatâs⊠bigger than we thought.â
Bucky let out a low breath, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time and trying not to let it show. âYeah,â he murmured. âNo kidding.â
Your heart hammered. Your palms were damp around the phone.
You forced yourself to lift your chin. âI didnât want it to matter,â you said, voice shaking despite your effort. âI didnât want⊠this⊠to get in the way.â
Steveâs gaze softened further. âYou didnât want us to be here because of that.â
You nodded once, throat tight.
Buckyâs eyes held yours, fierce and steady. âWeâre here because of you,â he said, and it sounded like he meant it with his whole chest.
For a second, you couldnât breathe.
Behind you, the studio noise surged again â a stylist calling for Bucky, the photographer asking where his next model was, the set lights humming like a distant storm.
Reality tugged at you.
You stepped back a fraction, clutching your phone like a lifeline. âI have toââ you started.
Steveâs voice was quiet but firm. âWeâre not done.â
Not a threat. A promise.
Bucky nodded, gaze locked on you. âWeâll talk,â he said. âWhen youâre ready. But weâre not pretending we didnât hear that.â
You swallowed, eyes stinging, and managed a small nod.
âOkay,â you whispered.
Steveâs expression was gentle, but unyielding. âOkay.â
Buckyâs mouth twisted â half frustration, half relief. âNow go,â he said, voice softer than his words. âBefore they start yelling your name and I have to fight a stylist.â
A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself.
And then you turned back toward the set, your kit suddenly heavier at your hip, your secret suddenly louder than any ringtone â because now it wasnât just living inside you anymore.
Now it lived in their eyes too.
The shoot ended the way they always did â abruptly, like someone had snapped their fingers and decided the day was done.
One moment the set was a bright, artificial world of wind machines and white walls, the photographer calling out adjustments, assistants darting in with water and lint rollers. The next, the lights dimmed, the camera was lowered, and the air seemed to release a breath it had been holding for hours.
âBeautiful. Thatâs it,â the photographer said, satisfied, already turning to talk about selects. People began to disperse in that exhausted, efficient shuffle: stylists gathering pins and tape, wardrobe rolling racks back into place, the hair team rushing to clean brushes and close drawers. A PA called out tomorrowâs call time like it was a forecast.
You kept moving because stopping meant thinking.
You packed your kit with muscle memory, wiping down palettes, sliding brushes into their sleeves, making sure each item went back exactly where it belonged. You could control your kit. You couldnât control the way your chest felt too tight for the air.
You caught Steveâs reflection in the dark screen of a monitor. He was still in wardrobeâs last look â shirt half unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed, skin still warm under the afterglow of the lights. His expression was calm, polite as he thanked the crew, but his eyes kept flicking toward you like a compass needle that couldnât settle.
Buckyâs gaze was more direct.
He was standing near the edge of the set, arms crossed, jaw set, the line of his shoulders too tense for exhaustion alone. He wasnât frowning, not exactly â but there was a hard edge to the way he held himself, like heâd been reining something in since that moment behind the coat rack.
Board.
The word still echoed in your head.
You tried to slip away while everyone was busy. You made it as far as the corridor outside the studio before Steveâs voice stopped you.
âHey.â
Not loud. Not sharp. Just your name, careful.
You turned, forcing your face into something neutral. âI need toââ
âWe know,â Bucky cut in, stepping out behind Steve. âYou always need to.â
His tone wasnât cruel, but it was too blunt to be a joke.
Steve shot him a look. Not reprimand â grounding. Then Steve looked back at you and softened his voice. âCan we talk? Somewhere that isnât⊠this.â
He gestured vaguely toward the studio behind you, as if even saying backstage out loud might make it listen.
You glanced between them. Your heart hammered with the instinct to run. But they werenât cornering you. They were giving you an out â an option. A choice.
âNow?â you asked, and hated how small your voice sounded.
Steve nodded. âIf you can.â
Buckyâs eyes stayed on your face. âUnless youâre gonna disappear again.â
You flinched. There it was â the hurt, wearing the shape of irritation.
âIâm notââ You swallowed. âIâm not trying to disappear.â
Steveâs expression softened further. âThen donât,â he said simply.
The simplicity of it hit harder than any accusation could have.
You exhaled slowly. Your phone sat heavy in your pocket, silent for once, but you could feel the pending demands like a storm on the horizon.
âOkay,â you said, because there was no version of this where you didnât eventually say it. âWe can talk.â
Buckyâs shoulders eased a fraction, like heâd been holding his breath. Steveâs gaze stayed steady, quiet relief flickering behind his composure.
âWhere?â Steve asked, gentle.
You hesitated.
There were a hundred places you could choose â some quiet diner, a bar with dim light, a corner booth where nobody would recognize them. A hotel lounge. A private room somewhere.
But the truth was, every public place felt like a risk. Public meant eyes. Public meant the possibility of your name being spoken too loudly, of a stranger catching a glimpse, of the wrong person overhearing.
Public meant you wouldnât be able to breathe.
And there was only one place you felt you could say it out loud and not immediately regret it.
âMy place,â you said quietly.
Bucky blinked. âYourâ apartment?â
You nodded, throat tight. âItâs⊠close.â
Steveâs brows lifted slightly, surprised but not suspicious. âOkay,â he said. âIf youâre comfortable.â
Comfortable was a generous word. You werenât comfortable. You were terrified.
But you also knew you couldnât keep trying to hold this inside you until it rotted.
âYeah,â you lied softly. âIâm comfortable.â
The ride was quiet.
Steve offered to drive â because Steve always offered â but you insisted on calling a car, your fingers moving fast over the screen. The driver recognized you immediately. You saw it in the way his posture shifted, the way he greeted you with a âGood evening, miss,â that held a weight Steve and Bucky didnât yet understand.
You slid into the back seat, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other. Their warmth boxed you in â protective, familiar â and it should have been comforting.
Instead, you felt like you were sitting between two truths: the life they knew, and the one youâd been hiding.
Streetlights streaked across the windows. The city blurred. Steveâs knee brushed yours once when the car turned, and his hand hovered, as if he wanted to steady you and didnât want to assume he could.
Bucky kept glancing at you like he was trying to figure out what kind of secret required this much caution.
You didnât speak until the car slowed and the building rose ahead â glass and steel, tall enough to scrape the sky. The lobby was lit like a museum, spotless and quiet. A doorman stepped forward immediately.
âWelcome back,â he said, voice warm.
And then, because youâd never needed to hide it here â because this was the one place you allowed yourself to exist as you â he added your name.
Not your professional name.
Your full name.
The one that belonged on company documents and private lines and board agendas.
Steveâs body went subtly still beside you. Not tense â just⊠attentive. The way he became attentive when something important entered the room.
Buckyâs gaze snapped to you, sharp.
You didnât correct the doorman. You couldnât. Correcting it would be another lie.
You just nodded once and walked forward, the sound of your heels too loud on the marble.
The elevator opened without anyone needing to press a button. The attendant inside greeted you like you were expected, like this was routine.
âPenthouse,â he said, and your stomach dropped even though youâd chosen this.
Bucky let out a low breath, almost soundless. Steveâs eyes flicked toward you, questioning but gentle.
The doors slid closed.
The elevator rose in smooth silence. The numbers climbed. Your heartbeat climbed with them.
When the doors opened, the hallway outside was carpeted and quiet, lit with warm, understated lamps. There was art on the walls â real art, not prints. The kind of detail you stopped noticing when you lived with it, but that screamed its meaning to anyone else.
Buckyâs gaze lingered on it, then on you. He didnât say anything. Not yet.
Your door unlocked with a soft beep. You stepped inside and the penthouse swallowed you whole â open space, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling below like a necklace of lights. The air smelled clean, faintly like expensive candle wax and something floral you couldnât name. A grand piano sat near the window. A long couch faced a sleek fireplace. Everything was elegant and quiet, built for a life that required privacy and power.
The kind of life youâd sworn you didnât want to be defined by.
Steve stepped inside and stopped.
Bucky stepped inside and stopped harder.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Their silence wasnât judgment. It was shock. Their brains recalibrating.
Bucky was the first to find his voice, because Bucky always was.
âOkay,â he said slowly, looking around, âso⊠youâre not living in a studio apartment over a bakery.â
Heat crawled up your neck. âNo.â
Steve turned toward you, expression controlled but wounded at the edges. âYouââ He stopped, like he was choosing his words carefully. âYou never saidââ
âI know,â you whispered. âI know.â
Buckyâs gaze cut into you, not cruel, just too direct. âYou lied to us.â
Your throat tightened. âI didnât want to.â
Steveâs voice was soft, but it held weight. âYou did,â he said. âEven if you didnât want to.â
You nodded, because denying it would be pointless.
âI didnât tell you,â you said, voice shaking, âbecause I didnât know how.â
Buckyâs laugh was short, incredulous â not amused. âTry âIâm rich.â Thatâs pretty straightforward.â
You flinched. âItâs not just that.â
Steve stepped closer â not crowding, but grounding. âThen tell us,â he said quietly. âWeâre here.â
The words weâre here made something crack in you.
You walked to the couch because you needed to move somewhere that didnât feel like the middle of the room. Your legs felt too weak to hold you up. You sat, hands clasped so tightly your fingers hurt.
Steve and Bucky hovered for a second â uncertain, like they didnât want to overwhelm you â then Steve sat on your left, Bucky on your right. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel their body heat.
And then, almost in unison, each of them placed a hand behind you.
Steveâs palm rested between your shoulder blades, steady and warm. Buckyâs hand settled lower, at the small of your back, like an anchor.
It was shockingly intimate. Shockingly kind.
You stared at your own hands because you couldnât look at them yet.
âOkay,â you said, voice barely above a whisper. âIâll tell you.â
Silence settled around you, soft and expectant.
You took a breath that trembled. âThe agency⊠is part of a bigger group. Fashion, media, charity foundations, investments. My grandfather founded it.â
Steveâs hand shifted slightly, a gentle rub like encouragement.
Buckyâs fingers pressed once against your back, wordless support that still felt like something fierce.
âAnd IâmâŠâ You swallowed hard. âIâm his heir. The main shareholder. On paper, Iâmââ You almost couldnât say it. âIâm the CEO.â
Bucky went very still. âYouâre what.â
You squeezed your eyes shut. âNot publicly. Not yet. My grandfather is stillâ heâs still holding the front. Heâs been⊠pulling strings to keep my name out of it. To keep me hidden.â
Steveâs voice was soft, but you heard the sting under it. âAll this time?â
You nodded, eyes still closed. âAll this time.â
Buckyâs hand flexed against your back, the only sign of what he was feeling.
You forced yourself to continue. âI started working in beauty because I wanted to. I love it. I loveââ Your voice cracked. âI love being there with you. With the team. I love doing something that feels real.â
Steveâs breath left him slowly. âAnd the calls.â
âThe calls are because he fell,â you said quickly, because you needed them to understand the urgency. âIt was just his ankle. A sprain. But it scared him. It reminded him he canât do this forever. He⊠he told me itâs time.â
Buckyâs voice came sharper now, anger finally surfacing â not directed at you exactly, but at the whole situation. âSo thatâs it? Youâre just gonna⊠step out of this and become some corporate queen overnight?â
You flinched. âI donât want to.â
Steveâs hand tightened briefly, then relaxed. âWhy didnât you tell us?â he asked, and the hurt in his voice made your throat burn.
You opened your eyes finally and stared at the city lights beyond your windows. âBecause I was scared.â
Bucky let out a rough breath. âScared of what?â
You laughed weakly, and it sounded like a broken thing. âScared that it wouldnât be⊠real. That youâd look at me and seeââ You gestured vaguely at the penthouse, the height, the space, the evidence. âAll of this.â
Steveâs voice went quieter, almost hoarse. âAnd you think we would?â
You couldnât look at him. âI donât know. I didnât want to find out.â
Buckyâs anger sharpened, finally finding words. âYou thought weâd what?â he demanded, and there was pain under it. âSell you to the highest bidder? Start kissing up because youâve got money and connections?â
Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the rawness. âNoââ
âBecause thatâs what it sounds like,â Bucky said, jaw tight. âLike you didnât trust us enough to believe we could just⊠like you.â
Steveâs hand moved, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like he was trying to keep the moment from tipping into something you couldnât come back from. But his voice, when he spoke, held its own wound.
âYou think Iâve been flirting with you because of your status?â Steve asked softly.
The tenderness of the question nearly broke you.
You shook your head fast. âNo. God, no. Steveââ
âThen why,â he murmured, eyes searching your face, âdid you keep us out?â
Your composure finally cracked.
You pressed a hand over your mouth, but the words pushed through anyway, trembling and urgent.
âBecause I wanted it to be real,â you whispered, and your voice shattered on the last word. âI wanted to be sure that when you looked at meâ when you smiled at meâ when youââ You swallowed hard, eyes burning. âWhen you cared⊠it was because it was me.â
Buckyâs expression faltered, anger shifting into something else â something like understanding, laced with guilt.
Steveâs eyes softened immediately, heartbreak and empathy tangled together.
You kept going because stopping would mean drowning. âPeople approach me differently when they know,â you said, voice shaking. âThey laugh at jokes that arenât funny. They touch my arm too much. They offer things they wouldnât offer otherwise. They say my name like itâs a key.â You breathed in, sharp. âI didnât want that. I didnât want to wonder if every kind thing was⊠bought.â
Buckyâs jaw worked, like he was chewing through his own emotions. âSo you decided to lie,â he said, quieter now.
You nodded, tears slipping free despite you trying to hold them back. âYes.â
Steveâs hand left your back for the first time, and your chest clenched â until he brought it around to your shoulder, fingers gently curling there, grounding you. âHey,â he murmured.
You looked at him, and the hurt in his eyes made you feel sick.
Steve spoke first â exactly like youâd imagined, except softer. âDo you think,â he asked, voice careful, âthat this changes the feelings we have for you?â
The question punched the air out of your lungs.
You stared at him, stunned. âSteveâŠâ
Bucky let out a breath that sounded like frustration at himself. âThatâs what youâre worried about?â he muttered, but there was no bite left in it. Only pain. âYou really think weâre that shallow.â
You shook your head helplessly. âI donât think youâre shallow. I think⊠people change. They can. Even good people.â
Steveâs gaze held yours, steady. âWeâre not asking you to tell us your bank balance,â he said softly. âOr your last name. Or what your board wants.â
Buckyâs hand pressed more firmly into your back, warm and solid. âWeâre asking you to let us stay,â he said, voice rough.
The words landed so gently they hurt.
You blinked hard. âStay,â you repeated, because you needed to hear it in your own voice to believe it.
Steve nodded. âStay,â he echoed, and his thumb brushed your shoulder in a quiet, reassuring stroke. âIf you want us to.â
Buckyâs gaze was fierce but soft around the edges now. âWeâre disappointed,â he admitted, honest. âBecause you didnât trust us.â
Steve added, quietly, âIt stings.â
You swallowed a sob. âIâm sorry.â
Bucky huffed, not unkind. âYeah. We can tell.â
Steve leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice low enough it felt like a secret. âJust⊠donât make the decision for us,â he said. âDonât decide weâll leave before weâve even had the chance to choose.â
Buckyâs hand stayed at your back, steady. âAnd donât disappear again without saying something,â he murmured. âEven if itâs justâ âIâm okay. Iâll explain laterâ.â
You nodded quickly, tears still falling. âI can do that,â you whispered. âI can. I promise.â
Steveâs mouth softened into the faintest smile, sad but real. âThatâs all we need right now.â
Bucky let out a slow breath, shoulders finally easing. âYeah,â he agreed, quieter. âWe donât need the whole story tonight.â
Steveâs hand stayed on your shoulder, warm and sure. âWe just need you to let us be here.â
For the first time in days, the pressure inside your chest shifted â still there, still heavy, but no longer crushing you alone.
You sat between them on the couch in your too-big penthouse, city lights sprawled below like a thousand eyes, and somehow â despite everything â your world felt a fraction less lonely.
You leaned back, letting both of their hands steady you, and whispered the truth youâd been too afraid to believe.
âOkay,â you said. âYou can stay.â
You lifted your head toward Bucky, wiping at the dampness on your cheek with the back of your hand as if you could rub the vulnerability away. Your voice still shook when you spoke, betraying you in a way you couldnât control.
âSoâŠâ you began, and the word snagged on your throat. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. âYour feelings?â
There was hope there, unmistakable. A fragile thing perched on the edge of your confession, waiting to be pushed one way or the other.
Buckyâs mouth twisted. For a second he looked like he didnât know what to do with that hope â like it made him angry simply because it existed at all, because you had ever been forced to doubt it. He grimaced, and his gaze flicked sharply toward Steve, the kind of look that carried a whole argument without a single word.
Steve, for his part, only lifted his brows a fraction, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness, as if Buckyâs dramatics were the most predictable thing in the world.
Bucky huffed, the sound more breath than laugh, and then he looked back at you. The edge in his face softened â not all at once, but enough that you felt your chest loosen by a hair.
âYou didnât seriously think,â he said, voice rough, âthat Iâd become punctual.â
The line was so Bucky that it almost made you cry again â because it was a joke, and it was also an admission, and it was also his way of saying he was still here, still himself, still yours in the sense heâd been circling for months.
A quiet laugh slipped out of you, shaky but real. It sounded strange in the wide, expensive room, like something too human for all the glass and skyline.
Buckyâs gaze held yours. âI wanted to spend time with you,â he added, and there was no joke in that part. Just the truth, laid down like something solid.
âOh,â you breathed, caught off guard by how simple it was.
Buckyâs eyes narrowed in mock disbelief, and he leaned in a fraction. âYeah,â he shot back, like youâd missed something painfully obvious. âOh.â
The word landed with the kind of blunt affection that made your stomach flip. It didnât sound like a tease. It sounded like Bucky refusing to let you make yourself small.
You turned your head toward Steve, still half expecting the floor to give out beneath you. Your expression must have been openly questioning, because Steveâs reaction was immediate: he looked at you like the answer had been sitting in front of you for months and you were only just now daring to read it.
He rolled his eyes â barely, a soft gesture of long-suffering patience â then his gaze warmed.
As if, in his mind, there had never been any question at all.
Steve leaned toward you slowly, deliberately, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, giving you control. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the tear track with a gentleness that made your lungs forget how to work.
You didnât move away.
You didnât flinch.
You let him.
His mouth brushed yours, soft at first â careful, almost reverent. It wasnât a kiss meant to claim. It was a kiss meant to reassure. A quiet promise pressed into your lips: Iâm here. I mean it.
Your eyes fluttered shut. You tasted him â clean and warm, faintly mint from whatever heâd been chewing earlier to keep his mouth from drying out under studio lights. His other hand settled at the base of your neck, steady, grounding.
When he deepened the kiss, it was still tender. Still slow. Still a choice. His lips moved with yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, as if heâd been holding himself back for so long that he didnât trust it was real.
You made a small sound you hadnât meant to let out, and Steve eased closer in response, as if that sound had been permission.
The kiss ended gently, not snapped off, not stolen. Steve stayed close, forehead nearly touching yours, his thumb still resting on your cheek.
For one suspended second, you were aware of everything: the weight of Buckyâs hand still at your back, the warmth of Steveâs palm on your face, the city lights outside the window watching like a thousand distant witnesses.
Then Bucky moved.
He shifted closer, and his hand slid from the small of your back to your shoulder â firm, insistent, like he was reminding you that he was real too. Before you could even turn fully, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tugged your face toward him with unmistakable confidence.
âHey,â he murmured, voice low, as if he was talking to only you even though Steve sat right there.
You barely had time to inhale.
Bucky kissed you.
It was different from Steve â less careful, more immediate. Not rough, not aggressive, but charged with all the things he hadnât said: the jealousy, the fear, the frustration, the aching need to know he hadnât been imagining you. His mouth met yours like he was proving a point, like he was refusing to let you doubt him ever again.
His lips were warm, his stubble faint against your skin. One hand stayed at your jaw, the other sliding behind your neck, fingers splaying there with a possessive steadiness that made your pulse jump.
You melted into it before you could think too hard, letting yourself be kissed, letting yourself be held in the way youâd been starving for without admitting it.
When he finally pulled back, he didnât go far. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
His eyes searched your face with an intensity that was almost painful.
âThere,â Bucky muttered, as if that settled everything. As if it should have been obvious.
Steve let out a soft sound â something between a laugh and a sigh â and his hand slid from your cheek to your shoulder, anchoring you again.
You sat between them on the couch, still trembling, lips tingling, cheeks damp, your heart loud in your ears.
And for the first time since the secret had started crushing your ribs, you felt it â clear and undeniable.
They werenât here because of your money. They were here because of you. Both of them.
You remained seated on the expansive leather couch in your penthouse, nestled snugly between Steve and Bucky, their warm bodies pressing close on either side of you. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the room, but your focus stayed locked on the heat radiating from the two men who had just kissed you.
âOkay,â you murmured, your eyelids fluttering shut as you tried to steady your racing heart. âOkay.â
Bucky's voice came low and gentle, his fingers shifting from the small of your back to rest lightly on your knee, sending a spark through your skin. âYou okay?â
âI... Yes, I think...â you replied, your eyes still closed, the world narrowing to the sensations overwhelming you. âMaybe itâs just... a little too much.â
You felt Steve lean in before you saw him, his broad chest brushing against your shoulder, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. A shiver raced down your spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.
âDo you want us to stop?â he asked, his voice husky with concern and something deeper, more primal.
âNo!â
The word burst from you as your eyes snapped open, and you turned toward him.
His face hovered mere millimeters from yours, blue eyes dark with desire, lips parted slightly. This time, you closed the distance yourself, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. Your lips moved against his with urgent need, tongues tangling as his hand cupped your cheek, pulling you deeper into the heat of it. He tasted like mint and promise, his shaved chin grazing your skin in a delicious scrape.
When you finally broke away, breathless and flushed, you turned your head to Bucky. His gaze burned into you, intense and waiting.
You leaned in without hesitation, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that started soft but quickly ignited. Bucky's hand on your knee tightened, sliding up your thigh just enough to make your pulse thunder, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer. His kiss was slower, more teasing, nipping at your lower lip before delving deeper, exploring with a hunger that matched your own.
Pulling back slightly, you searched their faces, your voice emerging almost timidly amid the pounding of your heart.
âDo you want to go to the bedroom?â
Bucky rose from the couch first, his strong hand enveloping yours as he pulled you gently to your feet, his grip firm yet tender. The heat of his palm sent a fresh wave of anticipation through you.
Steve followed suit, standing tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes never leaving yours as you led the way down the hallway, your baskets padding softly over the polished marble floors.
The bedroom awaited at the end, a vast sanctuary that mirrored the opulence of the penthouse â king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, walls lined with abstract art, and a massive window overlooking the glittering skyline. Dim lights flickered on automatically, bathing the space in a warm, inviting glow.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Bucky spun you around and pressed your back flush against his solid chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady while his chin rested on your shoulder, forcing your gaze toward Steve.
âWatch him,â Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
Steve stood at the foot of the bed, his fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt, peeling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You devoured the sight of him â his chiseled abs flexing under golden skin, the V of his hips dipping into his jeans, the bulge already straining against the fabric. He kicked off his shoes next, then unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, letting his pants slide down his muscular thighs to pool at his feet.
Bucky's breath was hot on your neck as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
âWe've talked about this for months,â he whispered, his words laced with raw hunger.
âSteve wants to pin you down and fuck your mouth while I spread your legs and lick your pussy until you scream. We've imagined burying our cocks inside you, one after the other, filling you up until you're dripping with our cum. Taking turns sucking on your tits, biting your neck, making you beg for more.â
His voice dropped even lower, vibrating through you.
âAnd that's just the start⊠we're gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.â
Your body responded instantly, a flush creeping up your chest as arousal pooled between your thighs.
Bucky's hands moved with expert precision, starting at the top button of your blouse. He worked them open one by one, agonizingly slow, exposing inch after inch of your skin to the cool air. The fabric parted to reveal your lace bra, the sheer material doing little to hide the hardening peaks of your nipples.
He shrugged the blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your hips and over your ass, the denim dragging against your skin until you stepped out of them, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and matching lace panties, the fabric already damp with your need.
Steve stepped forward now, clad only in his tight black boxers that outlined the thick length of his cock pressing insistently against the cotton. He took over seamlessly, his large hands replacing Bucky's as he cupped your face and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with possessive strokes.
Bucky released you reluctantly, stepping back to strip off his own shirt, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso, the small patch of dark hair on his chest adding to his rugged allure. He unfastened his jeans next, shoving them down along with his underwear, his hard cock springing free â long and thick, veins pulsing along its length as he stroked himself once, eyes locked on you.
Steve broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw to your collarbone, nipping lightly as his hands roamed your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Bucky watched, his breathing heavy, as he closed the distance again, his naked body pressing against your back once more. The heat of his erection nudged against your ass through the thin lace, promising more to come.
Steve's hands slid down your sides, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips as he pressed his body against your front, sandwiching you firmly between him and Bucky. The heat from both men enveloped you, their hard cocks trapped against your lace-covered ass and belly, throbbing with need.
Bucky's lips found the nape of your neck first, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin while Steve captured your mouth in a deep, demanding kiss, his tongue plunging inside to tangle with yours. You moaned into him, the sound muffled as Bucky's mouth trailed up to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.
They switched seamlessly â Steve pulled back, his blue eyes dark with lust, and Bucky turned your head toward him, claiming your lips with a fierce hunger that left you breathless. His stubble scraped your chin as he devoured you, one hand cupping your jaw while Steve took his turn at your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse.
Back and forth they went, their mouths alternating on yours, on your throat, your shoulders â kisses turning sloppy and urgent, tongues licking and teeth biting until your head spun in a haze of sensation. Air grew scarce in your lungs, each inhale shallow and desperate, your body arching instinctively between them, seeking more friction against their straining erections.
Finally, Steve scooped you up effortlessly, his arms banding around your waist as he carried you to the bed, Bucky's hand lingering on your thigh the whole way. They lowered you onto the silk sheets, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the fire in your veins.
Steve settled on your left, Bucky on your right, their bodies framing yours like bookends.
Bucky's fingers hooked into the straps of your bra first, sliding them down your shoulders with deliberate care, unhooking the clasp at your back. The lace fell away, exposing your breasts to their hungry gazes, nipples already pebbled and aching.
Steve leaned in to kiss you softly as Bucky peeled the bra free, then together they tugged your panties down your legs, the damp fabric whispering over your skin until you lay completely bare before them.
Your heart hammered in your chest as they both shifted closer, their naked forms pressing against your sides â Steve's broad chest to your left breast, Bucky's leaner muscles to your right. Each man gathered saliva on his fingertip, the wet sheen glistening in the low light, before trailing their hands down your body.
Bucky's mouth latched onto your right nipple, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around the tight bud, while Steve mirrored him on the left, his lips sealing over the peak with a gentle pull that sent sparks straight to your core.
At the same moment, their index fingers pressed against your slick folds, parting them easily before sliding deep into your pussy. The dual intrusion stretched you just right, their digits thick and insistent as they curled inside, stroking your inner walls in unison.
You gasped, hips bucking up off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.
Their thumbs joined the rhythm, alternating strokes over your swollen clit â Steve's callused pad circling first, firm and teasing, then Bucky's taking over with lighter, flicking pressure that made your thighs tremble.
They pumped their fingers in and out, scissoring them occasionally to hit that sensitive spot deeper inside, all while their mouths worked your breasts relentlessly, sucking and nibbling until your skin flushed red from their attention.
The room filled with the wet sounds of their fingers thrusting into your soaking heat, your moans growing louder, body writhing between them as the tension built toward an inevitable peak.
The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless rush, your voice cracking with desperation as waves of pleasure crashed over you.
âGuys... I... Oh my god, don't stop!â
Your body tensed between them, muscles coiling tight as the dual thrust of their fingers drove you higher, their thumbs flicking relentlessly over your clit in perfect alternation. Steve's mouth pulled harder on your left nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, while Bucky's tongue lashed at the right, sucking with a wet, insistent rhythm that matched the pump of his digit inside you.
The pressure built unbearably, your pussy clenching around their invading fingers, slick walls fluttering as the orgasm ripped through you like lightning.
You came hard, a sharp cry escaping your throat as your hips jerked upward, grinding against their hands. Juices flooded over their knuckles, soaking the sheets beneath you, and they didn't let up â fingers curling deeper to stroke that spongy spot inside, thumbs pressing firm circles on your throbbing clit to draw out every shuddering pulse.
Your vision blurred, toes curling into the mattress as ecstasy pulsed from your core outward, leaving your limbs trembling and weak. They rode the waves with you, their free hands roaming your sides, holding you steady through the aftershocks until the sensitivity peaked, your oversensitive nerves screaming for mercy.
A plaintive whimper slipped out, high and needy, your body arching away instinctively as the pleasure tipped into exquisite torment.
Only then did they ease back. Steve released your nipple with a soft pop, the cool air hitting the wet, reddened peak and making you shiver. Bucky followed suit, his lips leaving a glistening trail of saliva across your chest.
Slowly, they withdrew their fingers from your spasming pussy, the wet slide pulling a final gasp from you.
You watched through half-lidded eyes as they brought their digits to their mouths, Steve's blue gaze locking onto yours while he sucked his index clean, tongue swirling around it with deliberate hunger. Bucky mirrored him, licking his finger from base to tip, eyes dark and feral as he savored your taste, a low groan rumbling in his throat.
Exhaustion tugged at you, and you let your eyelids flutter shut, chest heaving as you caught your breath amid the lingering haze of bliss. The room smelled of sex â musk and sweat and your arousal hanging thick in the air.
After a moment, you forced the words out, voice husky and spent.
âThere are condoms in the nightstand.â
Fabric rustled beside you, the soft snap of elastic bands as Steve shoved his boxers down and off. Curiosity â and fresh heat â stirred low in your belly, and you cracked your eyes open, gaze immediately drawn to the sight before you.
Steve's cock stood proud and thick, veins bulging along the length, the flushed head already beading with pre-cum. It bobbed slightly as he shifted, easily nine inches of rigid flesh curving upward from a nest of trimmed dark hair.
You bit your lower lip hard, a fresh ache blooming between your thighs at the sheer size of him, imagining how it would feel stretching you open.
He caught your stare, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face, dimples flashing in the dim light.
âLike what you see, doll?â he murmured, voice rough with want.
Without breaking eye contact, he rose to his knees on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his erection jutting forward like an invitation. Emboldened, you pushed yourself up, turning to face him on all fours, knees sinking into the silk as your ass lifted instinctively. Your tongue darted out, flat and eager, hovering just inches from the tip of his cock, ready to taste the salt of him.
Behind you, Bucky moved with purpose.
You heard the crinkle of foil from the nightstand drawer, then the quick tear as he sheathed himself in latex, rolling the condom down his length with practiced ease. His left arm brushed your hip as he positioned himself at your rear, the heat of his body contrasting sharply with yours.
The blunt head of his cock nudged your soaked entrance, slick with your recent release, teasing the folds with shallow dips that parted you but didn't enter. He rocked forward just enough to glide the tip along your slit, bumping your still-sensitive clit on each pass, drawing a needy whine from your throat.
âPatience, sweetheart,â Bucky rasped, his free hand gripping your ass cheek, spreading you wider. âWe're gonna fill you up just right.â
The promise hung heavy, his glans pressing firmer now, circling your hole in torturous circles that made your hips twitch back toward him, begging for more.
Steve shifted closer on his knees, the mattress compressing under his solid frame as he guided his thick cock toward your waiting mouth. The swollen head brushed your extended tongue, warm and velvety against the flat surface, a bead of pre-cum smearing salty across your taste buds.
You lapped at it tentatively, your tongue flicking upward in slow, deliberate strokes along the underside, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed with his heartbeat.
He shivered visibly, a low hiss escaping through clenched teeth, his abs tightening as the sensation shot straight to his core. His hand tangled gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, fingers threading through the strands to anchor himself.
Behind you, Bucky gripped your hips with both hands and thrust forward with controlled force.
The broad head of his sheathed cock breached your entrance, stretching the slick ring of muscle just enough to sink the tip inside. Your pussy clenched around the intrusion, walls fluttering from your recent climax, and he swore under his breath, a rough fuck that rumbled deep in his chest.
The stretch burned sweetly, your body yielding to him inch by inch as he held still, letting you adjust to the girth filling your soaked heat.
Steve's eyes flicked to Bucky, curiosity and shared hunger darkening his gaze.
âSo, what does she feel like?â he asked, voice gravelly, his cock twitching against your tongue as he awaited the answer.
Bucky exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your skin as he savored the tight grip of your pussy hugging his tip.
âEven better than I imagined,â he admitted, the words laced with raw awe, his hips rocking minutely to nudge deeper without fully committing yet.
Seizing the momentary distraction, you parted your lips wider and drew the head of Steve's cock into your mouth, sealing around it with a soft suck. Your tongue swirled over the slit, coaxing more pre-cum onto your palate, the musky flavor flooding your senses.
Steve's focus snapped back to you instantly, his breath hitching as he stared down, pupils blown wide with lust.
The sight of your lips stretched around his shaft, cheeks hollowing slightly as you nursed on the tip, hit him like a punch â his cock jerked in your mouth, thickening further against your tongue. You could swear it drove him wild, the way his thighs tensed, muscles coiling as if he fought the urge to thrust deeper right then.
A guttural groan tore from his throat, his free hand fisting the sheets beside your knee, knuckles whitening.
âGod, doll... just like that,â he rasped, voice breaking on the edge of control, his gaze locked on the erotic vision of you taking him in.
Bucky eased forward with agonizing patience, his hips rolling in a measured glide that buried the full length of his sheathed cock deep inside your pulsing core.
Inch by inch, he stretched you wide, the thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, filling every crevice until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass. The slow invasion sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your belly, your inner muscles clenching greedily around him, milking the heat of his body through the thin barrier.
He paused there, fully seated, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your shoulder as he savored the velvet grip enveloping him completely.
The sensation overwhelmed you, a deep, throbbing fullness that tore a muffled moan from your throat, the vibration humming straight down Steve's cock still nestled in your mouth. Steve whined sharply, a desperate sound that echoed in the dim room, his head dropping back on his broad shoulders, blond strands falling across his forehead.
His fingers tightened in your hair, not yanking but holding firm, as if anchoring himself against the wave of ecstasy your hum triggered.
The two men exchanged a heated glance over your body, a silent agreement passing between them as they set the pace. They moved in unison, deliberate and unhurried, drawing out each thrust and retreat like they intended to etch the moment into eternity.
Bucky pulled back first, almost withdrawing entirely before sliding home again in that same torturous slowness, his cock gliding through your slick folds with a wet, obscene sound. Steve mirrored him from the front, withdrawing from your lips just enough to let you taste the air before pushing forward, feeding more of his rigid length past your teeth.
The rhythm they imposed was excruciatingly languid, every motion designed to build the fire without letting it blaze, hips rocking in sync to keep you suspended on the edge of madness.
You had expected Bucky to tease relentlessly, to draw out whimpers with playful denial, but instead, he proved achingly gentle in his touch. His hands roamed your sides with feather-light strokes, thumbs circling the dip of your waist as he held you steady, his body molding to yours like a protective shield.
Yet his voice dipped into filthy territory, words spilling from his lips in a husky murmur against your ear.
âFuck, you're so damn tight around me, sweetheartâ squeezing like you never want me to leave this perfect little pussy,â he groaned, the praise laced with raw vulgarity that made your cheeks burn even as it stoked the heat between your thighs.
Each slow thrust punctuated his dirty confessions, his breath hot on your skin as he nuzzled your neck, tender kisses blending with the lewd rhythm.
Steve's approach contrasted sharply, his movements carrying a rougher edge that bordered on urgency. He gripped your jaw with one large hand, tilting your head to take him deeper, his hips snapping forward in short, insistent bucks that tested your limits without mercy.
The brusque shift of his cock in your mouth stretched your lips taut, saliva glistening along his shaft as he claimed more territory. But his words flowed like honeyed worship, soft and reverent amid the intensity.
âThat's it, babyâ God, your mouth feels like heaven, taking me so deep and sweet,â he praised, voice thick with awe, blue eyes locking onto yours whenever he could.
âLook at you, sucking me like you were made for it... so fucking good, doll, don't stop.â His free hand stroked your cheek almost reverently, thumb brushing away a stray tear of effort, the tenderness in his tone clashing deliciously with the firm way he fucked your face.
Trapped between them, your body became a conduit for their shared desire, every slow plunge from Bucky sending ripples up your spine that made you hollow your cheeks around Steve.
The room filled with the symphony of their low grunts and your stifled gasps, the air thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. Bucky's fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip, grounding you as he whispered more obscenities â âGonna fill this up slow, make you feel every inch owning youâ â while Steve's praises escalated, urging you on with breathless adoration.
The deliberate pace frayed your nerves, pleasure coiling tighter with each passing second, your hands clutching at the sheets as you surrendered to the exquisite torment they wove around you.
Steve's control shattered first, his body tensing like a coiled spring as the slow, deliberate rhythm pushed him over the edge. His fingers dug into your scalp, holding you steady as his cock throbbed wildly against your tongue, the first hot spurt of cum flooding your mouth in thick ropes.
You swallowed instinctively around him, the salty tang coating your throat while he groaned low and guttural, hips jerking forward in shallow pumps to empty himself completely.
âFuck, yesâ take it all, just like that,â he rasped, voice breaking on the words, his blue eyes squeezing shut in bliss.
Wave after wave pulsed from him, filling your senses until he finally stilled, chest heaving as he eased back, his softening length slipping free with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva and seed connecting you for a lingering second before it broke.
With gentle hands, Steve pulled you upright, guiding your body to kneel on the rumpled sheets, your knees sinking more into the mattress.
He positioned you so your back pressed flush against Bucky's solid chest, the shift altering the angle of Bucky's cock buried deep in your pussy. The new tilt drove him even deeper, the head nudging a spot that sent electric jolts through your core, ripping a fresh moan from your lips as your walls fluttered around his girth.
Bucky's arms wrapped around your waist from behind, steadying you, his breath warm against your neck as he adjusted to the change, the fullness now pressing insistently against your front wall.
Steve closed the distance immediately, his naked form slotting against your front, the heat of his skin searing into yours.
He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, lips crashing together with unrestrained hunger, his tongue delving deep to taste the remnants of himself on you. The kiss muffled your whimpers, his free hand roaming down your belly to find your swollen clit, fingers circling the sensitive nub with feather-soft pressure that built the pressure coiling inside you.
Bucky, sensing the escalation, quickened his pace just a fraction, his hips snapping forward in firmer, more insistent strokes that made his cock drag through your slick channel with audible slaps.
Each thrust from behind rocked you into Steve's touch, the dual assault of gentle rubs and deepening penetration fraying your composure thread by thread.
The combined sensations overwhelmed you, pleasure cresting like a tidal wave as Steve's fingers worked your clit in steady, teasing swirls, Bucky's cock pistoning with growing urgency.
Your body arched between them, muscles locking as orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clamping down hard on Bucky in rhythmic spasms. You cried out into Steve's mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss, waves of ecstasy pulsing from your core outward, soaking Bucky's shaft and the condom encasing it.
Your thighs trembled, nails scraping at Steve's shoulders as you rode the high, every nerve alight with shattering release.
Bucky lasted only moments longer, the vise-like grip of your climax pulling him under. He buried himself to the hilt with a strangled curse, his body shuddering against your back as he came, cock twitching deep inside you, filling the latex with his load.
âShit, that's itâ milking me dry,â he growled, voice rough with satisfaction, his hands gripping your hips to hold you impaled on him through the aftershocks. Steve broke the kiss to murmur encouragements against your jaw, his fingers slowing to a soothing stroke as you all caught your breath, bodies entangled in a sweaty, sated heap.
For a full minute, you remained locked together like that â kneeling in the aftermath, Steve's forehead resting against yours, Bucky's chin tucked over your shoulder, the three of you breathing in sync amid the quiet hum of the penthouse.
The air hung heavy with the musk of sex, your skin slick and flushed.
Finally, Bucky withdrew with a reluctant groan, his cock sliding free from your tender folds, leaving you achingly empty. He peeled off the condom carefully, tying it off before tossing it into a nearby wastebasket, then returned to the bed, pulling you down with him.
The room felt quieter after â like the city beyond your windows had finally decided to hush for you.
You all collapsed onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs, Steve on one side, Bucky on the other, your head pillowed on Bucky's chest while Steve draped an arm across your waist. Their warmth enveloped you, hearts pounding in unison as the intensity ebbed into languid contentment, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
For a while, you let yourself drift in that warmth, letting your breathing find the same slow rhythm as theirs. Buckyâs chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady as a metronome. Steveâs hand rested at your hip, heavy and sure, his thumb moving in absent little arcs like he couldnât help himself.
It was safe here. It felt safe.
Which was exactly why the fear had room to creep back in.
You swallowed, throat suddenly tight again, and shifted just enough to look up at them. Buckyâs arm tightened around your shoulders automatically, protective even in sleep-softness. Steveâs head lifted from the pillow, eyes half-lidded, his expression still warm in that way that made you feel like you belonged.
You hesitated, and Steve noticed it instantly.
âWhat is it?â he asked quietly.
Buckyâs fingers stilled against your arm, then resumed, slower. âDonât tell me youâre gonna start checking emails,â he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.
You huffed a breath that tried to be a laugh. âNo. I justâŠâ
You trailed off, unsure how to step into it without breaking whatever fragile peace youâd built tonight. The bedside lamp cast honeyed light across Steveâs face, caught the pale lines of his lashes. Buckyâs hair was a mess, his jaw shadowed, his mouth soft for once.
They looked too content. Too real.
And you were terrified of what tomorrow would do to it.
You pressed your palm lightly to Steveâs forearm where it lay across you, needing the contact like proof. âIâm still⊠stressed,â you admitted, the words coming out smaller than you wanted. âAbout whatâs coming. The handover. The announcement. The fact that everything is going to change.â
Steveâs arm tightened, just a fraction. âHey,â he said, gentle. âWeâre still here.â
âI know.â Your voice trembled anyway. âBut thatâs the thing. If Iâm stepping into that role, Iââ You swallowed. âI donât know what this is supposed to look like. For us.â
Buckyâs chest vibrated with a low hum that mightâve been a laugh if it hadnât sounded so tired. âThis,â he said, shifting his head slightly so he could look down at you, âlooks pretty good to me.â
You gave him a look that was half exasperation, half pleading. âBucky.â
His mouth twitched. âWhat? Iâm serious.â
Steveâs fingers slid up and down your side, slow and grounding. âTell us what you mean,â he said softly.
You took a breath, then another, trying to make your heart stop sprinting. âI meanâŠâ You stared at the shadowed ceiling for a second like the answer might be written there. âHow do you want me to handle it? Us. With everything thatâs going to happen.â
Neither of them interrupted. They just waited, patient in a way you still didnât feel you deserved.
You pushed forward anyway, because you needed to know.
âHow do we⊠qualify this?â you asked, voice quiet but firm enough not to disappear. âWhat are we to each other? What do we call each other?â
Buckyâs fingers paused again, then resumed their idle patterns â this time slower, almost thoughtful. Steveâs face softened so completely it made something inside you ache.
For a beat, neither of them spoke, and the silence wasnât heavy. It was careful. Like they were both choosing words that wouldnât scare you.
Bucky broke it first, as usual.
âYouâre really asking us to fill out a form right now?â he murmured, but his tone was gentle, not mocking.
Steve exhaled a quiet laugh. âBe nice.â
âI am being nice,â Bucky protested, then he looked down at you and the humor fell away, leaving only sincerity. âOkay,â he said, lower. âOkay. You want labels.â
You nodded once. âI want⊠clarity. Before other people decide it for us.â
Steveâs gaze sharpened at that, understanding exactly what you meant â press, boardrooms, rumors, the way your life would be audited by strangers.
âOkay,â Steve said again, like he was steadying you with the word. âThatâs fair.â
He shifted closer, propping himself on an elbow so he could really see you. His hand slid from your waist to your ribs, thumb pressing lightly there as if he could soothe the tension out of your body.
âWe donât have to make this complicated,â he said softly. âWe can take it one day at a time.â
Your chest tightened. âBut people will ask.â
Steveâs expression didnât harden, but it did sharpen with quiet certainty. âThen we answer on our terms.â
Buckyâs arm tightened around you. âYeah,â he added, voice rough. âAnd if anyone doesnât like our terms, they can choke on it.â
You snorted, despite yourself.
Steve shot Bucky a look. Bucky only shrugged, unapologetic.
You tried to smile, but the anxiety kept pressing. âI donât want you to feel like youâre⊠trapped in this,â you admitted. âOr like you have to hide. Or like itâs suddenly your problem because itâs my life.â
Buckyâs hand slid up your arm and squeezed gently. âWe already got dragged into your life months ago,â he said, and there was a softness under the bluntness. âYou donât get to pretend this is brand new.â
Steve nodded, eyes warm. âYouâre allowed to need us,â he murmured.
The words made your throat burn.
You blinked quickly, refusing to cry again. âI just donât know what to call you,â you whispered. âWhat to call⊠us.â
Bucky tilted his head, thinking. âYou can call me whenever you want,â he said, and the grin he tried to give you was lazy but didnât quite land because he was still too sincere under it.
âBucky,â Steve warned, affectionate.
âWhat?â Bucky muttered. âIt was funny.â
âIt was,â you admitted, and the laugh that escaped you was real this time â small, but real.
Steveâs gaze softened further. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if he was imprinting it. âLook at me,â he said quietly.
You did.
His eyes were calm, steady, honest. No performance. No brightness for cameras. Just Steve.
âWe like you,â he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. âWe care about you. And weâre not going to suddenly stop because thereâs a title attached to your name.â
Bucky made a low, agreeing sound. âIf anything,â he added, âit just explains why youâve been acting like you were about to get sentenced to prison.â
You rolled your eyes, but your chest loosened a fraction. âIt feels like that.â
Steveâs thumb stroked your ribs, slow and soothing. âThen weâll make sure it doesnât,â he said.
Bucky shifted, propping himself up a little too, so you were no longer tucked against him without seeing his face. He looked at you with that intense, almost fierce honesty he saved for moments that mattered.
âYou want a label?â he asked. âHereâs one. Youâre ours.â
Your breath caught.
Steveâs expression didnât change in surprise. If anything, he looked like heâd been thinking the same thing and was only choosing gentler phrasing.
Buckyâs jaw tightened as if he was daring you to argue. âAnd weâre yours,â he added, quieter. âIf you want that.â
The vulnerability in that last part made your eyes sting.
Steve leaned closer, his voice soft but firm. âWe donât have to announce anything,â he said. âWe donât have to give the world a definition. But between us?â
He glanced at Bucky, and for once there was no tension in the look â just agreement.
âBetween us,â Steve continued, âweâre together.â
The word settled in your chest like something warm and heavy, like it belonged there.
Together.
You swallowed hard. âTogether,â you repeated.
Bucky huffed as if that was the only acceptable answer. âGood.â
You shifted slightly, curling your fingers into Steveâs sleeve where his arm rested across you. âOkay,â you said, voice shaking again, but this time with relief. âSo⊠if someone asks?â
Steveâs mouth tilted. âThen you can say weâre with you,â he replied.
Buckyâs brows lifted. âOr you can say weâre your boyfriends,â he offered, too casual for how closely he watched your reaction.
Steve made a face. âBoyfriends,â he repeated, like the word was unfamiliar on his tongue.
Bucky smirked. âWhat? Itâs accurate.â
Steve looked down at you, eyes soft. âIs that what you want to call us?â
Your heart stuttered. You stared at them â at Steveâs gentle steadiness, at Buckyâs fierce warmth â and felt something uncoil in you, slowly, like a knot finally loosening.
âYes,â you whispered. âI think⊠yes.â
Buckyâs grin turned genuine, bright in the lamplight. Steveâs expression softened into something almost relieved.
âGood,â Steve murmured, and kissed your temple.
Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair, surprisingly gentle. âThen thatâs settled.â
You let out a long breath you didnât realize youâd been holding. The city still glittered beyond the windows, the future still waited with sharp edges and bright lights and people who would ask too many questions.
But for the first time, it didnât feel like you were facing it alone.
Steveâs arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. Buckyâs hand resumed its slow, absent tracing along your shoulder.
âTomorrow,â you whispered, âI have to go in. Thereâs a meeting.â
Steve hummed, calm. âOkay.â
Buckyâs voice was immediate. âWeâre coming with you.â
You blinked and lifted your head. âWhat?â
Bucky looked offended. âYou think weâre gonna let you walk into that alone after today?â
Steveâs mouth curved softly. âWe canât sit in the meeting,â he said, practical even now, âbut we can take you there. We can wait. We can be close.â
The warmth in your chest flared again, sharp and overwhelming. âYou donât have to.â
Steveâs gaze held yours. âWe want to.â
Buckyâs hand pressed into your shoulder, grounding. âLet us,â he said simply.
You nodded, a small motion that felt like surrender in the best way. âOkay,â you whispered. âOkay.â
Steve smiled, soft and certain. âThatâs my girl.â
Bucky snorted. âOur.â
Steve shot him a look. Bucky only grinned.
You laughed quietly, the sound dissolving the last of your tightness. You settled back into them, letting their warmth hold you steady, letting your eyes drift closed as their hands kept tracing gentle patterns like a promise.
For the first time in days, sleep didnât feel like something you had to earn.
summary: On tour, Bucky Barnes has everything: sold-out shows, screaming fans, the adrenaline of being untouchable⊠and you, the one who made a cramped tour bus feel like home. He was clear from the startâno relationships. No labels. But somewhere between city lights and hotel nights, those lines begin to blur. You become more than convenient, more than temporary. And he becomes too much of a coward to admit what you are to him.
word count: 9.0 k (i'm sorry i got carried away)
warnings: explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), angst with a happy ending, emotional neglect, bucky might be a jerk, miscommunication, brief public cheating misunderstanding(but not really?), insomnia themes, strong language.
a/n: so I was listening to 5sos new album in loop and run into 'I'm scared I'll never sleep again' and this idea came to me, turns out I love writing rockstar!buckyđ anyways, enjoy! If you're interested in knowing more about how these two started please let me know in the comments! I'm working in a prequel because I got to see my fav band this week and came back home with a lot of inspiration. | dividers by @dividers-are-us
read it in AO3
The only thing Bucky Barnes knew about relationships? He never does them.
Everyone knows it. His publicists know it, his band mates know it. The rotating door of models and actresses who grace his arm at award shows know it. He was married to the music, to the road, to the adrenaline of performing in front of thousands of people singing along to his lyrics every night.
What they don't know is that he hasn't slept alone in four months.
WellâSam knows, Steve definitely knows. The tour manager absolutely knows, considering you've been riding on their tour bus for the past four months, your laptop set up at the tiny booth table during the day while you work your remote job, your legs tangled with Bucky's on the back lounge couch at night.
It started in Austin. You'd been at the show, and somehow you'd ended up on the bus after, and then you never left. Bucky had tried to play it cool, told himself it was just convenient, just a tour fling⊠that you being a constant only meant he wouldn't have to look for a casual hookup every night. But then you stayed through Texas, and Louisiana, and by the time they hit Tennessee, you had your own drawer in his bunk.
The thing is, you're useful.
You make coffee the way he likes it. You know when to leave him alone after a bad show and when to push. You're good in bedâgreat, actuallyâand you don't ask for anything he's not willing to give. It's perfect, really. All the benefits of a relationship without any of the actual commitment or the label that would make it real.
"Your girl's making coffee," Sam says, grinning as the bus stops somewhere in between Detroit and Cleveland. "She made me some too. I'm starting to see why you keep her around."
"She's not my girl," Bucky says automatically. "And I don't 'keep her around'. She's the one who decided to stay. Not my fault she's into the lifestyle."
"Right. This had nothing to do with you asking her to come to the next city. Or the next one. Or buying her that laptop stand. Or making sure her favorite snacks are stocked."
"That was practical. She was fucking up her neck hunched over the table, she winced while she was giving me a blowjob the other night⊠and the snacks are for everyone." Bucky shrugs. "Besides, she's got a job. She can leave anytime she wants, door's not locked."
Sam stares at him. "You really believe that? That she's just here for fun?"
"Why else would she be here?" Bucky says it like it's obvious. "I never promised her anything. Never said this was serious. She knew what she was signing for."
"Did she? Or dis you just never give her the chance to ask for more?"
Bucky doesn't answer. Doesn't want to think about the times you started to say somethingâstarted to ask "what are we"âand he just shut it down with a kiss or changed the subject. That's not being a jerk, that's being honest. He told you from the start: no relationships. If you chose to ignore that, that's not on him.
He sees you before the show, right where you always areâfront row, left side, exactly three people away from the barrier. You're wearing that leather jacket and one of his hoodies underneath. Something in his chest constricts.
He ignores it.
This is how it works now: He finds you in the crowd, your eyes meet. He plays every song like he's singing it to you, even when he's not. After the show, after the meet-and-greets and the industry people, you're waiting for him at the tour bus, usually with a coffee or a beer and a knowing smile.
The knock comes at 1:47 AM. Bucky knows because he's been watching the clock, that familiar anxiety creeping up his spine. The post-show adrenaline is still coursing through his veins, making his hands shake, and he knows he won't sleep without you.
Tonight's a hotel nightâthey rotate between two nights on the bus, one night in a hotel to actually shower and sleep in a real bed. Usually you'd share his bunk on the bus, the cramped space forcing you to sleep practically on top of each other (not that he minds). But hotel nights are different. More space. A real bed. Privacy.
He hates that he knows this. Hates that he's become dependent on you for sleep, like you're some kind of human Ambien. It's weak, and Bucky Barnes doesn't do weak.
"It's open," he calls, and then you're slipping inside, clicking the lock behind you with practiced ease of someone who's done this dozens of times.
You're still wearing his hoodie from the show, and your laptop bag is slung over your shoulder. You'd been working on the hotel lobby, finishing something for your job while he did the post-show press.
"Sorry I'm late," you say, dropping your bag by the door. "Client call ran long."
"You're never late," he says, but there's an edge to it. Like it's expected that you'll be here, waiting, whenever he needs you. "How was the show?"
You set your laptop down, and he notices you don't meet his eyes. "Good. You killed it, as always."
"Yeah?" He's already reaching for you, pulling you close, breathing you in through the fabric of his hoodie that you're wearing. "You had a good view?"
"Always do." Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips tracing the lines of his tattoos through his thin t-shirt. "You changed the bridge in 'Destroyer'. I liked it."
That does something to him. You pay attention. You notice the small things he does on stage, the improvisation that even his own band members don't always catch.
He kisses you to avoid thinking about what that means. It's desperate immediately, all teeth and tongue, and the kind of hunger that's been building since he saw you in the crowd three hours ago. His hands find the hem of his hoodie on you and he pulls it off, then your shirt, letting them fall to the floor.
"Bucky," you breathe against his mouth, and the sound of his name in your voice almost makes his knees buckle.
"Need you," he mutters, walking you backward toward the bed. "Needed you all fucking night."
"I was there⊠in the front row. You have me every night."
"Not enough." His hands are sliding over your ribs, your waist, mapping skin he's already memorized but still needs to learn again every time. "Never enough."
He gets the rest of your clothes off, and then his own, and the feel of your skin against his chest makes him groan. When you're both finally bare, he pauses, just looking at you in the dim light of the hotel room. You're so goddamn beautiful it hurts.
"What?" you ask, a small smile tugging up your lips.
"Nothing, justâ" He shakes his head and pulls you close again. "C'mere."
The kiss is slower this time, as he lowers you onto the bed and settles between your thighs. You're already wet for himâyou always areâand the knowledge makes something primal surge in his chest.
"Tell me you thought about this," he says, lips trailing down your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Tell me you were thinking about this while I was on stage."
"You know I was," you gasp as his hands slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance. "Always do."
"Good." He works you open with his fingers, watching your face as you arch into his touch. He's learned exactly how you like itâthe pressure, the rhythm, where to touch to make you fall apart. "Because I couldn't focus. Kept looking at you in my fucking hoodie and thinking about getting you like this."
"Bucky, pleaseâ"
"Please what?" He adds another finger, curling them just right and you moan. "Use your words, baby."
"Need you. Now."
He doesn't make you wait and lines himself up and pushes inside you in one slow deep thrust that has you both gasping.
"Fuck," he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. You feel like heaven. "You feel so perfect. Every. Goddamn. Time."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he starts to move. It's not gentleâit never is right after a show, when he's still buzzing with adrenaline and desperate to burn it off. But you match him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back hard enough to mark his skin.
"Harder," you demand, and he complies, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other grips your hip, angling you so he can drive himself deeper.
"Like this?" he growls. "This what you need?"
"Yesâfuck, yesâ"
He can feel you tightening around him, can see the flush spreading across your chest, and he knows you're close. He releases one of your wrists so he can get his hand between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in the way that drives you crazy.
"Come for me," he orders. "Let me feel it."
You shatter around him with his name on your lips, and the feeling of you pulsing round him drags him over the edge too. He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, vision whiting out for a moment as pleasure crashes through him.
When he can breathe again, when his heart rate has slowed from a sprint to something almost normal, he pulls out carefully and collapses beside you. You immediately curled into his side, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.
This is his favorite part.
When you're both sated and the world has gone quiet and you fit against him like you were made to be there.
Later, when you're both catching your breath in his hotel bed, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing abstract patterns on your bare shoulder, you break the comfortable silence.
"I wasn't going to miss soundcheck on purpose. The client moved the meeting last minute."
He'd forgotten about that argument you both had at the afternoon. "You don't owe me an explanation. This isn't⊠we're notâŠ"
You don't finish the sentence for him. You never do. You just look at him with something sad and knowing in your eyes, then kiss him before he can say anything else."
He thinks about Phoenix, two weeks ago.
You'd shown up at the bus at midnight, soaked from the rain, mascara running down your face. You didn't say anything, just walked past him and started methodically packing your things from his suitcaseâyour favorite hoodie (one of his, actually), the phone charger you always left there, the book you'd be reading.
"What are you doing?" he'd asked, more annoyed than panicked. He had a show the next day and needed to sleep.
"Nothing. Forget it." You'd laughed, bitter, and stopped packing. Left everything where it was. "It doesn't matter."
"Then why are you packing?" He was irritated. You were dramatic, making a scene over nothing.
"You really don't know?" You looked at him like you were seeing him for the first time. "We ran into your publicist at lunch. And when she asked who I was, and you just said 'she's with the tour', like I was crew. Like I was nobody."
"You are with the tour. What was I supposed to say?" He'd genuinely not understood what the problem was.
"My name, maybe? Or literally anything that acknowledged I'm more than just⊠around?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're being too sensitive about this." He said it dismissively, like you were overreacting. "Everyone knows who you're here. Why does it matter what I call you?"
You'd stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah, you're right. It doesn't matter."
And then you'd stripped off your wet clothes, and he'd been distracted by your body. You looked at him with something broken in your eyes. He'd fucked you against the door, then in the shower, then in his bunk, and somewhere in all of it, he'd forgotten you'd been trying to leave.
The next morning, your things were still unpacked. You made coffee for everyone, laughed at Sam's jokes and never mentioned it again.
He thought that meant it was fine. That you'd gotten over whatever mood you were in. He'd never considered that maybe you'd just given up on him choosing you.
Now, in Detroit, your hand slides down his body, wrapping around him, and he's already hard again despite everything.
"Again?" he murmurs against your lips.
"I'm here, aren't I?" you say quietly. "Might as well make the most of it while it lasts."
The words hit him wrong, make his chest tight, but then you're moving positioning yourself above him and his brain short-circuits as you sink down onto him slowly this time, both of you gasping at the sensation. You don't ride him hard and angry. Instead, you move slowly.
"I love you," he says without thinking, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
You still above him, eyes wide. "Buckyâ"
"I meantâI love how you ride my cock," he says quickly, panic flooding through him. "Forget it, I didn't mean it⊠it's just⊠the sex talking."
You flinch. "The sex."
"Yeah. You know how it is. Post-orgasmic brain. Doesn't mean anything." He's saying too fast, defensively, and he can see the hurt flash across your face before you hide it.
"Right. Of course." Your voice is carefully neutral. "Doesn't mean anything."
You start to move again, but something's changed. The tenderness is gone, replaced by something mechanical. You're going through the motions.
"Hey, waitâ" He tries to pull you down for a kiss, feeling like an asshole but not knowing how to fix it without making it worse.
"It's fine," you say, and you even manage a small smile. "I know what this is, remember? Just sex. Just convenient."
You make yourself come with him still inside you, but it feels hollow. When you roll off him afterward, you don't curl into his side like usual. You lie there, separate, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm gonna shower," you say after a moment and disappear into the bathroom before he can respond.
He lies there, listening to the water run, and hates himself a little bit. But not enough to take it back. Not enough to admit that maybe he did mean it. That maybe "just sex" stopped being true about three months ago and he's too much of a coward to acknowledge it.
When you come back out, hair wet, you climb into bed without a word. Turn away from him.
He should apologize. Should pull you close and tell you the truth. Instead, he lies there in the dark, listening to your breathing and tells himself this is better. Simpler. If you're a little hurt now, it's better than you being destroyed later when this inevitably falls apart.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
The New York show is supposed to be the biggest of the tour. Madison Square Garden. Every ticket sold out in four minutes. His publicist has organized an afterparty at some exclusive club in Manhattan, the kind of place where celebrities and models and people with too much people congregate to be seen.
Bucky hates these things, but it's part of the job.
The bus pulled into the city yesterday. You'd been working from the booth table during the drive conference call happening through your headphones while Steve and Sam played video games in the back. Normal, like you'd always been part of the crew.
That morning, you'd made coffee for everyone before the venue walk-through. The tour manager had asked you to grab his tablet from the bus. One of the crew guys had shown you photos of his new baby. You weren't just Bucky's⊠whatever you were. You were part of the family.
And that terrified him.
You're at the show, of course. Front row, left side, it was a ritual. You're wearing a dress he's never seen beforeâblack, short, the kind that makes him lose his place in the lyrics twice. And through the middle of the show he sees you putting on his sweatshirt. The contrast is arrestingâsexy dress, oversized hoodie. He watches you sing along to every word, watches you scream and dance and live in the music like it's oxygen.
He's in love with you.
The realization hits him mid-song, so hard he actually stumbles, Sam shoots him a look from across the stage, but Bucky recovers, throws himself back into the performance. But the knowledge sits in his chest like a stone, heavy and terrifying.
He doesn't do relationships. He doesn't do love. And yet, he can't shake that feeling off his chest.
After the show, you're waiting for him backstage, but something's different. You're standing apart from everyone else, arms crossed, and when he approaches, you don't smile.
"Hey," he says, already checking his phone to see how much time he has before he needs to leave for the party. "You ready to head back to the bus?"
You step back when he tries to kiss you. Just one step, but it might as well be a mile.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But your voice is clipped, and you won't look at him.
"Baby, I don't have time for this right now. I have that partyâ"
"I know about the party," you snap. "Trust me, I know."
His publicist approaches, checking her watch. "Bucky, car's waiting. We're already running late."
"Yeah I'm coming." He turns back to you, irritated now. "Look, we can talk about whatever this is later? I really need to go."
"It doesn't matter anyway."
"Clearly it does, or you wouldn't be acting like this." He's using his 'dealing with difficult people' voice, the one he uses with overeager fans or pushy jornalists. He doesn't notice the way you flinch at the tone.
You laugh, sharp and bitter. "Right, I'm acting like this. That's all your problem."
"I don't have time for games right now." He checks his phone again. "Just tell me what you want."
"I wantâ" you cut yourself off, shaking your head. "It doesn't matter what I want. Go to your party, Bucky. I'm sure you'll have plenty of fun there without someone like me⊠I bet there would be a lot of girls who actually belong at industry parties."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"You're being dramatic," he says and means it. This is such a small thingâone partyâand you're making it into this whole thing. "It's one event, it's for work."
"I know it's for work, I'm not stupid."
"Then why are you making this difficult?" He's getting frustrated now, and his publicist is practically tapping her foot. "I'll be back in like two hours, tops. We can talk if you really need to."
You're quiet for a moment, and something shifts in your expression. Something hardens. "Fine," you say and your voice is eerily calm. "Go."
He doesn't register the finality in that word. Doesn't see the way you're already pulling away, already deciding.
"I'll come back as soon as I can," he says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. You let him, but you don't lean into it. "Wait for me on the bus?"
"Sure," you say.
He takes that as an agreement, as everything being fine. His publicist is pulling him toward the door and he goes, already thinking about the party, about networking, about everything except the girl he's leaving behind.
He doesn't look back. Doesn't see you standing there with tears finally spilling over. He doesn't see you take off his hoodie and fold it carefully, leaving it on a nearby equipment case. Doesn't see you turn and walk toward the exit wiping your tears.
He's already gone.
The party is a nightmare.
It's too loud, too crowded, too full of people who want things from him. Bucky nurses a whiskey and counts the minutes, barely listening to the industry executives who want to talk about the next album, the next tour, the next opportunity.
He's been there forty five minutes when she approaches.
Alessandra Somethingâa model, or maybe and actress, he can't remember. She's beautiful in that calculated way people are in this industry, all sharp angles and practiced smiles. She's flirted with him before at other events, but he's always deflected. Tonight, she's persistent.
"That was an incredible show," she purrs, hand on his arm. "You were magnetic up there."
"Thanks," he says shortly, stepping back, but she follows.
"Some of us are going to this new place in Tribeca after this. You should come." Her hand slides up to his shoulder. "Could be fun."
"I'm good," Bucky says, looking for an exit. "Actually, I need toâ"
And then she kisses him.
It's fast, calculated, timed perfectly for the photographer who's been circling them. Bucky registers the flash, the way her lips press against his and he freezes for a second before his brain catches up and he pulls away.
"What the fuck?" he snaps.
She smiles, unbothered. "Sorry, couldn't resist. You can thank me later when that photo goes viral, actuallyâ"
He doesn't want to hear more. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring his publicist calling his name, and heads for the exit. His heart is pounding, panic clawing up his throat. It was nothing, it meant nothing. But he know how it looked, knows that in that second of shocked stillness, it would've seemed like he kissed her back.
The car ride back to where the bus is parked takes thirteen minutes. Each minute feels like an hour. He bursts onto the tour bus at 2:34 AM.
You're not there.
Your laptop isn't at the booth table, your toiletries are gone from the tiny bathroom. He yanks open the drawer where you keep your things⊠empty. And there, folded neatly on his bunk are a bunch of his hoodies, the ones you used to keep and you were always wearing.
The sight of them hits him like a punch to the gut. You really left. This isn't you packing and unpacking like the last time, this isn't you second-guessing. You took your things and left his clothes behindâthe clothes you were always wearing because they smelled like himâ and you walked away.
Sam emerges from the back lounge, rubbing his eyes. "Dude, whatâ"
"Where is she?" Bucky demands.
"Who?"
"Don't fuck with me, Sam. Where did she go?"
Sam's expression shifts to something like pity. "She was here about an hour ago, packed her things⊠said she was done."
"Done with what?"
"With whatever this was, man." Sam sighs. "She was crying, I asked if she was okay, and she just said she couldn't do this anymore, she asked me to tell you that your clothes were clean, that she did laundry before leaving. Then she called an Uber and left."
The floor drops out from under Bucky. You didn't leave the bus for the night. You left left. Packed your things after four months of living in this cramped space together, of being part of everything, you just⊠left.
He calls you. Straight to voice mail.
He texts you: Where are you?
Nothing.
I'm sorry. Please talk to me.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Sam sits down across from him at the booth table and just waits.
"She's not answering." Bucky finally says, his voice sounds hollow.
"I know, man."
"I need to find her, Sam."
Sam pulls up Instagram on his phone, showing him the photo that's already gone viral. Bucky and Alessandra, her lips on his, his expression caught mid-shock. The caption: Bucky Barnes getting cozy at the MSG after-party.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes, clutching the edge of the table. "It wasn'tâI didn'tâ"
"I know you didn't, but she doesn't know that. And after four months of you telling her this wasn't a relationship, of keeping her at arms length while she literally lived on this bus with usâŠ" Sam shakes his head. "Can you blame her for leaving?"
Bucky looks down at the booth table, where your laptop used to be most of the time. Now the space is empty and that makes him sick. Bucky's chest feels like it's caving in. He can't breathe right. The bus is too small, too quiet without you in it.
"I lied," he whispers. "I've been lying the whole time. To her. To myself. I love her, Sam. I'm in love with her and I never fucking told her."
"I know."
"What do I do?"
"You find her. And you tell her what you just told me."
Boston.
Two days. It's been two days and Bucky's losing his mind.
Your spot at the booth table is empty. Steve tried to sit there this morning and Bucky snapped at him. The coffee tastes like shit because you're not there to make it. The crew keeps asking where you are, and Bucky doesn't have an answer that doesn't make him sound pathetic.
She left. Because I was too much of a coward to tell her I love her.
You're not at the show.
Bucky scans the crowd obsessively, looking for your face, that spot you always claim. There's a blonde girl there instead, someone who doesn't know she's standing in sacred space.
He fucks up the opening to "Wreckage" and has to restart it. The crowd cheers like it's charming, but he sees Sam and Steve exchange worried looks from across the stage.
After the show he goes back to the bus instead of doing press. His assistant is texting frantically but he ignores it. He climbs into his bunkâthe bunk you used to shareâand it's too big, too cold, too empty. He pulls the pillow you used to sleep on sometimes close and breathes in the fading scent of your shampoo.
He checks his phone, no new messages. He's sent forty-two, you've answered none of them.
He doesn't sleep.
Philadelphia, four days later.
The knock on his dressing room door makes his heart jump, but it's just his assistant with the nightly schedule.
"Bucky, you okay? You lookâŠ"
"Fine," he snaps. "I'm fine."
He's not fine. He's averaging three hours of sleep a night, the hotel bed feels too big, too cold. He lies awake and stares at the ceiling and remembers the weight of your head on his chest, the sound of your breathing evening out as you fell asleep.
He never realized how much he needed that to quiet his mind. The post-show adrenaline used to keep him up for hours, jittery and anxious. You were the cure he didn't know he needed. Now it's just insomnia and anxiety and the crawling fear that he's lost the only real thing in his life.
Washington, DC - One week later
"Dude, you're gonna burn out," Steve says after Bucky nearly walks into a wall. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like hell, the label's starting to noticeâŠ"
Bucky laughs bitterly. "The label can go fuck themselves."
"This is about her, isn't it? The girl."
He doesn't answer, can't answer. That night, alone in another anonymous hotel room, he makes the mistake of opening his photos. There aren't manyâyou were never big on taking pictures, said you didn't need proof of something that felt this realâbut there are a few.
One catches him off guard: you in his t-shirt the morning after a Chicago, laughing at something he said, coffee cup halfway to your lips. He'd taken it while you weren't looking. You look beautiful. Happy. His.
The memory hits him hard: that morning, specifically. You'd been in his bed, sheets, tangled around your waist, wearing nothing but his shirt. He'd woken up to you tracing the tattoos on his chest, soft morning light streaming through the curtains.
"What are you doing?" he'd mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"Memorizing," you'd said simply.
He'd pulled you on top of him, kissed you slow and deep, and made love to you in the morning light. It had been different than the frantic, desperate sex after shows. Gentler, more intimate. After, you'd stayed in bed for hours, ordering room service and talking about nothing and everything.
He'd almost said it then. I love you. The words had been right there, on the tip of his tongue. But he'd swallowed them down, told himself it was just post-sex endorphins, just the dopamine talking.
Now, staring at that photo, he wants to scream. He'd had you in his arms, sleepy and satisfied and his, and he'd been too much of a coward to keep you.
He tries to sleep, lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. But every time he closes his eyes, he remembers: the sounds you made when he touched you just right, the way you'd breathe his name like a prayer, how you'd rake your nails down his back when you came, the perfect weight of you in his arms after. The way you wore his hoodies because you were always cold and they smelled like him.
He's hard and aching and completely alone, and it's his own fucking fault.
At 4 AM, he gives up on sleep entirely.
Atlanta - Ten Days Later
Sam finds him on the tour bus at 4 AM, sitting at the booth tableâyour tableâwith his acoustic guitar. Your pillow is draped over the back of the seat across from him.
"Can't sleep again?"
"Never can anymore." Bucky's fingers pick out a melody, something melancholy and unfinished. "Not without her".
The bus is quiet around them, Steve's asleep in his bunk. The driver's at a hotel. It's just them and the ghost of you in every corner of this space.
Sam sits across from him, in your spot, carefully not touching the pillow. "You ever gonna tell me what she meant to you?"
"Everything," Bucky says, then immediately regrets it. "I meanâfuck, I don't know. She was there, she was convenient. And then she wasn't there and it turned out I kind of needed her to be." He laughs bitterly. "Pathetic, right?"
"That's not what I'm hearing."
"What are you hearing?"
"That you're in love with her, and you have been for months. And you fucked it up by being too scared to admit it."
Bucky's jaw tightens. "I never lied to her. I was clear from the startâno relationships, she knew what it was."
"Did she? Or did you just keep telling yourself that while she fell in love with you?"
"That's not on me. I never promised her anything." He's getting defensive now, angry. "She made the choice to stay. I didn't force her onto the bus. I didn't ask her to rearrange her whole life. She did that herself."
"Because she loved you, you fucking idiot."
"Well, maybe she shouldn't have!" Bucky snaps, then immediately wishes he could take it back, the words hang in the air, ugly and raw. "I meanâthat's not what Iâ"
"You really believe that?" Sam's voice is hard now. "You really think this is her fault for catching feelings you weren't brave enough to acknowledge."
Bucky doesn't answer, because part of himâthe worst partâdoes think that. Thinks if you'd just kept it casual like he wanted, none of this would have happened. You'd still be here, and he wouldn't be falling apart, and everything would be fine. But then he looks at one of his hoodies, folded so carefully on the seat across from his, and he knows Sam's right.
"She lived here, Sam," he says finally, voice breaking. "She was part of this tour, part of this family. She made coffee for everyone, the crew loved her. And Iâ" He sets down the guitar. "I kept telling her it didn't mean anything. Kept introducing her as nothing, kept acting like she was disposable when she was the only thing keeping me sane."
"So find her, tell her that."
"What if she doesn't want to hear it? What if I've alreadyâ" He can't finish the sentence.
"Then at least you tried, but sitting here feeling sorry for yourself while blaming her for loving you? That's just pathetic, man."
Sam's right, he knows Sam's right. The worst part is that he's been so busy being scared of losing you that he pushed you away first. And now he's lost you anyway and it's entirely his own fault.
Miami - Two weeks later
The interview is supposed to be a puff piece for Rolling Stone. Easy questions about the tour the new album, what's next for the band. Then the interviewer leans forward with a smile that sets Bucky's teeth on edge.
"So, fans have noticed someone's been missing from the front row lately. There was this girl who was at almost every show for monthsâpeople were calling her your good luck charm. What happened here?"
Bucky's publicist tries to intervene, but he waves her off. "Yeah," he says slowly. "There was someone."
"Was?"
He looks directly at the camera. Fuck it. If you're watching, if there's any chance you'll see this, he needs to say it.
"I fucked up," he says. "There was someone who's been traveling with us on the tour bus for four months. Someone who became part of our crew, our family. Someone who saw me as more than the rock star bullshit, just me, Buckyâand I was too scared to admit what it meant." He runs his hand over his face. "She lived on our bus, made coffee for everyone. Knew all our inside jokes, stayed up with me when I couldn't sleep, which was every night without her. And I kept telling her it wasn't a relationship, that I didn't do that, all while she was literally living with me."
The interviewer is silent, clearly not expecting this.
"The fans called her your good luck charmâ"
"She was more than that. She was the reason I got on stage every night. She was home in a life that's nothing but highways and hotel rooms." He looks directly at the camera again and his voice cracks. "I know I don't deserve it, but if she's watching thisâI'm so fucking sorry. You weren't just someone on the tour, and I'm scared I'll never sleep again without you, which I know is selfish, but it's true. Everything I said about not doing relationships? I lied. I was already in one. I was too much of a coward to say it out loud."
"So you're in love with her."
"Yeah," Bucky says simply. "I'm in love with her. And I need her to know that beforeâbefore she decides I'm not worth a second chance."
The interview ends in awkward silence. Bucky walks out without another word.
The show is a disaster from the start.
Bucky can't focus. He keeps looking at that empty spot in the crowd where you should be. He misses cues, plays the wrong chord. During 'Destroyer', he stops mid-verse, just stands there with the guitar hanging silent.
The crowd goes quiet, confused.
"I'm sorry," he says into the mic. "I can't⊠I can't do this."
He looks at Sam and Steve, at the twenty thousand people waiting for him to continue. "I need to find someone."
He pulls off his guitar, sets it down carefully and walk off stage. The venue erupts in confusion, his manager is screaming and his publicist is on the phone. But Bucky just keeps walking, out the back exit, into the Miami night, your hoodie still in his hand.
Sam catches up to him by the tour bus. "What are you doing, Buck?"
"I'm going to find her."
"How? You don't know where she is."
"Then I'll figure it out." He pulls out his phone, opens Instagram for the first time in weeks. He's been tagged in thousands of posts, but he searches for your username, the one he memorized months ago even though he pretended he didn't pay attention.
Your account is private now, but his heart stops when he reads one word: Miami.
"She's here," he breathes. "She's in Miami."
"Bucky, this city has millions of peopleâ"
But he's already moving, pulling up his messages, sending one more text even though you haven't answered in two weeks.
I'm coming to find you. Please, just tell me where you are.
The three dots appear and he stops breathing.
Then: 1247 Ocean Drive, Apartment 3B.
"She lives here," he says, staring at the address. Four months on the tour bus together and he never knew you actually lived in Miami. Never asked, never thought to.
He's an idiot.
Bucky doesn't remember the car ride. Doesn't remember the building's lobby or climbing the stairs because he couldn't wait for the elevator. He just knows he's standing outside apartment 3B at 11:47 PM, heart pounding so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs. He can hear music through the door; something soft and sad that makes his chest ache.
He knocks and the door opens a few seconds later. You're there, wearing one oversized t-shirt of the band and gym shorts. Your hair's in a messy bun. There's a half-empty wine glass on the counter behind you. You look tired, beautiful. Real in a way he's never seen youâ this is your space, your home, and he's never been invited into it until now.
Your eyes go immediately to his face. "You canceled a show," you say quietly.
"I had to find you." He's looking around, taking it inâthe small but cozy apartment, the plants by the window, the books stacked on the coffee table. Evidence of a whole life you have that he knows nothing about. "You live in Miami."
"Yeah. I grew up here, my family's here." You lean against the doorframe, arms wrapped around yourself like you're cold. "Four months and you never asked."
The words cut deep because they're true. He takes out his jacket. "Here, take it."
You look at it like it hurts. "I don't need it."
"You're cold," he says. "You're always cold. Please take it."
"Buckyâ"
"Please," he says. "Just let me talk, please."
You step back, letting him in, and he follows closing the door behind him. You don't take the jacket, you just wrap your arms tighter around yourself.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter. I'm sorry I was too scared to call this what it was, I'm sorry about what happened in New YorkâI didn't kiss her, I swear, she kissed me and I pushed her away, but I know how it looked."
You're quiet, and he can see you're trying not to cry.
"You asked me once if I got tired of traveling," he continues. "I do. I'm exhausted. But you were the only thing that made it bearable. You were the only thing that felt like home." His voice breaks. "I haven't slept in two weeks. Not really. Because you're not there, and I can't quiet my mind without you, and I know that's not fair, that I can't put that on you, but it's the truth."
"You said this wasn't a relationship," you whisper. "You made that very clear. Every time someone asked who I was, ever time I wasn't invited to industry events, every time you introduced me as 'this isâ' and then just⊠stopped. Four months of living on that bus, of being part of your life, and I was still just the girl in your bunk."
"I know, I wasâ"
"Let me finish." There's steel in your voice now, but it's tired steel; worn down. "Do you know what it was like? Every time you introduced me to someone and then just⊠stopped talking? Every time I had to stand here and smile while you pretended you didn't know what to call me?"
You walk further into your apartment, and he follows you.
"Phoenix," you continue. "I started packing my things from your suitcase. Did you even notice? I got halfway through and you looked so panicked that I stopped. Unpacked everything, pretended I was never leaving."
"I noticed," he says quietly.
"Chicago, that producer who I was and you said 'She's with the tour', like I was crew. I went back to the bus and packed my stuff again, made it all the way to the door before Sam stopped me."
He didn't know that and he feels sick.
"Nashville, Atlanta, PortlandâŠ" your voice is steady, but there are tears on your cheeks now. "Every time you introduced me as 'this isâ' I packed a little more, took a little longer to unpack. I kept giving you chances to claim me, kept hoping that you'd wake up and realize what you had, and you never did."
"I was scaredâ"
"I know you were scared!" Your voice cracks. "You think I wasn't? You think I wasn't terrified every single day that I'd given up my whole life for someone who couldn't even call me his girlfriend? I was living on a tour bus, Bucky. I left my apartment, my friends, my life here in Miami because I loved you⊠and you couldn't even tell people my last name."
The words hit him like physical blows.
"You're right," he says. "You're absolutely right, and I hate myself for it. I had you and I was too terrified to admit what you meant to me because everyone I've ever loved has leftâ"
"I didn't leave!" Your voice breaks. "I was there! For four months I was right fucking there, and you pushed me away anyway. Every time you trailed off, every time you changed the subject, every time you chose me not to define usâyou left me first."
The words hand in the air between you.
"You're right," he says again. "I did, I left you in every way that mattered, even while you were sleeping in my arms every night. And I know sorry doesn't undo four months of me being a coward. But I love you." The words finally come. "I'm in love with you, completely. And if you give me another chance, I will spend every day proving it."
You're quiet for a long moment, searching his face. "How do I know you won't do this again? How do I know that the second things get comfortable, you won't panic and push me away."
"You don't," he admits. "I can't promise I won't be scared, but I can promise I won't lie about it anymore. I can promise I'll tell you when I'm freaking out instead of making you feel like don't matter. I can promise you'll never question whether you're my girlfriend again, because I'm going to make sure everyone know it."
"Everyone?"
"The label, the press, every single person who asks who you are. You'll be my girlfriend, my partner. The person I'm in love with. No more 'this isâ' and trailing off. No more keeping you separate from the important parts of my life."
You're still crying, but you step closer. "That girl kissed you."
"I know, and I should've pulled away faster. Should've seen it coming, should've left the party the second you weren't invited." He holds out his jacket again. "Should've told my publicist to fuck off and taken you with me, I chose wrong, and I will regret it for the rest of my life."
"You are mine," he says it fiercely. "You have been since Austin, I was just too fucked up to say it. But I'm saying it now: you're mine, and I'm yours, and I'm done pretending otherwise."
He steps closer, draping the jacket around your shoulders. "And you're cold. You're always cold and I'm sorry you felt like you had to leave all the hoodies you stole from me behind. I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to give back a piece of me to be free of me."
You look at his jacket, and something in your face crumbles. "Things have to change."
"Anything, whatever you want."
"I want to be more than the girl on the bus, I want to be yours. Actually yours, not just in private."
"You are mine. And I'm yours." He cups your face gently. "I'll prove it, everyday, I promise."
"I'm still mad at you," you say, but you step closer.
"I know."
"I should make you suffer."
"I deserve it."
But you're already kissing him, and he's kissing you back, desperate and grateful and whole for the first time in two weeks He picks you up and carries you to your bedroom. He lays you down on your bed and just looks at you for a moment.
"I love you," he says, and watches the way your eyes fill with tears. "I'm going to keep saying it until you believe me."
"I'm starting to," you whisper.
He makes love to you slowly, carefully, like he's learning you all over again. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every place you like yo be touched, every way your body responds to his touch.
"I love you," he says as he pushes inside you. "I love you," as you gasp his name. "I love you," when you fall apart around him.
And after, when you're both catching your breath, tangled together in your sheets, he holds you tight against his chest. You fell asleep like that, warm and safe in your own bed while he holds you close. And for the first time in two weeks, Bucky sleeps through until morning.
Two months later, last stop of tour in Europe.
"Stop looking at me like that," you say, but you're smiling, heat creeping up your cheeks.
"Like what?" Bucky's leaning against the bathroom doorframe, towel slung low on his hips, hair still wet from the shower. He's got that look that always makes you weak to your knees.
"Like you're planning something."
"I'm always planning something." He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward where you're sitting on the bed in one of his t-shirts and nothing else, because you'd showered first and gotten distracted by your phone. "Especially when you're sitting there wearing my shirt and looking like that."
"Looking like what? I'm literally just sitting here."
"Exactly." He's in front of you now, hands going to your waist. "Do you know what you do to me?"
You loop your arms around his neck, grinning up at him. "I have some idea, yeah."
"Oh, do you now?" He's smiling too, that soft smile he only gives you. The one that makes him look younger, lighter, happy in a way he never looks on stage.
"Mhmm." You tug him down and he goes willingly, climbing onto the bed and caging you in with his arms. "I seem to recall you telling Rolling Stone, and Billboard, and basically anyone with a microphone that you're 'stupidly in love' with me."
"I stand by that statement. I'm stupidly, completely, irrationally in love with you. Would-cancel-shows-to-find-youâ oh wait, I did that already."
You burst out laughing and he grins, ducking his head to kiss your neck. "You're never letting me live that down, are you?"
"Never. It costed me fifty thousand on indemnification for violating my contractâŠ" His teeth graze your pulse point. "Worth every single penny if you ask me. Now everyone knows I'm crazy about you."
"Yeah?" You tread your fingers through his damp hair. "How does that feel?"
He pulls back to look at you, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes. "Like I can finally breathe. Like I don't have to hide the best thing in my life anymore."
Your heart squeezes. Even now, two months into this being real, being public, being official, he still says things that make you melt.
"You're such a sap," you tease, but your voice is soft.
"Only for you, sweetheart." He kisses you properly then, slow and sweet and thorough. When he pulls back you're both breathing harder. "How is it possible that you're even more beautiful than you were four months ago?"
You snort. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean, you were already the most gorgeous person I'd ever seen, and somehow you just keep getting moreâ" He kisses your cheek. "And moreâ" Your other cheek. "And moreâ" your nose. "Beautiful."
"You're so ridiculous."
"About you? Absolutely." His hands slides under the shirt your wearing, palm warm against your ribs. "But I'm serious. Is it because you're happy? Because I'm happy. I haven't slept this well in years, I actually enjoy doing press now because I get to talk about you. The guys say I'm unbearable because I won't shut up about my girlfriend."
"I'm happy tooâŠ" You pull down for another kiss, deeper this time. He makes that sound in the back of his throat, you tug his towel and it falls away easily.
"Impatient," he murmurs against your mouth, but he's already pulling your shirt up.
"You're one to talk. You've been eye-fucking me since you got out of the shower."
"Can you blame me?" He gets your shirt off and tosses it aside, then looks at you. "You're so fucking perfect."
"You're just biased."
"Oh, I'm absolutely biased, doesn't make it less true." He's mapping your body with his hands, his mouth follows the same path. "I'm the luckiest bastard alive."
You laugh, breathless as his mouth finds your breast. "Pretty sure I'm the lucky one, dating a rock-star and all."
He bites down gently, and you gasp. "You're not dating a rock-star, you're dating me, Bucky. The guy who can't function without his morning coffee that you make perfectly. The guy who needs you to fall asleep." He kisses his way down your stomach. "Let me show you how much I love you."
"You're asking permission?"
He looks up at you, eyes dark but playful. "I'm a gentleman now. My girlfriend showed me about communication and healthy relationships."
"Your girlfriend sounds very wise."
"She's a genius⊠also, she's about to be very loud if she doesn't tell me to stop."
You laugh again, the sound turning into a moan as his mouth moves lower. "Don't you dare stop."
"Yes, ma'am."
And then his mouth is on you and you can't even think straight. He know exactly what you like, he has spent the last two months learning every single thing that makes yo fall apart. He's methodical about it, taking his time, and when you thread your fingers through his hair and pull, he groans against you.
"You taste so good," he murmurs and the vibration makes you gasp. "Could do this for hours."
"Buckyâ"
"Love the way you say my name." He adds his fingers, curling them just right and you arch off the bed. "That's right, baby, let me hear you."
You do. You're loud and shameless about it now, none of the quiet gasps from when you had to be careful on the bus. "Fuck, yes just like thatâ" you're close, so close, and he knows it. He doubles his efforts, knows exactly how to work you higher.
You shatter with his name on your lips, vision whiting out as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, gentle and thorough, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much.
He crawls back up your body, lips and jaw glistening, grinning like he just won something. "Still got it."
"Cocky."
"You love it."
"I love you," you correct him, pulling him down for a kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips and it makes you bold. "What are you waiting for fucking me?"
"So demanding." But he's already positioning himself, and when he pushes inside you, you both groan. "You feel like heaven."
"Move," you demand wrapping your legs around his waist.
He does, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has you gasping. It's different now than it was before. There's no desperation, no fear of losing this, just steady, building pleasure and the intimacy of knowing you have all the time in the world.
"I love you," he says punctuating it with a particular deep thrust. "Love you so fucking much."
He shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot that makes your vision blur. You rake your nails down his back and he hisses, moving faster.
"Yes, yes, fuck, right thereâ"
"Yeah? This good for you, baby?"
"So good, you're soâoh my god"
He gets his hand between you, thumb finding your clit and that's all it takes. You come with a cry, clenching around him, and he follows with a groan, burying himself deep, his cock pulsating inside you spilling its hot load inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe together, tangled and sweaty. Then you start giggling.
You laugh and rest your chin on his chest. "Twenty minutes? You need that long to recover?"
"I'm not twenty five anymore, baby. Give me a minute." But he's already pulling you on top of him, hands sliding to cup your ass. "Okay, maybe fifteen minutes."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I love you," you correct again and kiss him.
And laterâfourteen minutes later, actuallyâwhen he makes love to you again while you're wearing his shirt, it's slow and sweet and full of laughter. Because this is what you have now: the complicity, the joy, the absolute certainty that you belong to each other.
Can someone help me find a bucky x reader soulmate au fic? From what I remember it's a modern au also? Steve and Peggy are soulmates. I think reader is Peggy's cousin too? It's the sort of au where the first words you say towards your soulmate appear as a mark. Bucky and reader have known each other for years, but have never actually spoken to each other. Reader doesn't like bucky for the longest time, I think he was a playboy and it hurt reader because she liked him? I've been looking for it for ages and I can't find it. I'd appeaciate any help you guys can give đ
Summary : Bucky starts courting you, a woman out of time
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x regency era!reader (she/her)Â
Warnings/tags : Fluff, angst, sex references, trauma, abusive families and a failed suicide attempt. Modern Bucky wearing his 40s uniform (yes this is a warning). Let me know if I missed anything!
Requested by : anon (based on this request)
Word count : 8.7k
Note : The reader has ice-based powers, though it is not the central point of the story. Loved doing this one. Enjoy!
1801
You refused his hand in marriage.
The German prince had cunning eyes and a smile that never reached them. His hands were cold when they kissed yours, and colder still when they pressed possessively against your back at your motherâs ball. He spoke of legacy, of bloodlines, of duty.Â
He did not speak of love.
You would have been his fourth wife, since all three of his deceased spouses died of mysterious circumstances the second they turned 25.
Your father called your refusal foolish.Â
âRomantic nonsense,â he spat, voice echoing through the corridors of your family estate. âYouâll disgrace our name!"
âI would rather disgrace our name than share a bed with that man!â you shouted, voice shaking.
He didnât listen. The deal was done, the marriage contract was sealed.
You were a daughter, a pawn. A currency to be exchanged with an alliance to a man whose wealth exceeded his years and whose titles drowned out your voice.
Three weeks later, you were wrapped in velvet and pearls, not for a celebration, but for a transaction.
The ship waiting in the harbor was massive, carved in lacquered wood and gold trim. You stood on the gangway, surrounded by trunks of clothes you hadnât packed yourself, escorted by men who never looked you in the eye.
Your father only came to see you off to make sure you didnât run.
So you boarded because you had to.Â
The salt of the seas burned your throat. The wind was harsh against your cheeks. But it was not as cold as the heart inside your chest.
You stared out at the black waves, imagining the life ahead: a silk-lined prison. A wedding where youâd be bartered like grain. A short life lived not for you, but for appearances, for alliances, for legacy.
Sometime during the voyage, you stopped eating.
Stopped speaking.
No one noticed.
On the fifth night, a storm clawed at the horizon, wind howling like wolves through the sails.
You crept to the upper deck in silence, barefoot, wind tearing your nightgown.Â
You jumped when lightning cracked across the sky, waves when endless and hungry.
You climbed the rail.
You didnât want to dieâbut you did not want to live like that. Not in a cage of diamonds.Â
Not beneath a crown that came with shackles.
You closed your eyes and jumped.
The sea rose up to meet you, mouth wide and cold and deep. It swallowed your scream.
You plunged into darkness.
But in that near-death stillness, something inside you woke. Perhaps a dormant genetic code,Â
The water did not crush you. The cold did not claim you.
Insteadâyour skin hardened. Your heart slowed. Your blood chilled and crystallized.
You did not die.
You froze.
And the sea, perhaps recognizing one of its own, held you close.
â
21st Century â North Atlantic Ocean
A S.W.O.R.D. submersible team had been combing the ocean floor, tracking a signal from a downed satellite when the sonar returned something strange.
A human body.Â
But the body wasnât drifting, nor decaying. It was... suspended. Floating upright in deep sea, arms at the sides, hair drifting like seaweed, face serene, eyes closed.
A woman.
You looked untouched by time.
You wore remnants of what must have once been a regency-era gownâlace torn and fluttering, corset seams unraveling like threads from a dream. And yet... you were glowingâ a cold luminescence radiating from your skin.
The moment one of the divers reached out to touch you, the temperature around them plummeted.
They quickly realised your skin was the texture of ice, transforming as if to protect itself.
36 Hours Later â Classified S.W.O.R.D. Facility
Your eyelids fluttered open beneath sterile white lights. An unfamiliar ceiling hummed overhead. The air smelled of metal, antiseptic, and unfamiliarity. You heard a mechanical beeping in rhythm with your pulse. You flinched as you registered the restraints at your wrists, the needles in your veins, the murmured voices speaking in a clipped version of English that made your head ache.
A man in a lab coat leaned over you.
âVitals stable. Genetic markers are being sent to level twoâ they were rightâ sheâs not from this century.â
âHer cells are self-cooling,â another said. âHer entire system kept itself below freezing and still functioning. Thatâs incredible.â
You didnât understand the words.
Suddenly, you yanked your arms, but they didnât move. You tried to speak, but your throat burned from disuse. The ice was building beneath your skinâthin fissures of frost crawling up the bedâs frame. The walls started freezing.
âSheâs awake!â Someone exclaimed.
âSedate her,â another voice said urgently.Â
âNoââ you managed to croak out, âwaitââ
And then the door opened.
You heard boots on tile stomping in, âAlright,â you heard a voice say, âShe doesnât need a dozen needles in her, she needs someone to talk to. You all are dismissed.â
You turned your head.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and blue-eyed. He didnât wear a white pristine coat. He wasnât holding a clipboard.
âSergeant Barnes,â a scientist said. âSheââ
âFury sent me in here to help,â he insisted, âyou got a problem with that?â
Clearly, this Fury person meant something to these people because without a word, one by one, they filtered out.
Then he turned to look at you, and his eyebrows relaxed.Â
He didnât look at you like you were a specimen. He didnât look at you like you were dangerous.
He looked at you like you were human.
And when he spoke, the words were familiarânot just the language, but the rhythm. The cadence.
âI take it the voyage didnât go well, my lady?â He asked.Â
Your lips parted.
âNo,â you rasped. âIt⊠did not.â
It was the first proper thing you had said since waking.
You watched him, unsure if he were a doctor or a soldier or something else entirely. He stepped closer, cautiously respectful. His voice was lowered, as though trying not to scare you.
âDo you remember where you were bound?â
You hesitated. âGermany. To be wed.â
He nodded solemnly. âI regret to inform you⊠the man you were to marry is most likely long dead.â
You blinked before letting out a small breath. âGood.â
He tilted his head curiously, barely.
He pulled a chair closer, sat beside the bed. You watched him curiously. His armâhis left oneâgleamed faintly where his sleeve pushed up. It was metal.
âYouâre not like them,â you said, your voice hoarse but starting to take root in this new reality.
âNeither are you,â he replied. âWe⊠have that in common.â
â
It was later that you heard the conversation between two men outside.
Sam Wilson leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed. âDidnât know you could talk like that,â he chuckled.
âJane Austen. I read lots of Austen.â Bucky shrugged, deadpan. âHelps me sleep. Pride & Prejudice is my favourite.â
Sam blinked. âYouâre serious?â
âDead serious,â Bucky canât help the smile making its way up his lips. âDarcyâs got game.â
â
No one asked Bucky to be your guideânot officially. There was no mission briefing assigning him to you, no direct order passed down from above.Â
There had only been talk about the strange woman theyâd pulled from the icy waters. About how your clothes didnât belong to this century. How the air around you turned sub-zero faintly when you were scared. How you talked in a cadence long buried by time, and how your fingers left frost behind when you touched the metal of the examination table.
To most, you were a curiosity. A threat, maybe.
But not to Bucky.
He saw you and saw himself. He knew what it was like to fall asleep in one world and wake up in anotherâ to feel like a ghost in a place used to be home. You werenât a puzzle to solve. You were someone who needed an anchor.
And so, without anyone asking, he became yours.
Perhaps, he could learn a thing or two with you, too.
He was the one who sat at your bedside when you opened your eyes after a long night of sedation, confused as you tried to make sense of the blinking lights and the white room on the second try.
He didnât bombard you with questions or poke and prod at your strangeness. Instead, he just offered to talk about your newfound powers in the way few people knew he could be.
âYouâre not alone,â he said when your eyes brimmed with tears and your breath fogged the windowpane. âIâm here to help.â
Then, the rain started pouring, and you flinched when lightning struck nearby.
You suddenly remembered the night you jumped, the night you should have died.Â
âI suppose... a thunderstorm is fitting,â you sighed, more to yourself than to him.
Bucky didnât really understand what you meant by it. âYouâd have seen them where youâre from too, right?â
âI never liked them,â you whispered. âI always felt like the world was trying to shake itself apart.â
He was quiet for a long time, staring at the rain trailing down the glass and noticing they froze before they could hit the bottom.
âThereâs something I should tell you,â he said finally.
You turned to him, sensing the shift in his tone. âWhat is it?â
He rubbed his hands together, then clasped them between his knees. âDo you know how much time has passed since you were last awake?â
You shook your head. âIt surely canât be more than a couple of days.â
Bucky swallowed hard.Â
âItâs been almost two hundred years,â he said softly, giving you the rough estimate that the scientists had given him. âThe world you knew⊠itâs gone.â
Your breath hitched.
You didnât speak, you didnât cry. You just looked away, eyes distant and unfocused.
âIââ Buckyâs voice broke. âI know what it feels like. When I came back, everything was different too.â
You blinked, your voice barely above a whisper. âEveryone Iâve ever known⊠â
He reached for your hand. âI know. Iâm sorry.â
Your fingers were like ice, but he didnât pull away.
Strangely, you felt relieved. Confused and lost and utterly out of place on an earth that no longer cared for your existence, but relieved that your duties were off your chest.
âÂ
In those first few days, you clung to his presence like driftwood in the storm. And he let you.
One day, he showed up to the facility with a small leather-bound notebook in his hands, already dog-eared and full of scribbles.
âI thought this might help,â he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
Inside, you found wordsâmodern words, strange ones, with little sketches beside them. Internet. Streaming. Selfie. Siri not a person, apparently).
There were doodles in the margins: a tiny coffee cup, a confused-looking cat, a stick figure with frost trailing from its fingers. You laughed softly.
âI donât understand half of this,â you said, smiling up at him.
âGood,â he grinned, relaxing into the chair across from you. âGives me something to teach you.â
That evening, you sat together, heads bent close, his metal fingers tracing pages while you repeated words slowly, carefully.
Sometimes you get frustrated. Sometimes you get lost in your thoughts. But he was always thereâoffering encouragement in the nicest ways.
You tilted your head that night, before he left. âYou are Mr. Barnes, yes?â
He blinked, surprised by the formality. âJust Bucky,â he said. Then, hesitated, âOr... James, if you want.â
A smile broke across your face. âThen I shall call you James.â
He didnât correct you. It had been a long time since someone had said his name like thatâwith so much⊠care.
Later, Sam caught the two of you curled up on the couch in the makeshift living room that S.W.O.R.D sat up until the end of your quarantine, blanket over your knees, your head resting lightly against Buckyâs shoulder as he guided your hand with the television remote.
âYou let her call you James?â Sam asked when you were out of earshot, eyebrows raised and grinning like a cat who caught a canary. âYou donât even let me call you that.â
âSheâs different,â Bucky muttered, trying not to look Sam in the eyes.Â
âMm-hmm. She got a little snowstorm going on in your chest, doesnât she?â
Bucky didnât answer.
He couldnât deny it.
â
After your quarantine, they moved you into a S.W.O.R.D. safehouse tucked just outside of New Yorkâa modest place wrapped in tall trees and silence, built years ago under Nick Furyâs âjust in caseâ protocol. It was strange, modern, and boxy, but not unkind.
There was always sunlight through the wide glass windows, looking over the little porch out back with a creaking swing. At night, you could hear crickets. Not the same as what you remembered from home, but not so different either.
It wasnât home. Not at first.
But it became home because of the people.
People came. People stayed.
People who understood what it was like to fall through time and land hard on the other side. People who understood what it was to be⊠associated⊠with people like you.Â
Anomalies.
â
Sam Wilson offered to help you with control of your abilities.
He possessed no powers of his own, least of all the kind that bent elements or broke the laws of nature, but there was strength in him all the sameâand you could tell he had other people under his wing before you.Â
He taught you how to breathe through fear, how to move with intention rather than impulse. Meditation, mindfulness, combat techniquesâstrange words for a strange time, but he explained them well.Â
The first time you attempted to channel your power, youâd shattered a glass from across the room. The air had grown brittle and sharp, frost curling across the floorboards, creeping up the walls. You had stumbled back, heart pounding like a war drum,Â
But Sam didnât look nearly as scared as you.
Instead, he crouched and offered you his hand.
âYouâre not dangerous,â he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. âYouâre just scared.â
You so desperately wanted to believe him. âYouâve got people now,â Sam told you with a half-smile. âWeâll catch you if you fall⊠or freeze. You know.â
A laugh escaped youâsmall and surprised, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
â
James RhodesâRhodey, as he insisted you call himâtook it upon himself to help you understand technology, a task he approached with the same methodical precision he might have used to dismantle a bomb or teach a cadet to fire a weapon.Â
Or, as you thought of it: like a fencing lesson.Â
Every concept was broken down into steps, often accompanied by elaborate metaphors that only occasionally made sense to you.
âAlright,â he said one afternoon, holding up a small cylindrical object as though it might explode. âThis⊠is a smart speaker.â
You squinted at it, arms crossed. âIt hums.â
âIt plays music,â he clarified, setting it down on the table. âIt also tells the weather, sets reminders, controls lightsââ
âIs it a spirit of some kind?â you asked, cautiously circling the device as if it might scurry away.
Rhodey chuckled, âThink of it like⊠a servant trapped inside a music box.â
You stared at him. Then at the speaker. Then back at him.
âIs the servant⊠happy in there?â
He blinked once, lips parting, a frown tugging at his brow as he looked back at the speaker. âUh⊠wellâŠ.â
âBecause if they aren't,â you added, lowering your voice to a whisper, âwe ought to let them out.â
He stifled a laugh, shaking his head. âNo oneâs trapped, I promise. Itâs just code. Algorithms. Not a person.â
You looked skeptical but nodded.
Despite the confusion (and your frequent questions about whether âthe internetâ was a place one could visit in person), he never mocked your questions.
When he showed you how to use a touchscreen, he compared it to swordplay ("light pressure, not brute forceâ) and when you accidentally voice-commanded the television to play thirty consecutive hours of animal documentaries, he smiled and said, âAt least itâs not reality TV.â
He taught you how to send a text, how to turn off notifications (âThink of it like telling a messenger to shut upâ), and how to use video callsâthough you still had a habit of bowing slightly when someone appeared on screen.
And over time, you began to see the magic in all of itâhow these strange, blinking things helped people connect and communicate. It wasnât so different, you realised, from the letters you used to write by candlelight.
â
Pepper Potts arrived in the safehouse one sunny afternoon, a tablet loaded with entire fashion catalogues under her arm.
âA lady deserves a wardrobe,â she declared, leaving no room for argument as her eyes swept over you with the precision of a royal seamstress.Â
She even booked a private session for you in a boutiqueâ it had more garments than youâd seen in a single place since your first Season in the marriage market. There were jeans, jumpsuits, structured jackets, loose flowing fabrics in delightful textures.Â
âThere are⊠trousers,â you gasped, scandalised.
Pepperâs eyes twinkled and nodded.
âBut what of modesty?â you whispered, glancing around as if your mother might overhear and faint.
Pepper only laughed. âModesty is overrated. Confidence is better. Wear whatever makes you feel good.â
She coaxed you into trying things on.
The first pair of jeans felt like armourâsnug but not entirely pleasant, but Pepper showed you how to sit in them, how to move. You tried a blouse with sleeves that billowed like your old gowns, but tucked neatly into fitted pants that made you feelâoddlyâ stronger.
Over hours (and two cups of tea), she helped you find pieces that made you feel elegant and capable, that bridged the wide chasm between the world you knew and the one youâd woken into. You stood before the mirror at last in a coat over a dark knit dress, boots laced up to your calves, your hair swept back.Â
You were still yourself. Just⊠more modern.
â
Darcy Lewis was the first to introduce you to the wonderful concept of takeoutâand the miracle of microwave meals.
When she visited, she said she had experience with people that talked like old-timey-books. You didn't know what that meant. But when she mentioned a feast during dinnertime, you blinked, clutching the wooden spoon like a weapon. âBut I⊠donât have a cook.â
Darcy grinned. âExactly. Welcome to the 21st century. We are the servants. But good news: our masters are frozen pizzas and pad thai.â
That evening, she ordered in an armful of plastic bags. She plopped herself onto your couch, and spread out three steaming boxes.
âOkay, this is Thai food,â she said, opening one to reveal a mess of noodles, sauce, and vegetables. âItâs spicy, though. Is that okay?â
You hesitated at firstâ eating from a box felt borderline barbaricâbut the moment the flavors hit your tongue, you were hooked.
From there, Darcy took it upon herself to modernise your culinary education.
She taught you how to microwave leftoversâhow to poke holes in plastic, how not to use metal, and the importance of watching the time. There was an unfortunate incident with a burrito and a small flame, but she only laughed, waving the smoke away like it was all part of the learning experience.
Darcy even taught you how to look up recipes online. You were fascinated by the endless scroll of options, though overwhelmed by the choices.
You decided fairly early on that she was very odd. She wore mismatched socks, swore like a sailor, and talked to her coffee mug as if it were a person. But you also knew she was wonderful.
â
Kamala Khan, bless her youthful soul, began visiting regularlyâusually when she came to the city for her monthly check-in with Fury. She always made time for you, arriving in your safehouse with a tote bag full of snacks and enough enthusiasm to light the entire building.
âHi! I brought samosasâand gummy worms. Iâm not sure if youâve had either of them.â
Her visits became something you looked forward to more than you would admit.Â
Kamala appointed herself your official guide to âeverything youâve missed,â and took the job very seriously. Each visit became a pop culture adventure: one week it was superhero fan fiction ("No, you canât be madâitâs technically flattering!"), the next, karaoke. She introduced you to memes, slang, and social media with such child-like excitement, you found yourself nodding along even when you understood absolutely none of it.
âWait,â Kamala said one afternoon, her head popping up from the couch cushions where sheâd been scrolling on her phone. âHave you ever seen Frozen?â
You frowned, thinking she meant a state of being. âI have⊠been frozen, yes.â
âNo, no,â Kamala laughed, clutching her heart. âThe movie, Frozen!â
You were skeptical. Animation seemed childish, and your grasp on modern storytelling was tenuous at best. But Kamala was already putting the film up on the television.
The parallels were... uncanny. Uncomfortable. You stiffened when she fled her kingdom in fear, gasped when the ice spiraled up the mountainside.
âSheâs like you,â she whispered.
âI think,â you said softly, voice a little cracked, âI would like to watch more of these⊠animated stories.â
âOh my god,â Kamala beamed with joy. âWeâre starting with Tangled next. Youâre gonna love Pascal.â
â
At first, Bruce Banner frightened you.
Because he was, well, green.
You had seen monsters before. In your own time, they wore uniforms and crowns. They raised cities and called it conquest.
But Bruce was none of the sort.Â
He began to explain things. He talked you through your check-ups introducing you to modern medicine. He explained each procedure before performing it, every vaccine and its purpose, every sterile tool and how it differed from the leeches and tinctures you remembered.
And when he had to touch your wrist to take your pulse, or draw a small vial of blood for testing, he always asked first.Â
âYou donât have to worry,â he said once, catching your anxious glance at the tray of vials. âThis isnât a lab. Youâre not an experiment. We just need to know youâre adjusting well.â
One day, while examining your handâchecking circulation after a brief, accidental frostâyou asked quietly, âDoes it ever scare you? Knowing whatâs inside you?â
Bruce paused, then gave a faint smile. âSometimes.â
You thought of your own power. Of ice creeping along your skin when your heart raced.
And in that moment, for the first time, that part of you felt understood.
â
But Bucky⊠Bucky was different.
He was your anchor in a world that often felt like ice underfoot.
He took you to the market (or mall, as he called it), hand resting lightly on your back as you marveled at the endless colors and unfamiliar packaging. He taught you how escalators worked (and caught you,when you gasped and stumbled backward in surprise).
He introduced you to vinyl recordsâyour fingers trailing reverently over the grooved discs as he played Ella Fitzgerald for the first time.
Still, modern wonders caught you off-guard. You couldnât get over the shampoo that smelled like cherries. âWhy fruit?â you asked, nose scrunched, as he grinned, watching you step out of the bathroom in a sundress that Pepper had helped you pick out.Â
âSmells nice,â he said. âAnd because you like it.â
He brought you cotton blankets when the cold in your bones turned to frost at your fingertips. He gave you books to read from his collection.Â
You once spent an afternoon at the museum together. That day, you found yourself staring at pieces of your own era behind glass. You saw a pair of gloves almost identical to the ones you once owned. A fan with delicate lace, yellowed at the edges. A portrait of someone you swore youâd met at a ball.
He stood beside you, close enough that the heat of his presence kept your fingers from frosting over the display.
Bucky never rushed you. Not once.
He explained things patientlyâwhat traffic lights meant, why the city never slept, how to look both ways before crossing.
And when you passed a couple kissing in the park, their arms entwined, you slowed to a halt.
You watched, curiosity downing across your face like snowfall.
âIs that common now?â you asked softly. âTo show such affection in public?â
âYeah,â he said gently, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You tilted your head. âAnd no oneâs punished⊠or disgraced? Even if they are not married?â
He shook his head. âNot anymore.â
You let out an awed breath. âAmazing,â you whispered. Then, quieter, you asked him, âDo they choose their partners out of love?â
He was quiet for a moment, caught off-guard. âMostly,â he said at last.
You smiled, the kind of smile youâd once only allowed yourself in candlelight, when no one was watching.
âGood,â you said.
â
Some nights, he stayed late.
Not out of duty, and not because he had nowhere else to be. But because sitting beside you on the porch, felt like peace.
You always made the tea too strong, still learning the balance of leaves and steeping time, but he drank it anyway. He never complained, only added a little more sugar when you werenât looking.
The two of you would sit shoulder to shoulder, legs tucked under wool blankets, eyes tilted toward the stars. You told him stories about the constellationsâ how your governess used to teach them to you. Orion the Hunter. Cassiopeia the Queen.
He listened like every word mattered.
In turn, he spoke of his own time.
âI missed so many things,â he said one night, as though not to disturb the stars above. âSo many people.â
You didnât speak right away. Instead, you reached across the space between you and gently laid your hand over his metal one. It was cool to the touch, but comforting nonetheless.
âI know the feeling,â you said.
One evening, as the sky turned dusky lavender, you confessed a truthâ something that you had not known how to address.
âI never learned how to braid my hair,â you said, almost shyly. âI used to have ladies for that. Theyâd do it every morning, sometimes with ribbons, sometimes with pearls.â
You smiled a little, wistfully. âAnd then⊠suddenly there were no ladies. And no pearls.â
Without a word, Bucky moved to sit behind you on the couch.
âI had a sister,â he said in clarification. âSheâd ask me to do hers when our ma was too busy. Said I was better at it anyway.â
You felt him softly tugging as he began to part your hair.
You closed your eyes.
And thereâwoven between strands of hairâwas care.Â
When he finished, you turned to face him.
âYouâre good at this,â you said with a smile, warm and bright and a little surprised.
He gave you a boyish grin. âDonât tell Sam. Heâll never let me live it down.â
â
Sometimes, when everything became too muchâwhen old ghosts stirred in the corners of his mindâBucky stayed in the second bedroom of the safehouse.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The silence inside felt vast and hollow. This was the kind of silence that echoed too loudly against the walls and made your footsteps sound intrusive. You moved through the rooms, unsure whether you were haunting the house or it was haunting you.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, stirring the leaves like restless memories. You curled yourself in a blanket and sat near the wide front window, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you. The glass was cold, and the world beyond it was even colder. You stared out at the dark as if it might offer answersâor at least an escape, like you once looked into ice waters below.
Thatâs how Bucky found you.
Barefoot, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap. Fingers clenching the edges of the throw blanket with white-knuckled intensity. Your eyes were distant, half-lit by moonlight.
He didnât speak or ask what was wrong. He just walked across the room and lowered himself to the floor beside you. Close, but not crowding.
âI know that look,â he said softly, voice barely above whisper.
You didnât answer.Â
âYouâre reliving something,â he said.Â
He was right.
Still, you kept your mouth shut and eyes forward. Youâd spent a lifetime burying pain beneath poiseâbehind the rigid etiquette of your era, the careful layers of composure. You werenât going to fall apart now
âYou know,â Bucky said after a pause, âwhen I first got my mind back⊠I didnât talk much.â
Your eyes darted toward him, the smallest movement, but he caught it.
âDidnât even know who I was for a long time. I knew my name, kinda. Remembered flashes of the war. Then⊠nothing. Just waking up with blood on my hands and no idea why. Over and over again.â
You swallowed hard, throat tightening.
âI lost everyone I knew. Steve was all that was left, and even he sometimes looked at me like I wasnât really there.â He exhaled slowly. âI was⊠am⊠a man out of time. Just like you.â
You hesitated, then when you finally spokeâyour voice was quiet, cracked like thin ice.
âDo you remember much about your family?â You whispered.
He nodded. âMy ma made the best apple pie in the neighborhood. Burned it half the time, but we always ate it anyway. My little sister Becca used to chase me with a broom when I teased her. I thought fighting in the war was the right thing to do.â
There was a reverence to the way he spoke. Not just sorrowâ but love, too. A kind of longing that felt impossible to lose to time.
âI guess,â he added gently, âI thought⊠maybe if I told you all this, itâd be a little easier for you to tell me whatâs on your mind.â
Your breath hitched. You stared down at your hands, shaking now, clutched in your lap like you were holding yourself together by sheer force.
âI was supposed to marry a prince,â you finally admitted for the first time in this lifetime. The words felt like ash on your tongue. âMy father arranged it. Said it was my duty.â
Buckyâs head lifted. His eyes, storm-grey and steady, found yours.
âI was⊠an alliance. I was a contract.â
The air dropped around you. The temperature fell gradually, frost lacing the corners of the windowsill, spiderwebbing outward. You didnât notice at first, but Bucky did. His breath fogged, and the wooden floor beneath you shimmered with a thin, unnatural layer of ice.
âI tried to kill myself,â you choked out. âI jumped off the ship. Into the sea. I donât remember what happened after that. Not until the lab. And then⊠IâŠ.â
Unable to finish your sentence, the frost spread. Crystals glinted on your lashes like delicate diamonds. The tears came fast, but froze to your cheeks before they could fall.
âI woke up in a world of glass towers and glowing screens. I donât belong here, James. I donât know what Iâm supposed to do anymore.â
And just like that, you suddenly don't feel cold anymore, Buckyâs arms wrapping around you.
He tucked your head beneath his chin, his flesh hand moving in comforting circles across your back while his other arm drew you closer, anchoring you in the now.
You were stiff at first, and shocked by the contact.
But then, you melted into him like spring snow under the touch of sunlight. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let yourself fall apart.
âI might not be able to fix it,â Bucky muttered into your hair, âbut maybe⊠I can help you find some kind of closure.â
You trembled in his hold, sobs quieting into soft, stuttered breaths. The ice on the floor started fading.
â
Bucky didnât really tell you where you were going at first.
The journey was long and quiet. It was a landscape of muted skies, the kind of journey that made the world feel smaller and older. You sat beside him in the jet, watching the clouds shift like time unraveling in reverseâ it took your breath away.Â
Flying⊠was something you never imagined man capable of doing.Â
His hand never left the control panel, but his eyes darted to you oftenâas if checking to see whether you were ready.Â
You werenât.Â
But he took you anyway, because he promised closure.Â
You landed in a familiar garden.Â
The gates were rusted through, half-bent and snarled with ivy. The once-grand house beyond them loomed like a ruin, its stone face cracked and worn by time, windows empty, roof bowed with decay. Weeds swallowed the gravel drive you remembered walking as a child. The trees you once climbed were bare-boned and brittle now, clawing up at a gray sky that didnât care you had come home.
This was your familyâs estate.Â
You froze as you set foot on the grass.
âItâs still here,â you whispered.
âI did some digging,â Bucky said shyly, his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. âHistorical archives. Property records, yâknow? Your family estateâwhatâs left of itâwas absorbed into state land after the war. No heirs. No claims.â
âThe line died,â you said, your voice hollow.
He looked at you gently. âUntil now.â
You walked through what remained.
The drawing room where you once read Gulliverâs Travels by candlelight was open to the elements, the ceiling collapsed. A garden wall youâd hid behind during games with your cousins now lay scattered in mossy stone. The ballroomâyour motherâs pride and joyâwas nothing but fractured floorboards and a rusted chandelier dangling like a broken crown.
And still, you remembered.
You remembered the scent of lavender oil on your motherâs gloves. The clink of silverware at dinners where youâd been taught not to speak unless spoken to. The way your father's boots echoed through the hall when he came to find you.
You remembered his study, where he signed the letter that sealed your fate, sent by a servant who wouldn't meet your eyes.
He had no heirs⊠because you decided drowning was better than living a lie.
This⊠the ruin of your family home was your fault. Or at least your father would say so.Â
You hated him.
But when Bucky led you to the far edge of the overgrown gardensâto the private family cemetery hidden beneath ancient treesâyou cried anyway.
Your fatherâs name was etched into a crumbling headstone.
Your motherâs was beside it. Your siblingsâtwo who died young and you never really knewâlined up in stone and sorrow.
And there, at the end of the row, was a space. An empty grave without a marker.Â
Where you would have gone, had the sea taken you. Had they found your body.Â
You dropped to your knees.
You didnât make a sound at first. You just reached out and touched the cold stone of your fatherâs grave, as if expecting it to speak. To explain. To answer for what heâd done. To apologise.
But he didnât.
Then the air around you shifted.
The ground beneath your hands iced over in a sudden bloom. Frost swept across the cemetery like a wind-chime hush.Â
Bucky, once again, was beside you in an instant. He didnât try to stop the frost this time. He just knelt in the snow-laced grass, and placed his hand over yours.
âYou donât have to forgive him,â he said softly. âYou donât even have to understand him.â
âI donât,â you said. âI despise him.â
âI know.â
You were trembling, biting back a shameful confession. âBut Iâm⊠grievingâŠÂ him.â
âGriefâs a complicated thing,â Bucky said. âItâs okay not to know what to do with it.â
Your hands shook harder. The frost turned to thin crystals climbing the edges of the gravestones.
âIâm scared,â you said, your voice a whisper. âI donât know how to live again. I donât know who I am anymore.â
Bucky reached out and pulled you into him. Held you like you mattered. Like you werenât alone.
âYouâve got a second chance.â he murmured. âAnd this time, your choices are yours.â
You let the words sink in.
You let the grief happen.
The snow began to fall gently, not quite forgiveness, but not quite anger, either.
You stayed there with Bucky for a long timeâsitting between the broken past and the uncertain future.
And for the first time since you emerged from the sea, you felt the burden of your old life begin to melt.
Not gone. Not erased.
But finally, finallyâŠ
The beginning of closure.
â
Still, closure didnât erase the pastâbut it gave you room to breathe.
The grief remained, as grief often does, but it no longer held you hostage. You smiled more. Spoke more freely.
Sam noticed first, naturally.
One afternoon, as you finished training with Sam, he leaned back on his bench. âYouâve been suspiciously⊠sunshine-y,â he pointed out with a grinning.
You blinked, caught off-guard. âIâpardon?â
âI think,â He leaned in conspiratorially. âYou have a crush on good olâ Sergeant Barnes.â
You flushed. âI most certainlyââ
âDonât worry,â he said, waving a hand as Bucky walked into the room behind you. âYour secretâs safe with me. But just so you know⊠he does that little smile thing every time you walk in.â
You turned, wide-eyed, just in time to catch Bucky pretending he hadnât heard a word of it. He gave you a polite nod and stepped into the ring.Â
Sam, meanwhile, grinned like a man who knew exactly what heâd done.
You and Bucky had grown closer. In ways neither of you had expected.
Not all at once, and not in a sweeping, cinematic rush. It was more like two vines reaching for the same patch of sunlight and finding each other along the way.
There were more nights spent talking until the stars faded. Mornings where he waited for you to wake before making teaâalways too strong, still, but heâd grown fond of it. He stopped putting so much sugar in it.
He touched you more now, in the simplest, most respectful ways. He would place a hand to your back when guiding you through a crowd. His finger would touch yours when passing you a mug.
Then, one afternoon, Bucky asked, almost shyly, âCan I steal you for a little outing?â
âWhat for?â
âUh,â he scratched the back of his neck. âShopping.â
You assumed it was another lesson in modern fashion. Pepper had taken you more than once beforeâsleek black dresses, expensive fabrics, silhouettes you didnât know what to do with. They were beautiful, yes, but something felt⊠missing.Â
They made you feel like a guest in someone elseâs body.
But this was different.
Bucky took you to a small, tucked-away shop in the historic district, full of antique mannequins and carefully preserved garments. Lace parasols, ribboned bonnets, corseted gownsâgenuine pieces alongside wonderful recreations. When you entered the shop, the smell of old fabric and beeswax polish made your chest thump with a familiarity.
Bucky said something about regency era clothing to the shopkeeper.Â
âYouâve come to the right place,â she smiled.Â
Bucky gave a sheepish shrug and looked at you. âFigured you deserve to feel at home in your own clothes.â
Hours passed like moments as you tried on gownsâsoft silks, delicate embroidery, flowing sleeves that fluttered with your every breath.Â
One dress in particular made time stand still.
It was pale blue, the color of dawn before the world began to stir.
The sleeves floated when you moved, as delicate as fairy wings. The fabric shimmered just slightly when the light touched it. Your hair had been gathered at the nape of your neck.
You stepped out.
And Bucky⊠stopped breathing.
His lips were parted like heâd forgotten how to speak. âYou lookâŠâ he tried, voice rough, âIâI mean, wow.â
You smiled and turned to the mirror.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, you didnât see a survivor or a subject or a woman out of place in time.
You saw her.
The girl you used to be.
The woman you couldâve become.
You stood a little taller.
And Buckyâwho had seen you at your lowest, at your most brokenâpulled out his wallet without a second thought and bought the dress. Then two more. He insisted.
You didnât argue.
The skies opened the moment you stepped outside the shop, welcoming sudden rain of a summer storm.
Most people ran for cover. But not you. Not Bucky.
You held out your hands, laughing as the raindrops kissed your skin. Your hair clung to your cheeks in damp tendrils. The blue gown stuck to your legs, heavier now, but you didnât care.
âYouâll ruin the gown,â Bucky warned, but he smiledâ he had absolutely no real concern.
âIâll survive,â you answered, laughing as you spun in a joy-drunk twirl.Â
He didnât argue.
By the time you reached his apartment, both of you were soaked to the bone and laughing, shoes squelched against the floor. He offered you shelter without hesitation.
After you towel off in the bathroom, you stepped back out in the gown. Still damp and stunning. Youâd refused to change.
But you had a condition.
âIf I must live in your world,â you said with a half-smile, tilting your chin toward him, âthen you must give me a piece of yours in return.â
Bucky looked intrigued. âWhat do you mean?â
You snuck into his bedroom and opened his closet, rifling through untilâaha! This must be it!Â
You spotted a neatly kept garment bag, preserved in time. You held it up with a sparkle in your eye. âWear something from your time. Just for me.â
He hesitated, but only for a moment.
A few minutes later, he stepped out of the bedroomâŠ
And it was as if the past came to life.
He wore brown wool and polished boots. A matching belt snug at his waist, and his hair combed back in that classic, clean sweep youâd only ever seen in old black-and-white photographs of his time.Â
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
This time, you forgot how to breathe.
âJames,â you whispered, like saying his name too loud might shatter reality.
He shifted on his feet, a little sheepish. âWhat?â he asked, fingers nervously twitching at his sides. âToo much?â
âNo,â you whispered, lifting your hand to the front of his jacket, letting your fingertips brush the fabric carefully. âYou look like every dream I buried. Like every poem I was never brave enough to write.â
His mouth parted, but he couldnât seem to find the words. So instead, he reached upâgently, reverentlyâand tucked a damp curl behind your ear.
You leaned into the touch.
Then, without a word, Bucky moved to the record player in the corner of the room.
The soft click of the needle dropping was followed by a gentle crackle. And then, the smooth, honey-rich voice of Marvin Gaye filled the air.
He turned to you, held out his hand, and bowed playfully, âMay I have this dance?â
You nodded, barely finding your voice. âYou may.â
He pulled you into him gently, your hands finding their place with natural ease. One nestled into his, the other resting lightly on his shoulder. His hand settled at your waist before you began to move.
He guided you through the steps he'd once known in smoky dance halls and swing bars back in the '40s. There had been carefree laughter then, shared between soldiers who didnât know if theyâd live to dance again.
âYouâre light on your feet,â he mentioned, smiling.
âYouâre not bad yourself,â you teased. âBut thisââ You shifted, guiding his steps into a slower, more regal rhythm. âThis is how we danced in my time.â
He followed your lead, eyes wide with amusement as he attempted your elegant glide, stumbling once or twice as you adjusted his posture.
He laughed when you corrected him, and you giggled as he attempted a dramatic dip, catching you with a hand at your back like a perfect gentleman.Â
And then⊠the movements started slowing down.
You leaned in, resting your cheek against his chest. His arms found itself wrapping around you like he was made to fit thereâ like the space between you had never really existed. You both barely moved at all.
It was peaceful.
And then⊠Bucky saw⊠snowflakes?
Not outside on the windowsill, falling from the clouds. But inside.
Tiny, crystalline flecks of frost drifted around you both, floating like suspended stars.Â
He held his breath.
He knew your powers only manifested when your emotions grew too intense, past the point of control.
What emotion could you have possibly⊠oh.Â
He leaned down, brushing his lips near your temple.âHey,â he whispered.
You turned your face slightly toward his.
âWhat ifâŠâ he said carefully, âWhat if I courted you?â
Oh?
You lifted your head to look at him fully, almost breathless. âYou mean like⊠properly?â
âWell,â he laughed nervously, âmaybe not with calling cards⊠unless you want those,â he said with a small smile.
You blinked once, then twiceâ and cleared your throat. âOnly if we do not require a chaperone.â
His eyes twinkled. âNo chaperones,â he promised. âJust me and you.â
You nodded, leaning into him again. âThen⊠yes. Court me, James.â
His arms tightened around you just a little.Â
â
Bucky Barnes, when he courted you, was the picture of old-world charm. He walked you to dinners with your hands entwined over his arm, like escorting you was not a favour or a duty, but a privilege. He opened every door, pulled out every chair, helped you step carefully down curbs like you were walking off the edge of a ballroom floor.
He offered you his coat when the wind bit through your shawl.Â
He never rushed or assumed. He was always waiting for your invitation.
But the tension was there.
The slow-burning warmth that grew brighter with each day. He watched you like a man finally seeing daylight after years in darknessânot ravenous, but grateful. And you⊠you had never been looked at like that before.
Not as a daughter traded for alliance.
Not as a noblewoman trained to smile and curtsy before disappearing.
But as a person.
One warm evening, after dinner at a quiet rooftop place that looked over the city skylineâheâd called it âthe best damn view in Brooklyn,â but you suspected he meant youâhe walked you back to your safehouse
Your heels clicked softly beside his boots as you spoke about poetry and modern music, the strangeness of this era and the wonder in it.
When you reached your door, you turned to him with a soft smile.Â
âCome in?â you asked. You had seen the woman offer this to the man in some of the movies Kamala showed you.
His throat bobbed when he swallowed. He nodded, following you into the softly lit apartment. Everything smelled like flowers and books and your favorite candle.
âThis might be a bit forward,â he said nervously, âbut⊠can Iâ may I kiss you?â
You tilted your head just slightly, letting your eyes drop to his mouth while your heart thundered behind your ribs.
âYes,â you said, with all the courage of someone who'd been quiet too long and was done hiding.
And when he did kiss youâ god.
It wasnât shy.
His lips were home, tasting faintly of whiskey and cinnamon, and his hand came up to cradle your jaw, as if he could shelter you from everything that had ever hurt you.
You kissed him back like his mouth was the answer to every question your heart had ever dared whisper.
And when you finally pulled awayâjust enough to breatheâhe blinked at you, stunned, his blue eyes dark with wonder.
âJesus,â he breathed. âYouâre⊠youâre a great kisser.â
You laughed, breathless and a little flushed, tucking a curl behind your ear. âIâve had⊠some experience.â
He tilted his head, brows lifting with genuine surprise. âHave you?â
Your smile faltered in horror for a second.Â
You took a step back, âWould⊠would you still want me? Knowing Iâm not⊠untouched?â
His eyes widened instantly. âHey,â he said, stepping forward, catching your hands. âOf course I still want you. God, yes. I justââ He rubbed the back of his neck. âI wasnât aware, thatâs all. A lady like youâŠâ
âJames,â you cut him off softly, âI might look like a lady, but I assure youâIâve found ways to get satisfaction without the proper crowd knowing.â
His lips parted slightly.Â
Huh.
He wasnât expecting that.
âHm?â he asked, rough around the edges.
âIndeed,â you replied, eyes glittering.
He took one step closer.
âWould you⊠consider letting me be one of those ways?â
You arched eyebrows. âIf you ask nicely.â
His hands slipped to your waist, his grin bright like the photos from the 40s. âDarlinâ, I can be very polite.â
And then you kissed him again.
Harder this time, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you.
Bucky responded in kind.
He returned in open-mouthed kisses. I want you. I trust you. I choose you.
You didnât make it far.
Only to the couchâstumbling in the haze of want âbefore he was over you. His hands were greedy, unfastening your gown like he was peeling away the centuries. And you let him. Happily.Â
Your fingers slid beneath his shirt, finding heat and muscle and the silver lines of scars he never hid from you.
His hands moved with care, not caution. His mouth followed, kissing trails down your neck, pausing to savour every gasp, every groan.
But when you whispered âYes,ââwhen you moaned his name into the hollow of his throatâhis restraint vanished.
âTell me what you like,â he demanded, his tongue hot against your collarbone, nipping and biting all the same.
You could barely form words. âEverything youâre doing,â you gasped.
That earned you a wicked smile. âYeah?â he whispered.
And then he made it his mission to ruin youâ in the sweetest, most thorough way imaginable. He wanted to make sure no gentleman would ever compare.
You came apart slowly, then all at onceâ your powers responding to the intensity of your heat. Before you knew it, Frost painted the ceiling in delicate patterns and snowflakes spiraled lazily through the air like falling stars.
Bucky groaned against your neck, still buried deep inside you, his breath ragged. âFuck,â he muttered, a dazed kind of wonder in his voice, looking at how much of your powers manifested in the living room. âThat good, huh?â
You laughedâalmost giddy. âThe best Iâve ever had.â
His grin widened, and he wouldâve been pure sin if not for the adorable wonder in his eyes. âYeah?â
You nodded, cheeks flushed. "And I would know.â
He lifted his head, raising a teasing brow. âAnyone I should be worried about?â
You chuckled through the haze of afterglow. âWell⊠there was a stable boy. When I was young and stupid.â
Bucky groaned, jokingly exasperated as he flopped beside you, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes. âOf course there was a stable boy. Thereâs always a stable boy.â
âAnd one of my guards,â you added with faux innocence, resting your head on his chest. âAfter my father arranged the engagement. He was kind.â
He looked down at you, eyes sparkling. âYou were scandalous.â
âPerhaps.â You giggled, bare skin shamelessly pressed to bare skin, âBut you⊠youâre the only one Iâve ever loved, James.â
That stopped everything.
He couldnât quite believe it.
âWhat?â he said, voice quiet.
You leaned in, lips brushing his. âI love you,â you repeated, carefully, tilting your head against his skin. âIs that okay, James?â
He looked at you like the war had never happened. Like time had never stolen decades from him. Like heâd been waiting across a hundred lifetimes just to hear that.
And then he smiled.
âI love you too,â he said and pulled you close, one hand threading gently into your hair as he kissed you again.
Outside, in the middle of June, snow began to fall across New York.
Not heavyâ a light, gentle dustingâlike powdered sugar on gingerbread rooftops and blossoms.
Street lamps caught it in golden halos. Children ran to their windows. Dogs barked. People stared in confusion.
And in a hotel a few blocks away, Sam Wilson blinked at the frost collecting on his windowsill and smiled.Â
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, fingering), light angst, fluff, humor, action, no use of y/n, friends to lovers, post-TFATWS, past Steve Rodgers/Reader, truth serums.
Summary: The truth doesn't hurt. It's not freeing, either. It just sits in your chest, until it's pried out, and you're looking it the eyes with nowhere to run, and Bucky knows you love him.
But he's not running either.
Author's Note: I love making scenarios. I love making Bucky feel loved. Kevin Feige I'm in your walls.
Word Count: 9.2k
Youâve never been good at fighting for things.Â
Itâs not because youâre weak, or donât care, or donât have anything to fight for, itâs just not what you do.
Fighting for things means that youâve already lost them. That you had something, and you werenât smart or good enough to keep it, and youâd lost it. Failed. Had a chance to do it right and destroyed it, held something in the palm of your hand and crushed it to pieces.
Itâs not logical, or reasonable, but itâs what you do. Youâd tried to explain it to Steve once, and heâd frowned at you like you were insane.
âIf you had it, doesnât that mean it was worth fighting to have?â
Youâd shaken your head, turning your fork between your hands with a long sigh. âNo, it means I had it, then⊠I guess dropped it. If it was worth having, I wouldnât have dropped it.â
âWhat if you didnât drop it?â Steve had raised his brows, and youâd stabbed your fork into your food, almost chewing right through your cheek.Â
âBut I did.â
âHow about if itâs indestructible?â
Youâd given him a flat look. âAnything can be destructible if youâre destructive enough.â
âThen what if someone knocked it out of your hands-â
âI feel like youâre getting too caught up on the metaphor,â Youâd mumbled, and Steve had shrugged.
âItâs just not making sense. Youâre saying you had it. If you love something, you fight for it. To keep it.â
Youâd hummed. âI thought if you loved something, you let it go?â
âThatâs a loose rule. You canât be letting everything you love go, or else youâll end up alone.â
Maybe youâd just never loved something. Maybe whatever youâd been told to read as love was wrong, or youâre just defective and not capable of the raw, tear-the-world apart love that Steve had been talking about. And everything falls through your fingers because it can sense that, and fighting for it would be holding it hostage.
âYouâre not going to fix me in one conversation, Steven.â Youâd muttered, kicking his shin under the table. âEat your pancakes.â
Steve had sighed, but listened.Â
Then, years later, heâd gone back in time to Peggy, and you hadnât bothered to stop him.Â
You hadnât loved him, but it had been the closest thing youâd ever had to something. More than just a body for warmth, more than just flat word for the sake of speaking, more than just company for the prayer of not being stranded. For a very long, long time youâd been certain that Steve had been your shot. That youâd missed it because you had horrible aim and sand for bullets, and now you were alone just like heâd warned youâd be.
And youâd been wrong. Youâd been so horribly, impossibly wrong, because youâd been right. All the wires and nerves had gotten tangled and crossed in your body, and youâd been right about the wrong thing, and youâd ended up so lost that the sky had gone black until one star blinked at you, and guided you home.
Youâd never loved Steve. Heâd never been your shot.Â
And when love had hit youâreally, truly fucking hit youâit hadnât been like the train or comet or blow to the gut people had always told you it would be.
It had been clear. The world had gotten sharper, and colors had been more vibrant, and youâd known.Â
Youâd never been in love before.Â
You were in love now.
In half a second, youâd fallen into it, and youâd never be able to crawl back out. You didnât know how to fight for it, but you could wait for it. You could lie here like you were in a grave and wait for flowers to bloom above you, and then maybe heâd pick them and know youâd grown them for him.
Because Bucky doesnât know that you love him. You donât know how to tell him, either, because every other time youâve said it suddenly seems like at lie, and no words are big enough anymore.Â
And Sam had fucked it. One day youâre going to shove him into the ocean or something, because heâd found you after the Blip and told Bucky you were the girl. The one that Steve had found in a crowd and kept, who was smarter and kinder than someone named Sharon, who theyâd been supposed to find and take care of, but gotten sidetracked.
That wouldâve been like a noose on your heart, in youâd really heard that part of Samâs sentence. That Steve had told him to find you and look after you, but then left anyway, only for Sam to completely forget.
But you hadnât heard him.
Youâd been staring at Bucky, and the world had been clear, and you hadnât been sure if it was a ringing in your ears or some sort of fucked up, heavenly choir.Â
Maybe it had been adrenaline, in that first moment. Youâd told yourself, over and over, that maybe it had just been the rush of meeting him, because Steve had told you so much already.
But then youâd followed them back to New York, and it had been love. It had been long, heavy love that was stronger than anything youâd ever felt, and made you do stupid, pathetic things to just keep yourself in Buckyâs orbit. It started with being whatever he and Sam asked you to be, because you didnât feel expendable, but you wanted to be irreplaceable. Youâd made yourself so useful in every way possible. With research and computers and undercover work where you got to hang off Buckyâs arm and smile at him, and heâd smile back like he loved you, and it was just the job but fuck, it was like a drug.
Being in love had made you smarter, as the months passed. You could do stitches and relocate joints, fly a plane and read in two new languages, and an average hacking job but an outstanding acting one. Your cooking has gotten better, mostly making different kinds of eggs, because itâs something you do with Bucky once a week, and you can play the piano, because heâd mentioned he liked it once.Â
You were going to rot away here. Loving Bucky in silence and never saying anything, and it would be a soft and gentle death because Bucky does like you. Youâre friends, and heâs called you important to him and yelled at you for being reckless, but not wanting you to die isnât the same pure, wrathful love you feel for him.Â
But youâre the girl. Steveâs girl. That was left behind and fell into Buckyâs care. That he keeps around for youâsome unknown shift had occurred, and you know youâre not being allowed to remain in Buckyâs orbit because Steve asked him to keep you thereâbut as a friend.Â
You can be a friend. You can be whatever the fuck Bucky needs you to be, just as long as youâre allowed to stay here.
And being his friend is easy. Doing things for him is easier. Loving him, even in numbing silence, is the simplest thing in the world.
âThis is so fucking stupid.â Bucky had grumbled last week, glowering at his paper, and Sam had shrugged.Â
âI think itâs fun.â
Bucky had shot him a glare. âWeâre using glitter gel pens, Sam, you know this is stupid.â
âI happen to like glitter gel pens.â Sam had shot you a grin across the table as he said your name, and youâd narrowed your eyes in a silent warning heâd completely ignored. âDo you think itâs stupid?â
âThe pens or the lists?â
Samâs grin had grown. âLists?â
Youâd shrugged, dropping your gaze to your own blank sheet of paper. âTheyâre kinda dumb, but Iâm still going to do it.â
âSee, Buck?â Sam had raised his brows at Buckyâs scowl, then turned back to you. âHow about the pens?â
âI like them.â Youâd spun yours between your fingers, trying not the feel Buckyâs gaze over your skin. âBut I like glitter, and Bucky doesnât-â
âI like glitter.â Heâd grunted, scowling at his own pen. âBut it doesnât belong in pens. Itâs impractical.â
Sam had rolled his eyes. âThey can write, man, thatâs all they gotta do.â
âYeah, Buck. You have no whimsy.â
Youâd smiled at him, and heâd returned it, but it had been the only smile heâd offered for the rest of the day.Â
But the point hadnât been to get him to smile. It had been to make him do the lists, because his therapist said it was important, and if he didnât, heâd be in violation of his pardon conditions again. It had taken a very long, tense afternoon to get it done, but heâd handed his list to his therapist the next day, and youâd kept your crumbled in your jacket pocket since.
And you still werenât fighting for things.Â
You think itâs how you ended up here. In this warehouse, your head spinning and everything a little too bright.
You canât really remember, and this might just be an incredibly odd dream. Your tongue feels loose in your mouth, your skin has an odd buzzing feel over it, and this couch is made of whatâs probably velvet, and youâre pretty sure Spiderman is standing right next to you, holding your list.
Your list. Heâs reading your list. No oneâs supposed to read that list, and you almost broken Samâs hand for trying, and you know Sam-
âWhat the- fuck-â
Spiderman looks up at you right as you topple off the couch, his eyes widening his suit.
âOh, shoot, sorry, maâam-â
He pulls you back up to your feet, this list still in his hands, and youâd try to grab it but your whole body feels like jelly and mist. Nothing in you but your thoughts, floating around and narrowing in on the list, why does Spiderman have your list-
âWhat-â You groan as he sets you back on the couch, closing your eyes to try and ward off the bile rising up your throat. âWhy- What is- What happened?â
âUm,â Spidermanâs voice cracks slightly, sounding almost uncertain. âYou were poking around where civilians shouldnât be, miss- And I was looking in the same lab-â
You frown, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. âLab?â
âYeah, uh, one of the secret evil government ones-â
âFuck.â
Itâs coming back in small, hazy pieces.
Bucky told you that you didnât need to do this, but youâd done it anyway. You werenât recognizable, and you were careful and smart, so youâd be in and out before Sam and Bucky realized youâd gone and the buildingâs security realized you werenât there for a meeting.
Something had happened. Youâd gotten the evidence you needed, and there had been vial or canister, and youâd knocked it over because your phone had started ringing, and it had been Bucky. Youâd think youâd declined the call, or just let it ring to voicemail, but heâd sent you a very angry text seconds later.
Heâd noticed you were gone faster than you thought he would. Heâd worked out what you were doing, and he was coming to grab you because you were being stupid, and when heâd called you a second time, youâd-Â
Youâd thrown your phone in panic. It had broken the canister. And everything had gone black.
âDo you, uh,â Spiderman clears his throat from somewhere in front of you. âYou look like you remember what happened?â
You give a half-nod, letting out a long breath. âWhere am I?â
âYouâre in my warehouse.âÂ
You open your eyes at that, and Spiderman shakes his head.Â
âItâs a safe warehouse. Really safe. The safest. You collapsed, maâam. I couldnât just, uh- leave you on the floor? Alone? But-â He looks down to your list, then back to you with an expression thatâs somehow nervous through the mask. âMay I please ask you a question?â
You canât really go anywhere. And heâs already read your list, so thereâs not much to lose.
âSure.â
âDoes the Bucky from your list have a metal arm? Because itâs not a- uh- Iâve only met one guy named Bucky, and he tried to punch me because we were doing this big fight at an airport, and he had a metal arm, and heâs not- uh- he seemed alright, but it was super complicated, and if this,â he points to your list, his voice growing higher and higher by the second. âIs the Bucky I know, then- uh- Is it?â
âYeah,â you let out a long, breath, and something is cloudy over your skull. Your Bucky does have a metal arm. âIt is.â
âOh, okay.â Spiderman blinks at you, then the list. âYou, uh- You guys seem close, then. Thatâs cool.â
For a second, you want to lie. Just say youâre not that close, just co-workers, and Spiderman doesnât need to be thinking about Bucky because itâs really, totally nothing.
But you canât lie. The words just die at the top of your chest, and you canât even bite your tongue and swallow the truth, or youâll choke on your own spit.
âItâs- I- I love him.â
Youâve never said that aloud before. Not even to the mirror. But Spiderman just shrugs like itâs nothing, and then gestures to your list.
âYeah, I uh- I worked that out, maâam. Heâs on here like ten times.â Spidermanâs eyes narrow on the paper. âUpstate, where you can see the stars. Buckyâs ass and arms. Candles. My blue vase. The color blue in general. The color brown, too. Buckyâs hair when he actually uses his fucking conditioner. Buckyâs eyes. Bucky when heâs sleepy and his Brooklyn accent slips. Cotton Candy ice cream.â Spiderman looks up at you with a nod. âOh, that stuff is really good, thereâs a place in Queens that makes it, and it tastes like- well, cotton candy-âÂ
âThatâs nice.â You mumble. âCan you please- just- I already know what the list says-â
âRight, of course, sorry.â Spiderman pauses, bouncing slightly on his feet. âItâs a nice list though.â
You sigh. âI know. That was the point.â
âTo make a nice list?â
âYep.â
Spiderman sounds like heâs frowning. âThatâs- uh- Why? I mean, you donât have to tell-â
âIt was for Buckyâs therapy. He had to make a list of all the good things in his life, so Sam and I did it with him.âÂ
You didnât want to tell Spiderman that. Heâd even been about to say you didnât have to, but you did. He asked, and if you donât say the truth, it feels as if all the oxygen will burn up in your lungs.Â
That canât be good.
âHey, kid?â He sounds like a kid. And if heâs not, he doesnât correct you. He only nods and takes a step closer, waiting for you to continue. âDo you know what I gassed myself with.â
âUm.â Spiderman swallows. âNo? But I have a guess-â
âIs your guess truth gas? Because my guess is truth gas.â
âYeah, it is. I mean, thatâs my guess too. Youâve, uh, youâve been really honest. Not that youâre not an honest person, I donât know you, but Iâve asked a lot of personal questions-â
You give him a flat look. âYou could stop doing that, you know.â
âUh- Yeah. Sorry. I will.â Spiderman glances over his shoulder, then back to your list. âHeâs gonna be looking for you, right? Mr. Barnes?â
âProbably.â You mumble, and Spidermanâs eyes widen.
âAre you guys, like, together-â
âNo, weâre not.â
âOh.â Spiderman gives you whatâs likely meant to be an apologetic expression, âSorry, that was another personal question. But, uh, if youâre not together, why-â
âWeâre friends. And he was-â You let out a breath through your teeth, and maybe you should just ask Spiderman to put tape over your mouth before this gets worse. âNot happy I was in the lab. And he has to protect me. He promised Steve.â
âYou knew Captain Rogers? Thatâs so-â
âWe were fuckbuddies.â
Spidermanâs eyes widen again. âOh. Good- Good for you.â
He gives you a weak thumbs up, and you manage to pull your arms over your body into a tight hug.
âDo you, uh- Do you want me to call Mr. Barnes for you-â
âYes, please.â
You list off Buckyâs number, and when he picks up in only seconds, you think you can hear him shouting at Spiderman through the phone.Â
If you were lucky, youâd convince Spiderman to knock you out again. To eliminate the truth serum problem by force, and make it so you donât have to look Bucky in the eyes when he arrives. But you suggest it, get shot down, and donât push it further.
And when Bucky bursts into the warehouseâSam right on his heels and looking far too amused for the situationâyou really wish youâd fought harder. Fought at all.Â
You canât do this. You canât listen to Bucky snap at Spiderman for being an idiot and kidnapping you, and watch Samâs eyes light up when Spiderman explains the whole truth gas thing.Â
âSo anything we ask her, sheâs gonna have to tell us the truth?â
Buckyâs jaw twitches as he glances at you. âTruth gas isnât real. Itâs just the aftereffects being knocked out-â
âItâs real, Mr. Barnes-â
âOnly one way to find out.â Sam cuts off Spiderman with a wide grin, saying your name in a mockingly casual tone. âWhat was the best thing you and Cap ever did in bed?â
âSam-â
Bucky looks like heâs going to throw Sam into the wall, but heâs too late.Â
âFace-sitting.â When this is over, youâre going to shoot Sam yourself. âI liked the beard a lot.â
Samâs grin looks like itâs going to start glowing. âDamn, good for you girl. You know, if you like beards-â
âSam.â Buckyâs voice has dropped to almost a growl, and heâs not looking at you anymore. âGo start the car.â
Thereâs a long moment where they seem to be having a silent conversationâSam wearing a shit eating grin and jerking his head in your direction, Bucky looking like heâs one brief moment away from strangling Sam with his bare handsâbut before you can figure out whatâs happening, Spidermanâs tapping on your shoulder.
You manage to angle your head to frown at him, and heâs holding your gaze in the silence, pointing to your list in his hands, then Bucky.
âDoes he know you-â
âNo.â You cut off the kidâs whisper before he can finish the sentence, because Bucky will fucking hear him. âDonât say it.â
âDonât-â Spiderman pauses, then nods frantically. âOh, yeah, sorry- Just- This is yours.â
He shoves the list back into your jacket, right as Sam walks outside with a dramatic sigh, and Bucky turns back to you, his expression unreadable.
âYou werenât supposed to go in alone.â He grunts, and you swallow.
âI know.â You give him a small, nervous smile. âSorry.â
âI- No, youâre not.â
âI am.â You insist, somehow managing to lean forward as he approaches, and something strange flashes over Buckyâs eyes. âI canât lie, Buck, I really am sorry, I- I didnât want to freak you out, I promise-â
Bucky shakes his head, running a hand over his face. âAlright. I got you. Hold on.â
You blink at him. âHold-â
Bucky hauls you over his shoulder without another warning, and you can barely hear Spidermanâs shouted goodbyes and last apologies over the drum of your heart.Â
âBucky-â
âNot now.â He grunts, squeezing your thigh with a hand, and thatâs not fair. Your body goes molten from it, and he doesnât know that, and if he asks why youâre suddenly breathing so heavy youâll have to tell him that you can feel an ache in your core, itâs all his fault.
Bucky doesnât seem all that interested in talking, though. There are no lectures about being insane and getting yourself drugged. No snaps or grumbles about not telling him where you were going.
He wonât even look you in the eyes, and itâs a million times worse. He just sets you flat on your back in the car and moves to the passengerâs seat, and Samâs sympathetic look only makes you taste more bile.
Maybe this was a straw on something you hadnât thought could break, and heâs going to tell you that youâre done. That if you canât listen, youâre not allowed in the field anymore, and thatâs not his fucking call to make but you know Sam wonât stand against him. You work with Bucky the most, and if he says he doesnât want you anymore, youâre out.
Heâll still be your friend, but youâll see him less. No more long train rides or later nights in hotels where you can watch him sleep like a fucking creep, imagining heâs holding you to his chest instead of a pillow. And without you there heâll meet someone, and sheâll become his world, and youâll be left with this glass over your heart that only becomes stained with color when Bucky looks at you. Youâll be stranded again, and Bucky will be guiding someone else home, and that grave youâve dug for yourself will bloom a million times until youâre buried under it, and Bucky never removes the dirt from your lungs.
âSo.â Sam breaks the silence, and maybe if you bite off your tongue you can save yourself from whatâs coming. âTruth gas, huh?â
âYeah.â You mumble, feeling the flush heat your face, and Sam hums.
âHowâs it feel?â
You pause, but only to find the right word. âFuzzy. Like- Drunk, but paralyzed and also kind of high.â
âDamn, that sounds nice-â
âItâs not.â
âSam.â Bucky mutters, and you wish you could see him. If his arms are crossed, if heâs scowling, if he looks revolted by the sight of you. âIâll crash the fucking car.â
âNo, you wonât. Hey,â Sam drawls your name, and you can hear his grin. âYou remember Singapore?â
âYeah, I remember the country-â
âYou remember the mission we did there, during the Avengerâs break-up era?â
You swallow. âYes.â
âYou remember how you and Cap vanished for like, an hour?â
âSam.â You let out a long breath, and try your fucking hardest to dodge this. âYou know I do-â
âWhat did you guys get up to?â
âSam.â Bucky growls, but itâsâagainâtoo late.
âI made him get food with me.â
âSee, Buck,â Sam says, and you can see him gesturing in your periphery. âItâs not that bad-â
You cut him off, and you canât stop yourself. âThen we had sex. I gave him a blowjob.â
Thereâs a long heavy silence, and you think theyâre doing the silent conversation again. You can feel your every nerve, alight in your body, and if Bucky doesnât kick you out you might just run away anyways. He canât want to hear about it. Steve was like his brother, youâre talking about how you used to fuck his brother, and edging dangerously close to a worse conversation where Bucky tells Sam to shut up, and you agree, and when Sam asks why youâre siding with Bucky, you say itâs because you love him-
Sam says your name again, and whatever silent threats Bucky had given him didnât seem to be sticking. âWhat would you do if Steve came back?â
âNothing.â
Thatâs an easy one. Samâs asked you that a million times before, and he seems to be convinced that whenever you say nothing, itâs a lie. That youâve been hiding how youâd break down in tears and throw yourself into his arms, declaring that your love is undying when itâs never even existed at all, sobbing until Steve forgives you for not asking him to stay.
Youâre pretty sure that Sam thinks that, if youâd asked Steve to stay, he wouldâve. And you donât really care either way, because he hadnât stayed. Heâd made his choice, and it had maybe left you hollow for a few months, but now you know that what had been a small bullet wound with Steve was really nothing at all.
It would be a gash through a vital organ, if it had been love. It wouldâve been your spine out of your body and your brain leaking out of your mouth, your skin flayed by the loss.
Because Steve had only been a compass. You could make another one, or find another one, and it only guided you north. If he came back, youâd only offer him a hug and a smile, because heâd still be your friend but there was nothing more to do.
Not when your heart wasnât screeching for him. Not when you had a home, and a way back to it that you might be about to lose, and why isnât Bucky saying anything-
âWhyâs that?â Sam drawls your name, and something twists in your gut. He sounds too casual, as if heâd expected that answer. âThought you were Steveâs girl-â
âWe had sex, Sam, we werenât soulmates-â
The fuckface doesnât drop. You hope Bucky stabs him. âBut you loved him, right?â
âI never loved Steve, he was just-â Youâre going to fuck vomit. âHe was my friend, and the sex was good, really good, but it wasnât love.âÂ
Thereâs another silence, and maybe if you do vomit, youâll choke on it and pass out.Â
âTold you, Buck.â Sam mutters, and you frown into the air.
âWhat did you tell him-â
Sam cuts you off with a chuckle. âTell âer, man, what have you got to lose-â
âSam.â Bucky grunts, and you can hear his glower. âIf you donât drop it, now-â
âJesus, hold onto your ass. Here, how about-â
âIâm fucking serious-â
âSo am I.â Sam cuts off Buckyâs hiss, humming your name like nothing is wrong in the world at all. âHow do you know you didnât love Steve?â
âIt wasnât what love feels like.â You mumble, and maybe you can talk around this. Answer the questions truthfully, without saying the thing.
âInteresting. And what does love feel like?â
âGood.âÂ
âWhatâs good.â
âLove.â
You swear you could hear Bucky snort, or at least cough.Â
âAlright, smartass.â Sam mutters, and you can hear him tapping on the wheel. âYou ever been in love?â
Fuck. âYes.â
âHow many times?âÂ
âOnce.â Youâre going to throttle him. Drown him. Take Bucky up on that crash the car thing, because Bucky will be fine, but maybe you and Sam will die and then you can fucking murder his ghost-
âAnyone we know?â Samâs voice is far too casual. He knows. You donât know how, but the shithead knows.
âYeah.â
âReally?â Sam chuckles to himself, and Bucky better punch him now, before itâs too late-Â
âYes.â You mutter, pressing on your eyelids until you can see little spiraling patterns. âSam-â
âWho?â
You try to swallow it. You really fucking try to choke on it, to just let it kill you, to bury yourself before this can ruin everything, and Bucky wonât even be your friend anymore-
But you have no powers. No extraordinary will or resolve or healing factor, to flush the gas out of your system at will or bite down that immovable fact.Â
Itâs more than truth. Itâs a tenant, a law, something as simple as cold air will sink and time will keep moving.Â
You will. You just will. Youâll always fucking do it, and thereâs no world ending disaster to save your from say that you simply do and have and will love-
âBucky.âÂ
You think itâs a mercy, how the gas is fogging over your brain. You hear something slam into something else, but the car keeps moving, and a tight silence hangs over the rest of the ride that you allow yourself not to feel. You just keep your eyes closed and pretend nothing happened at all, because youâve broken it, and youâre done.
It has to be done. Bucky knows, and he said nothing in return. You donât have to worry about it, because this is going to kill you, but youâll be fine. Youâll be fine. Bucky isnât saying anything, and even Sam has stopped talking, and youâre going to fucking wither and fall away into nothing but youâll be fucking fine. Bucky doesnât owe you anything. Just because you love him like the water loves the moon and bees love flowers and trees love birds doesnât mean he has to give you anything in return.Â
To him youâve just been his friend, and loving Bucky might be clarity for you, but for him itâs probably strange. Youâre Steveâs girl that got left behind. Youâre the little shadow that heâd already been planning on surgically removing from his wake, and you loving him shouldnât make that different. Heâs not going to just love you because you love him. If anything he might think youâre trying to twist his will, make him feel guilty for planning to push you away, force him to let you cling to him a little while longer out of obligation.
The same obligation that has him carrying you inside, when you finally park the car.
He must think youâre asleep. Must not want to wake you and force that conversation, with how heâs holding you in your arms like youâre a damsel or princess, and not just another piece of luggage.
Youâre greedy. You wonât pretend to wake up, because youâre greedy, and you want this for just one more second. To let your face press into Buckyâs chest, to smell the coffee on his shirt, and amber of that old cologne he wears when he thinks he doesnât have mission to do.
Youâd ruined that. Youâd made him grab you from a warehouse, made him carry you inside, and you donât know why heâs setting you on your bed with such care when you fucked everything-
This isnât your bed, it smells like that cologne, and a piney shampoo, and the blankets are thinner than yours.
âI know youâre awake.â Buckyâs voice is low, from somewhere across the room, and you really wish you could sit up. âIâm goinâ out with Sam to check out the lab, make sure nothing else got fucked on your trip. I-â He pauses, and you can hear a slightly shuffling before he speaks again. âDonât move. Please. Iâll be back.â
You couldnât move if you wanted to. The gas is still running through your system, and when the door closes behind Bucky, exhaustion slams into your chest.Â
Itâs not sleep exhaustion. Itâs drifting in and out consciousness, the light of the room seeming to shift as you roll around Buckyâs bedâthis has to be Buckyâs bed, and you donât really want to think about that too hard right nowâending up with your face buried in his pillow. You think you can, at some point, hear people moving around near you, but itâs nothing. The world, right now, is just you, in Buckyâs bed, breathing an imprint of him in as your limbs start to grow heavy, and motion returns to your body.
But you stay in Buckyâs bed. You donât have the strength to move. Physically, at first, but then thatâs just an excuse.
You donât want to move. You wonât fight to convince Bucky to let you stay, but you also wonât fight to set yourself free before he kicks you to the curb.Â
So you just wait. And youâre tired enough that you donât hear him come in.
You yelp as a big, cool hand presses to your brow, and your eyes shoot open to find Bucky already watching you.
âLab is fine.â He mutters. âAnd Samâs out. Heâs walkinâ it off.âÂ
You donât respond, and Buckyâs throat bobs slightly.
âI didnât beat him not. Not go for recovery and shit, but I did yell at him a lot. And heâs sorry. Heâll be bringinâ you cake later, to show it.â
Another beat of silence, and Bucky wonât stop looking at you.
âIce cream cake.â He grunts. âYou had a fever, for a minute. Think the cold will help.â He switches hands, frowning as he scans over your face. âYou feelinâ better?â
You let out a long breath, and you canât do this. You can ride it out, but you canât do it.
Bucky grunts your name when you donât answer, his brow furrowing slightly. âI need you to tell me youâre feelinâ better.â
You just blink at him, and give a tiny, weak nod.Â
âAre you gonna talk to me?â His voice sounds strained, and you canât fucking do this- âI- You donât need to explain, I just want you to stop ignoring me-â
âYou were ignoring me first.â You mumble, and you sound like youâre whining. This is horrible, and if Bucky wasnât going to toss you away before, he will now. âYou wouldnât look at me.â
Buckyâs jaw ticks. âIâm looking at you now, doll.â
âBucky-â
âIs the truth gas gone?:
You blink at him. âI- Maybe, yeah-â
âTell me a lie, then.â His tone is urgent, and maybe the gas isnât gone. Maybe you just finally fell into full sleep, and this is a dream.Â
âUmâŠâ You blink at him, your voice barely a rasp. âI canât think of anything.â
âShit, how about- Who ate my dumplings?â
âSam.â You whisper, and Bucky frowns.
âHe said you did it, so thatâs a lie-â
That manages to pull a weak smile out of you. âAnd you trust him?â
âI-â Bucky runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. âYouâre right. What about this. What color are my sheets?â
You frown. âYou can see them, Buck, theyâre blue-â
âI know, you just gotta lie. Say theyâre pink.â
âTheyâre pink?â
âThank fuck.â Bucky lets out a long breath, watching you carefully as he continues. âNo interrupting me until Iâm done, got it?â
âBucky-â
âGot it?â
His tone isnât harsh, but itâs sharp. Almost desperate.Â
You canât fight.
All you can do is nod, and whisper, âOkay.â
âGood.â He braces his shoulders, the same movement as when heâs prepping for a fight, his eyes never leave yours as he speaks. âI wasnât ignoring you. I thought- Shit, I was sure Iâd fuck something up. Ask why you snuck off on that mission, and youâd say because you didnât trust me to do it, then Iâd ask why, and youâd- goddamn it-â He cuts himself off with a groan, his word almost pushed through his teeth. âI didnât want to hear it, doll. I didnât want you to tell me what I knew, cause then it would be real, and Iâd have to live with that. Youâre, I never even hoped for it, cause thatâs just not how this is supposed to work, and he might have left but heâd have to come back- I woulda always come back for you, wouldnât have left you in the first place but the kidâs always been a punk, mightâve taken him a second- But you- Wait-â
Bucky reaches into his pocket, and you shouldnât have agreed not to interrupt him. Youâre only half-following what heâs saying, and heâs pulling out your fucking list, and maybe if you canât fight itâs time to run-
Before you can move, Buckyâs hand lands on your thigh, holding you in place as he scans over the list. Like heâd been ready for you to go.Â
Gripping you so tight, he might not want you to leave.
âI donât think my accent slips that much.â He says, and you swallow. âAnd I try to use the conditioner, but sometimes Iâm in rush.â
You swallow. âBucky-â
âAnd that vase is shit.â He puts down the list, looking back to you with a heavy caution in his eyes. âI only made it cause Sam threatened to hide my arm, if I didnât do that stupid fucking pottery class with him. Not nearly as good as that sunset painting you got in your room.â
âI-â You take a heavy breath, forcing the words out, slow and neutral. âItâs a nice painting.â
âSam mentioned Steve made it for you.â
âHe did.â You mumble. âDuring the Blip.â
âBut you donât love it.â
You shake your head, and Buckyâs eyes narrow.
âReally is a horrible vase.â
You only shrug.
âShit-â Bucky sighs, glancing to his nightstand. âCan I show you something?â
You nodâwords are really too much, too dangerousâand Bucky opens the side drawer, pulling out his own crumpled paper, almost identical to yours, and places it in your hands.
He doesnât have to tell you to read it. Your eyes are scanning over the paper before you can stop them, and youâre not going to choke on vomit or spit or words.
Youâre going to choke on your heart, right in your throat and trying to find a way out of your body. Maybe to blind you, before you can see too much and this all becomes hopelessly reality.
Youâd tried not to think about what Buckyâs good things list contained. If you made even a single appearance. It always hurt too much, because what if you didnât. What if he was apathetic of your presenceânot hate, you would know if Bucky hated youâand youâd have strangle your own love a little further, bury it even deeper, wander after him a little more aimlessly, because what was home for you wasnât anything for him-
âSam tried to steal this, before I gave it to my shrink.â Bucky mutters. âHeâs been trying to convince me to stop making assumptions about you and Steve for months, and his methods started to get out of line few weeks back. This,â Bucky taps the paper, still clenched in your hands. âWas his idea, not the doctors. Heâs gonna be so fuckinâ annoying now, swear to god if he hired the spiderkid Iâll rip off his wings and toss him off the roof-â
âBucky.â You whisper, and youâre worried youâre going to tear the already worn paper. âDo you mean this?â
He nods before the last word is even fully out of your mouth. âNever meant anythinâ more. Didnât think youâd ever even see it. Or read it.â
You can tell that. His handwriting is rushed, and scratchy, and the words are almost illegible. The header says Good Things - JBB, in big letters, and everything else you have to squint to read.
Bucky likes Sam, but thereâs an added note of sometimes in the margins. He likes YouTube, and that has a note as well, explaining there are a bunch of videos about how to upkeep his bike and fuck with the stereo of Samâs car so it only connects to your phone.
All his items have little notes added on. Bucky likes the flowers in the park, because they make you smile when he puts them in the vase he made you. He likes peppermint ice cream because you always steal some of it, and then give him some of yours. He likes eggs because you make them for him, and the piano because you play it, and Russian because you can read it now, and sometimes youâll pass notes like teenagers just to piss Sam off, and that makes him laugh.Â
And Bucky likes you.
That one is underlined five times, and crossed out, and moved to very bottom of the page with a different header.
Best Things - JBB.
You look up at him with wide eyes, and he looks guarded. Worried.
âYou need to say it first.â He mutters, scanning over you carefully. âBecause you want to say it. You need to- Shit,â Bucky sits a little taller, his voice hoarse as he says your name. âYou need to want this.â
You can hear the missing word.Â
Bucky.
You have to want Bucky.
And youâve never fought for anything in your life. Youâve been like a chemical, reacting in a chain without any desire or thought to build yourself into anything more. Itâs never mattered what youâve wanted before, not with anyone. Steve finds you, then leaves you, then Sam finds you, then Bucky finds you, and you burst and bounce off of all of them without a thought because thatâs what you do.Â
You donât fight for things.Â
But youâd never been in love before either, and itâs moving you faster and with more fire than the truth gas had. You love Bucky, so this isnât blood spilt in his name or a bullet bruising your organs to protect him. No plans or strategies or broken bones, because this isnât something that can be broken. You dropped it but itâs still fully intact and filled with something better than youâve ever had before, so you do more than fight for it.Â
Youâll spit and bite and snarl to keep it in your hands. Youâll build something out of roses around it until nothing can take it, and then youâll still defend it with everything you have, because to you it will still be clear and delicate and more resilient than the ocean.
And when you finally speak, thereâs something strong to your voice that hadnât been there before, because you want Bucky to hear it. To never doubt that, at the end of the day, you want him.
Itâs clear. And the words flow out of you even easier than when youâd had no choice.
âI love you.â You push up onto your knees until youâre barely a breath away, your body still only steadied by his hand on your thigh. âYou. James Barnes. Nobody else. Ever.â
âThatâs good.â He mutters, his free hand reaching to cup your face. âShit, thatâs- Are you-â
âIâm sure,â you offer him a small smile. âDonât ask stupid questions, Bucky.â
His lips twitch slightly, and youâve never seen his eyes so dark. You can fucking feel it. Across your skin and in your gut, right into your vein and more electric than a storm. If you bother to think back, heâs looked at you like this countless times, but itâs as if one last veil has been lifted, and itâs really written all over his face before he can say it.
âI love you, too.â Bucky says your name in a soft voice than youâve ever heard, his hand squeezing on your thigh, and youâre gone. Flying and falling and growing into him, up to him, over him.
Youâre almost fully pressed over him.
He doesnât seem to mind at all.Â
âIâm going to kiss you now.â He pauses, raising his brows like heâs expecting you to flinch away.
You canât have that.
Your hands fist in his shirt in half a second, and you yank him down into until youâre certain he feels it the same way you do. That this going to be immovable. Youâll mold into Bucky and climb on to his lap and open your mouth when he groans and presses his tongue on your lower lip, but that will only ever be for him. Your love for him will only ever fucking build, until itâs bursting through the atmosphere and coating everything, and youâre never lost again.Â
The kiss deepens from long and slow to almost frantic. You can taste whatever fruit and coffee heâd been having while you were knocked out, and you can feel his every muscle ripping when he pulls you tighter to his chest, and you need him. More. All of it. You can bite at his lips and moan at his tongue down your throat, half claw your way up his body and grind down onto his leg, but you need more-
Bucky grunts your name, pulling back with his hands planted on your hips, and at some point youâd managed to straddle his thigh.Â
Heâs not letting you move, as he scans over your open, flushed features, and you canât stop the whine that leave your lips.
âJesus, baby-â
You let out another weak sound as the ache between your legs becomes painful, and drop your brow to his. âFuck- Bucky, you canât just say that-â
He frowns at you, brow furrowing slightly. âWhat are you- you mean baby?â
âGod-â You whack his arm, trying to roll your hips against him, but you barely even manage to squirm. âYouâre such an asshole-â
âYeah, âm sorry, ba- pretty girl.â Heâs trying to help you, but pretty girl is worse, and you start to kiss over his jaw just have something.Â
Biting and nipping along the line of his scruff, moving your hands under his shirt to trace over his stomach, and abdomen, and-
âShit-â Bucky knocks your hand away with a grunt, the metal hand starting to rub firm circles on your waist. âIâm tryinâ to be a gentleman, doll, get you on a date first-â
âDate later.â You mutter, moving one hand back up to tug at his hair. âWant this, Bucky, I- Iâve been- Fuck-â You yank at his hair again as Bucky growls, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking, wet a long line over your collar bone as he starts to guide your hips back along his thigh. âGod, that feels so good-â
âI know, baby.â He smirks against your skin when you moan, and you bury your face in his shoulder. âBut weâre goinâ on that date later, alright?â
âYeah, yes please, just-â you nod desperately, tugging at Buckyâs shirt. âOff, please-â
He leans back for a second, pulling his own shirt over his head before ripping yours off, diving his head to kiss along the line of your breasts and he holds you steady on his thigh.Â
Youâre going to fly out of your skin. Somewhere in the dizzying, building high of Buckyâs mouth anywhere he can get it, and your arms wrapped around his neck as you grind onto his thigh, he lifts you up for half a second and rips your jeans off, right before guiding you right back to where heâs decided you belong.
Riding his thigh with your cunt forming a dark spot on his jeans, your moans muffled in his chest or swallowed by long, heavy and bruising kisses.
And youâre close. Youâre so close, and you can feel his cock straining right where your clit keeps bumping, and heâs started to lick and bite at nipples, and god, heâs so fucking good-
âThink you can cum like this, baby?â Buckyâs words vibrate through your whole body, and you moan against his lips. âI can help you, if you need a little more, all you have to do-â
âPlease.â You whisper, squirming in his hold as he starts to kneed at your skin. âFuck, Bucky, please, more-â
He silences you with another rough, almost branding kissâas if heâs trying to push himself into your body, when heâs already been there for what may be foreverâand grabs your leg, swinging it over until youâre fully sat on his lap, your bare pussy exposed to the air.
Bucky pushes a finger into your cunt without warning, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh, firm circles until your gasping into his open mouth and yanking at his hair, every other strangled sound just another plea for more.
He gives it. Two fingers, pumping in and out of you, and it feels so good, youâre going to light on fire and burn because his thumb is just pressing down on your clit as his fingers crook at rub on the sensitive point inside of you, and heâs so fucking good-
Something white-hot and tight snaps in your core, your pussy starts to spasm and make wet sounds youâd never heard before, and you cum on Buckyâs hand with a high, relieved gasp of his name in his ear, yanking on his hair one last time. Buckyâs groan rolls through your whole body until a small, softer orgasm leaves you shaking in his arms, and when you pulls back, heâs watch you with an open, reverent expression.
Bucky pulls his hand out of your still quivering pussy, his gaze fixed on the wet mess you left all over his fingers, and you almost apologize before you see the expression on his face.
Itâs hunger. And when his eyes drop only slightly to his own pants, you can see a large, wet stain around his crotch.
You swallow, looking back up to meet Buckyâs stare, and somehow the love on his face is clearer than before. Almost ardorous, and heâs licking his fingers clean without breaking your stare, and fuck, heâs already pressing right into your inner thigh again-
âYou came in your pants.â You whisper, and Bucky shrugs.
âYou squirted.â He glances down to his hand, then your parted lips, and his eyes flash slightly. âCan you open for me, babydoll?â
That oneâs dangerous. You might do anything Bucky asks, if says it in that low, devout voice and calls you babydoll.
He groans as you obey, wrapping your lips around those same fingers that had been inside of you and sucking, moaning and licking around him, trying to show him what youâll do for him if he lets you fall to your knees for him, touch him, taste him instead of your own release-
âGod, youâre perfect.â Bucky mutters under his breath, and you start to grind down onto his already hard dick, steadying yourself with your fingers dug into his chest. âYou want- Shit- I think you want more-â
You cut him off with a moan and a nod, and thatâs all it takes.Â
Itâs almost impossible, how fast Bucky has you tossed backwards on this bed, towering over your naked body for only half a second as he rips his own jeans off, right before falling forward and kissing you until youâre dizzy and melted into the mattress, scraping at his back for more because you can feel his cock, free and big and pressed right onto your stomach-
Bucky rises up with wide eyes, his attention flicking to the nightstand. âI- Uh- Wasnât expectinâ to do this anything soon-â
âAre you clean?â You trace your hand over Buckyâs jawline until his eyes fall back to yours. âBecause Iâm on the pill, and the last guy was a virgin.â
Bucky blinks at you for a second, then snorts, dropping his brow to yours.Â
âYou think youâre funny, doll.â He mutters, kissing slowly along your neck. âBut Iâm clean, and if youâre sayinâ what I think you are, youâre gonna be feeling me in that sweet pussy for a month.â
You swallow, a smooth shiver moving up your spine. âPromise?â
âFuck- Are you-â
âStop asking if Iâm sure, Bucky-â
You cut yourself off with a squeak as Bucky slams his cock into you, and your back arches off the bed.
He must have somehow grown from seconds before, because fuck, heâs big. Splitting you open and filling you up until youâre already seeing faint stars, big. Driving you out of your mind just by sitting inside of you without friction, and that thought enters your head and now all you can think about is Bucky moving-
âIâve got you, baby.â He mutters in your ear, and you must have said that aloud, because he starts to fuck you.
Really, properly fuck you until you canât really tell where Buckyâs stopping and youâre beginning. Pounding into your cunt, with his skin slapping against yours and a big, rough, warm hand pulling and flicking at your nipples as his mouth attacks your skin, and fuck-
âBucky-â You gasp, your words morphing into a whine as he slams into that already raw, abused spot inside of you. âFuck- I-â
âI know, baby,â He kisses over your face, never breaking pace as he soothes you. âThink you can come again, pretty girl? Gimme once more, before I fill your- Shit- Fill you up like you-â
Bucky groans your name as you squeeze around him, and any deceptively soft words turn in animalistic glowers as he drills into you.Â
Youâre not sure when you cum. If itâs when Bucky starts to repeat that he loves you, over and over in your ear, his movements growing unmeasured and desperate as his cock stared to slam into your pelvis. It might have been when the metal hand found its way to pinching and rubbing your clit, or when Bucky angled your hips up and started to drill into you at an impossibly deep angle.
But you know that you donât think youâll ever fully come down from this high. That even as Bucky paints your cunt white with his own release and a roar of you name, youâre still floating, and everything is just a blur of salt and blue and pine and Bucky and good. Heâs leaking down your thighs, but remaining buried inside of you as you both take long, ragged breaths, and heâs good. Warm and sprawled over you, strong and caging you in his arms like youâre a work of art or diamond, all yours and good.
âYou promised me a date,â you mumble in his ear, and he chuckled, turning his head to kiss your cheek.
âI did, didnât I. You think Samâll notice if we got out tomorrow night?â
You roll your eyes. âI think Sam is lucky heâs not getting poisoned after that shit.â
âYou want me to poison him, doll, just say the word-â
âNo-â
âHow about head trauma. I can give him head trauma-â
You giggle, running your fingers through Buckyâs hair until you swear you can hear him fucking purring. âDonât give Sam head trauma. It would make you sad.â
âShut up.â Bucky grumbles, squeezing you a little tighter. âYou never said yes to dinner.â
âDinner sounds perfect.â You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and thereâs the ardor again.Â
Youâve never felt anyoneâs pure attention do that to you before him. Make everything in you soft and feral all at once, because it will only make you bloom but youâre certain now that youâd rip the fabric of time and space apart to keep it.Â
âI love you.â You whisper, and Buckyâs grin splits his face.
Those grins are rare. Teeth and joy and light and all Bucky, more priceless every rare metal and magic in the world.
But theyâve never been rare for you. Heâs almost always offered them to you like they were nothing, and if loving Bucky was clarity, admitting it is omnipresence.Â
Youâre everything, and everywhere, and you love him, and you donât know how youâd never seen that he loves you back. Itâs been written in crude but deep words, everywhere you could ever look.
âI love you, too.â Bucky brushes a little hair out of your face, his eyes almost sparklingly like stars on yours. âThink itâs okay if I show you, a lot, for a long time?â
Your smile hurts your cheeks, and you think the light in your body could outshine the sun.
âYeah, itâs- please.â You lean up to press your lips to Buckyâs in a soft, slow kiss. âPlease do that.â
He smirks, nodding as he tangles his hand in your hair.Â
âWhatever my girl wants, Iâll get her.â
âGood.â You whisper. âCause Iâm yours.â
And this is it.
Youâre home.
End Note: Sam Wilson and his silly fuckeries. Biggest little brother energy in the world.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
I had to follow immediately at âhorrible aim and sand for bulletsâ because I knew Iâd find gems like that sprinkled everywhere like confetti and I am ready to read everything you ever wrote.
Proven extremely right by all of the lines mentioning readerâs grave and the flowers Bucky would pluck and the dirt in her lungs, ugh ugh ugh.
Title: Favour (Part 2 of 3)
Pairing: ClubOwner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary:Â When your boyfriend messes up with the wrong people he offers you up as free labour in Bucky Barnes Club.
Word Count: 3.8k
Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut (eventually) DubCon (squint), forced labour, Jerk boyfriend, groping, (hinted) domestic violence, swearing, threatening behaviour, eventual violence and blood.  Â
A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo for Bucky 108th Bday event Will be posting the whole fic over March (hopefully)  Part One Here I'll admit this one feels a little clunky.. please be gentle, sometimes you just got to go with what you got (otherwise I'd been on this one for DAYS and I have other plans..)
Square: a1 â Clubowner AU
Card Number: 4B003
The Winter King isnât just any club- itâs Bucky Barnesâ empire, and each night when you got behind the bar, you felt the weight of it.
You thought bartending wouldnât be too bad. Youâd done it in college, handled the late nights, the occasional grabby hands, the customers who slurred their words by the third drink. But this?
This was different.
The men who came here didnât get drunk and rowdy the way they did in other places. The crowd only got loud on weekends, but even then, it wasnât the same kind of chaos youâd known before. These people didnât stumble over their own feet or slur their words until they could barely order. They knew exactly what they were doing.
They didnât shout for your attention. They expected. Expected their drinks to be poured before they asked. Expected silence when they discussed business. Expected you to know when to disappear and when to stay put.
The club pulsed with something electric, dangerous. Even when you didnât see him, you felt Bucky Barnes. His presence was woven into everything- the way the staff moved, the way conversations hushed when he walked through, the way people seemed to breathe differently when they caught his eye.
Your days still followed the same pattern- waking up, dressing in your office clothes, sitting in your tiny cubicle, sending emails, attending meetings. Your nights, however, had become something else entirely. It had only been a few weeks. It felt so much longer.
But some things didnât change.
Brock. He was still making this harder for you than it needed to be.
You barely had a second to breathe before you saw him- slouched at the bar like he belonged there.
Brock didnât wave you over. He expected you to come to him.
You hesitated, just for a second. A fleeting pause that wouldnât mean anything to him, but you felt it- the weight of it.
It wasnât just that he expected it. It was the way he always did. Like it was your place, like you had no say in it. Like he owned you.
But you still moved, because you always did. Because fighting wasnât worth it.
You didnât want to. But you did. You had to.
You were supposed to be working, taking care of the people who actually paid, barmaid to your boyfriend. But that never seemed to matter to Brock.
You set a glass down in front of him- one of your two staff drinks for the night.
He smirked, lifting it like it was some grand gesture, like you were doing him a favor instead of him taking what he always did.
"Skirtâs getting high, sweetie."
Your fingers curled around the barâs edge, but you didnât answer. He always did this- commented on the uniform Barnes had given you, like you had any choice in what you wore. Like you had any choice in anything anymore.
not playing
"Thought you only wore that lip color when I take you out," Rumlow tilted his head, his eyes tracking your mouth like it belonged to him. "What are you wearing it here for?"
When was the last time he had actually taken you anywhere?
"Itâs for tips," you muttered. "You know- to get us out of this mess."
Rumlow laughed. Loud. Arrogant. Like the whole situation was funny.
Your shoulders locked tight, the muscles in your back tensing as if bracing for impact. A bitter taste crawled up your throat, but you swallowed it down.
He wasnât laughing at the situation.
He was laughing at you.
Like you were the joke.
"I gotta go see to the tables. Donât be a nuisance."
You turned before he could say anything else, leaving him there with his drink, his gaze burning into your back as you walked away.
Rumlow found you before he left.
He had already blown through his free drinks, but that was never enough. He always wanted more- more attention, more control, more of you.
His hand landed heavy on your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your uniform like he had every right to touch you. You flinched, but he didnât let go. His grip tightened, fingertips pressing into your skin, possessive, claiming.
"Donât wear your legs out, baby," he murmured, his fingers slipping lower, gripping the inside of your thigh, pressing his palm against you through the thin fabric. "Wouldnât want you too sore to spread 'em for me later. me to start feeling neglected would you, huh?"
The words slithered down your spine like oil, thick and suffocating. The weight of his breath, hot and reeking of whiskey, fanned across your neck. You swallowed the nausea bubbling up your throat.
Too much. Too close. Too public.
You forced yourself to stand still, to stay composed, while his hands lingered where they shouldnât.
"Brock," you warned, voice a whisper edged with unease.
He didnât care. He never did.
His chuckle was lazy, confident, laced with that same sickening entitlement and ownership he always carried. "What? You embarrassed? Câmon, sweet thing, gimme a kiss before I go."
You tensed as he leaned in, the stench of alcohol thick on his breath. His lips ghosted over your cheek before dipping lower, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin of your jaw.
Heat crept up your face- not from desire, but from humiliation. Your skin crawled under his touch.
You wanted to shove him away, wanted to yank his hands off you, break free.
But the club was watching.
Eyes were everywhere.
So, you smiled instead- thin, tight, something that didnât reach your eyes.
Like always.
And as Rumlow finally pulled away, muttering something about seeing you later, you caught a glimpse of something in your peripheral vision.
A shadow. A presence. Watching.
Bucky.
His gaze was unreadable from across the room, but you felt it settle over you like a second skin.
He saw everything.
And for the first time that night, a different kind of unease curled in your stomach. A cold shiver traced its way down your spine, a prickle at the base of your neck. The weight of Buckyâs stare settled over you like a second skin- unshakable, inescapable. He had seen everything. And he wasnât looking away.
*#*#*#*
It was your third weekend working when Brock decided to make another appearance, this time bringing the 'boys' along. You suspected he had stopped by to 'drop off' to Barnes before making himself comfortable in one of the booths. You were used to most of them- used to the crude language, the obnoxious jokes, the way they carried themselves like they owned every room they walked into.
Youâd sat them in a corner, hoping to contain them, to keep their presence from spilling over onto the rest of the floor. If anyone was going to deal with them, it should be you. They were your burden.
As you bent over to place their drinks on the table, Jack pushed it too far.
It started with a brush of his fingers, a light touch at your waist as you leaned forward to set a glass in front of Brock. You stiffened as his hand moved lower, sliding over the small of your back. You tried not to react, to ignore it, to hope heâd stop on his own.
He didnât.
You straightened, stepping away. Jack followed. He stood, crowding into your space, his scarred face split into a lazy smirk.
"Aww, don't get all shy on us now."
The table laughed.
You held the tray against your stomach, fingers tightening around the edges. God, his whole expression reminded you of a shark. You turned, looking at Brock, waiting for him to say something, to intervene. But he didnât. Didnât even look.
Jackâs hand slid lower. A bold squeeze at your hip, fingers digging in like he had a right to you.
You stiffened. "Stop. Jack..."
God, they were always like this when they drank. You should have cut them off a round ago. But Brock had already started grumbling when you hesitated to serve them their last round.
Jack tilted his head. "Make me."
The laughter swelled around you, loud and taunting. Rollins grinned. Brock crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat, still not caring.
Jackâs hand moved again- firmer this time, testing, lingering.
You grabbed his wrist, shoving it away. "I said stop. I'm working."
A chorus of mocking laughter. A scoff from Rollins.
"Relax, sweetheart, just having fun."
Jack took a step closer, pulling you into him.
And then-
He was gone.
One second he was there- smirking, groping. The next, he was being yanked backward, fast, hard.
A chair scraped against the floor. A muffled grunt. Someone stumbled.
And then? Just the steady thrum of the music.
No raised voices. No threats.
Just movement. Precise. Deadly.
You blinked, turning your head toward the entrance. Brock, Jack, and the others were being hauled out of the club like garbage on collection day.
Your breath came short, shallow, but no one said a word to you. The table was a mess- spilled drinks, abandoned glasses.
You swallowed, pushing past the tremor in your hands as you reached for the rag tucked into your belt. Clean up. Move on. Keep your head down.
You had barely set the first glass onto the tray when a hand closed around your wrist.
"Someone else can handle that," a voice murmured, low and sure. "Why donât you take a break?" Your pulse stuttered. Slowly, you turned your head- blue eyes locked onto yours. "Go. Sit. Down. Doll"
Buckyâs voice was measured, calm, but there was something in it, something unchallengeable.
You straightened, hesitated, then shook your head and continued stacking the overturned glasses onto the tray. Busy hands kept the world steady.
"I'm fine," you murmured. "Really."
Sitting meant admitting that you hadnât had control of the situation, that you hadnât been able to handle it on your own. That you werenât in charge of your own life anymore- not with Brock, not with your boss at the agency, and now, not with Barnes.
Your nights belonged to him now. Nothing was yours anymore.
"You're shaking."
You swallowed. "Just a scare. No harm, no foul. Boys get out of hand, I shouldâve- "
What excuse were you going to offer this time? For Brock? For his friends? For yourself?
Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No one touches the staff. Just a rule. No matter who they are."
There was something else in his voice, something edged and final, and when you made yourself look up, really look at him, your pulse hammered harder.
He didnât need to say it.
You were under Bucky Barnesâ protection now.
Whether you wanted to be or not.
*#*#*#*
The street outside the club was thick with the cityâs night air- damp, buzzing with the energy of people spilling out of bars and stumbling toward taxis. But you barely noticed. Because Brock was there.
Leaning against the brick wall like heâd been there for hours, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. He straightened when he saw you, his stance unsteady, his movements sluggish. Still drunk.
You barely had time to react before his hand clamped around your arm.
âWhat took you so long?â The words slurred, thick with the stench of bourbon, sweat, and something bitter underneath.
You tried to jerk your arm away.
âI was working you know I have to-"
His grip tightened. Too strong. Too familiar.
âSwear youâre starting to like it in there.â His voice turned sharp, words biting at the edges. Accusing.
You rolled your eyes, exhaustion curling into your bones. The kind of exhaustion that lived under your skin, made your limbs feel heavy, your breath short. You were always tired.
Tired of Brock. Tired of his moods, his endless complaints, his expectations. You gave and gave, and it was never enough.
Two jobs. A life spent keeping him afloat. Cutting corners, skipping meals when rent ran too high, covering his messes, standing by him when you should have left. He demanded, took, bullied. And you? You let him.
But not tonight.
You stumbled forward when he yanked you closer, your breath hitching as your body collided with his. The sudden movement sent your heart slamming against your ribs, a sharp, panicked rhythm that you couldnât suppress. His grip was unrelenting, his fingers pressing into your skin, and for a moment, you thought he might not let go. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the distant murmur of the city, of the club just behind you. You tried to pull back, but his hold only tightened, dragging you further into his orbit.
"You think youâre special just âcause Barnes lets you work here?" His breath was hot, thick with alcohol, and your stomach twisted at the rancid scent. A chill ran down your spine, your body torn between the instinct to freeze and the desperate urge to break free.
The words hit differently than they should have. Not because he was jealous- he wasnât. But because you could hear it.
The desperation.
His anger wasnât at Bucky.
It was at you.
Because you werenât grovelling. Because you werenât apologizing. Because you had stopped caring.
You turned to leave, but he grabbed you again- harder.
âDonât care what heâs put in your head. Youâre mine.â His voice dropped lower, a growl in his throat. His fingers dug into your wrist, unyielding, bruising. "Your in there because I put you there!"
Your breath caught. Your pulse slammed against your ribs. His hand twitched.
You saw it- the way his fingers flexed, the way his wrist shifted ever so slightly, lifting, poised.
The moment stretched, suffocating, as if the entire world had narrowed to that single, unspoken decision hovering between you. He could do it. You knew that. You weren't holding your cheek right now because he'd decided. Not because you stopped him. Not because you could have.
His hand hovered there for a second too long before he dropped it. Like he was granting you mercy.
You exhaled sharply, the breath you hadnât realized you were holding spilling past your lips in a shudder. Your whole body felt wired, braced for something that hadnât come- not this time.
Then, he shoved you. Not hard enough to send you sprawling, but enough to remind you that he could have. That you were his to move, to control, to keep in line.
Your feet stumbled against the pavement as he forced you down the street, his fingers clamped around your wrist like a cuff.
"You think youâre somethinâ now, huh? Just âcause you got some eyes on you?" His voice was a low growl, meant just for you. "Barnes might like to look, but he ainât gonna save you. He ainât gonna take you home. Youâre mine, sweetheart- always have been."
"It's not like that Brock, you know that.." Brock stopped glaring at you, pulling you down the street. But you felt it again.. A pressure- a presence. Turning your head back towards the building.
As your gaze lifted, heart hammering in your throat.
Bucky.
Upstairs. Standing at his office window. Watching.
Expression unreadable. Hands tucked into his pockets like he wasnât watching everything.
Rumlow didnât notice. Too caught up in his own temper, too wrapped up in whatever twisted logic had convinced him he still had any say over you.
But you noticed.
And for the first time that night, a different kind of unease settled in your stomach.
*#*#*#*
You didnât hear Bucky come in.
The storeroom was small, the hum of the refrigeration unit the only sound as you stacked bottles onto the shelves. The cold air did little to stop the warmth creeping up your neck. You should have expected him. You hadnât seen him in days- not since the weekend. Not since Brock and Jack... But still, he felt like a shadow. Some predator lurking in the corners of your vision, a dog standing guard. Even when he wasnât there, you felt him, like the prickle at the back of your neck before a storm breaks.
You found your spine stiffen as you went about the task of restocking the bottles, you were too tired to put up walls. To attempt to hide how uncomfortable you were.
âYou prefer to keep your head down don't you?" You didn't look up at his question. "you work hard. You donât complain.â
His voice was low, approving.
You stiffened further, fingers tightening around the glass bottle in your hands. You were expecting him mention the way you'd been hauled down the street, after he'd made sure you were safe inside his walls. You expected disapointment in his voice.
"Just, doing my part." You exhaled through your nose, carefully placing the bottle onto the shelf. âIâm sorry- for the other night. Iâll tell Brock and his friends not to come anymore.â
A slow hum. A breath of consideration.
âNot your actions to be sorry for, doll.â
You turned to face him then, already regretting it. He was standing too close, blocking the only exit, his broad frame filling the space. His scent- cedar and something darker, something you'd noticed was unmistakably him- wrapped around you.
His eyes flicked over you, assessing, measuring.
You were more aware of the 'play marks' Brock had left on your skin, the ones your clothes barely covered. Did he see them? You played with the collar of your shirt making sure the top button was done up.
The way Bucky looked at you made your stomach twist. Like he already knew**.**
Your fingers flexed at your sides, as if you could shake off the phantom weight of Rumlowâs hands, his voice still lingering in your ears. "Wouldnât want Barnes thinking youâre saving yourself for him, huh?"
Your stomach clenched, a heat crawling up your spine.
Buckyâs eyes dropped, tracking the way your hands curled into the hem of your uniform, a small tell that you werenât as composed as you wanted to be.
âYouâre shaking again.â
You swallowed, straightened your back. âJust been a long week already. Didn't get the chance to eat lunch that- â
Bucky didnât let you finish. He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was biting back something sharper, his hand lifting just slightly.
You fought the urge to flinch.
"Sorry- did you want something from in here?" You asked, reaching for something, anything, to ground yourself.
"Ardbeg, the ten-year-old."
Something in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. Final. Absolute.
The air between you shifted, stretched thin. You could feel the heat of him, the way his body barely moved but still felt closer.
You turned to grab the bottle from one of the higher shelves, your breath catching when you turned back and his fingers brushed yours as he took it from your hand.
It was fleeting, but intentional.
âBrock seems to think you belong to him,â he murmured, tilting his head. "Seems to think he can do whatever he wants with you. Even offering you up to me.."
Your throat felt tight. You swallowed, but it didnât help.
His voice dipped lower, just enough to make your breath hitch. âIs that what you want?â
Your pulse kicked up, a sharp, sudden thing you couldnât control. You hated that he got to you. That he made you feel something. You were here because you were loyal. Brocks mess was your mess, that was the whole point. You weren't allowed to doubt.
But Bucky caught it. You knew he did. The way his mouth moved, the light shifting in his eyes. He knew what he was doing. Making you feel like you were standing on quicksand.
âA shame,â he murmured, blue eyes glittering under the dim storage light. âA girl like you, wasted on a useless piece of shit like him.â
The words landed like a gut punch. Because they were true. You just didn't beleive them, not really. Brock had his hands on you just because he could. Because he knew you wouldnât stop him.
But how was Bucky any different? They were all violent, dark men. The only difference was that Bucky made you step into the fire on your own.
The silence between you grew heavy, charged with something unspoken, something sharp.
Then, he leaned in, just a fraction, voice smooth as silk, pressing the knife in just a little deeper. The weight of his words settled over you, curling in your chest like a cold knot. It wasnât just a question- it was a challenge, a slow, deliberate pull at the loose threads youâd been trying to keep from unraveling. A sinking feeling gripped you, the kind that made your stomach twist, that whispered in the back of your mind that you were running out of excuses. Running out of time.
âTell me something, sweetheart- what exactly do you need him for?â
The words settled deep, twisting into the parts of you youâd spent so long ignoring. The parts that knew you deserved better, that whispered how tired you were of carrying the weight of someone elseâs failures.
Your breath stilled in your chest. You tried to conjure up a reason, something- anything- to justify Rumlow, to justify your place at his side, but the words sat heavy on your tongue. They wouldnât come.
Bucky watched you, waiting, letting the silence stretch until it wrapped around your ribs like a vice.
"You seem to do much better, not carrying deadweight."
Bucky shifted back slightly, his attention flicking from the bottle in his hand to you. His fingers tightened just a fraction around the glass, the movement subtle, controlled. His expression didnât change, but something unreadable passed through his eyes- calculated, lingering. A moment stretched between you, tense and expectant, before he finally spoke, voice smooth, deliberate.
"Something to think about, when all this is over." The weight of his words still pressed into your skin, heavy, inescapable.
And just like that the conversation was over.
You exhaled only when the door swung shut behind him, the breath you hadnât realized you were holding spilling past your lips in a shaky rush. Your hands found the edge of the nearest shelf, gripping it just to steady yourself. The air in the storeroom felt heavier, still thick with the weight of his presence. You rubbed your arms, trying to chase away the lingering chill, but it did nothing to shake the feeling that he had left something behind- something unseen, something crawling beneath your skin. The room still felt too small, too full of him, even in his absence.
His words echoed, curling into the quiet corners of your mind, sinking into the space Brock had carved out in you over the years.
Why did he say it like that?
Like âwhen all this is overâ wasnât too far away.
Summary: An unexpected encounter brings Bucky face-to-face with someone from his past, stirring memories he thought were long buried.
Word Count: About 13k.
note: Letâs pretend the incident with Renata never happened. Bucky's presence at Pierceâs house is a bit more lenient for the sake of this story.
The Winter Soldier moved through his assignments like a shadow. So, when he was stationed at Pierce's home for a week, he was given explicit instructions: remain masked, both arms concealed under a layer of clothing and stay out of sight as much as possible, but if seen, remain silent, a faceless piece of security.
On his first day, he heard voices down the hall before he saw them, a childâs laughter, paired with a softer, patient tone. The child -a boy around five or six- bounded into view, dragging a toy truck and blissfully oblivious to the stranger cloaked in shadows. But the woman with him was different; she immediately caught sight of him. She looked surprised but quickly cast her eyes down as she guided the boy past.
Pierceâs strict warning echoed in her mind. He explained that his guest was part of a high-security detail, trained to avoid all unnecessary contact, just another eccentric demand of his government work.
New to America, Y/n had recently left her home country after a severe burnout as a lawyer and the lingering shadow of an abusive relationship. She managed to pay a yearâs rent in advance with her savings, but reality quickly hit her in the face when she began looking for work. Now in her late twenties, she had no experience outside a desk or courtroom.
This job as a nanny was the first real opportunity sheâd found, and she took it. The pay was excellent, and the boyâs parents were kind. With an arrangement between Pierce and his son, she spent part of each day with the child at Pierceâs apartment after kindergarten until his parents picked him up after work, which was conveniently close by. In the two months sheâd worked for the Pierces, she hadnât seen anything out of the ordinary in the house, so the appearance of a security guard was an unexpected twist.
She understood the "no interaction" rule well enough; her brother had worked in federal law enforcement before he passed, so she knew about the necessity of concealing the asset's identity and the formality of the job. Yet, habit got the best of her. Sheâd nod or offer a polite âgood afternoonâ when she arrived and a quiet âsee youâ when she left. Sometimes sheâd even throw out a casual comment about the weather or crack a joke, knowing she wouldnât get a response. His silence was a norm, his blue gaze drilled into an inexistent point in the horizon. By the third day, she found herself relaxing into the new routine, no longer unnerved by the silent figure lurking in the house. She resumed her usual activities while the child napped: baking small snacks for when he woke up, or sitting at the kitchen table with her crochet project in hand. She even started putting on a playlist mostly with songs from her home country, the soft, lively tunes filling the quiet rooms.
Sometimes, when she baked treats for the boy, sheâd make a few extras, placing them on a surface near the man in the shadows. Her brother had told her enough stories about hours on guard, the hunger and thirst that crept in with the silence. This was her small way of saying I know the circumstances -Though she didnât. Oh, she didnât even scratch the surface of his circumstances.- âYou can take it later when you are alone.â She had offered quietly.
The first time, the food sat untouched for hours, and she thought heâd rejected the gesture entirely. But eventually, the plate was empty, and she could swear the right pocket of his tactical pants looked slightly stuffed. Taking it as a sign, she continued doing it, sometimes offering a simple piece of fruit, or a chocolate if she hadnât bake. Each time, the plate ended up empty, and his pocket looked just a little bulkier.
Unbeknownst to her, one song in her playlist seemed to provoke a reaction in the stoic custody. Its melody -a blend of mid-1900s music with a modern twist- stirred something faint and unreachable within him, persistent enough to catch his attention. Each time the tune played on shuffle, his gaze would flicker in her direction, his brows knitting slightly as if he were straining to recall a memory just out of reach. And yet, she remained blissfully unaware, humming along.
After a week, he was gone. The masked figure had simply vanished from Pierceâs house as if heâd never been there at all.
-----
Nearly nine years had passed since that afternoon when Burky threw himself from the helicarrier into the water to rescue Steve, somehow re-emerging as a fugitive from Hydraâs grasp. Since then, there had been one chaotic chapter after another, ending in a shaky kind of freedom and a conditional pardon. Heâd been granted the basics of a civilian life -even if he wasnât sure what to do with it-, a place to live, and the requirement to attend therapy sessions.Â
One night, after a familiar nightmare left him panting, staring hollow-eyed into the bathroom mirror, his gaze settled on his hair. It hung long and unkempt, framing his face with shadows from another life, a reminder of missions in the dead of night, of orders heâd had no choice but to follow. His reflection stared back, haunted, tethered to the past.
Cut it, a voice urged inside him, low and insistent. Shedding the hair felt like severing the ties still binding him to memories and missions he wanted gone. His hand moved instinctively, reaching for the familiar weight of his knife, the same one heâd carried for years, an extension of who heâd once been. But he hesitated, his fingers hovering over the blade. If he was serious about moving forward, this had to be more than just an impulsive cut in the dead of night. It had to be his choice, deliberate and clear, reclaiming himself one small step at a time. Heâd find a hairdresser, endure the closeness, the touching, the vulnerability of someone holding sharp scissors near him, and let it be a test. A small, tangible proof that he could start anew, piece by piece.
The next morning, he stood outside a shop, the nearest to his apartment, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, wrestling with the urge to turn and walk away.
He lingered on the sidewalk, eyeing the parlor's weathered sign and chipped paint. Its old, familiar look was oddly reassuring as if the place had been untouched by time. That decided it for him. He scratched his beard and stepped forward, and as the door chimed overhead, he knew there was no going back now. Behind the chair, an old man was trimming the hair of a customer nearly as old, both with the unmistakable air of a veteran. The barber gave him a polite nod, but Bucky didnât miss the shared look between the two: a quick, appraising glance that seemed to mutter, hippie motherfucker.
âY/n!â the old barber called, his voice rising as he looked toward the back room. âYou have a customer.â
The moment Bucky heard a womanâs name, he froze. An image of an elderly lady popped into his mind: chatty, distracted, and maybe with a knack for giving creative haircuts. He could already hear Samâs laughter echoing in his head if he came out of this with some uneven cut or something worse.
âWell, actuallyâŠâ he began, trying to backpedal, but his retreat stalled when she appeared in the doorway. She wasnât old, far from it. And attractive. Very attractive. His mind blanked as he stood there, frozen, just staring.
The old man caught his hesitation and cast a pointed look his way, a touch more disapproving than before. The customer in the chair joined in, nodding in silent agreement.
âWell, young man?â the barber asked, his voice gruffer now. âYou gonna stand there or sit?â
Bucky cleared his throat, murmuring, âI⊠thought you were the barber.â His voice was low, almost defensive, as he looked between the old man and the woman.
Her eyebrow quirked high, clearly amused, while the old barber scoffed. âWhat? because sheâs a woman?â he huffed, crossing his arms. âKid, Iâm pretty sure she can handle that hippie mane of yours better than I ever could.â
The man in the chair gave a quiet chuckle, nodding in agreement, and Buckyâs mouth went dry. This was not the quick, anonymous cut heâd imagined. But there was no turning back now; he could feel three sets of eyes on him, each waiting for his move.
So, with a quick breath, he took off his jacket, walked over, and sank into the chair, stealing a glance at her reflection in the mirror.
She got closer from behind, amused by the fact that he already sat on the chair. âSo, what are we doing today?â her tone was professional, though her eyes sparkled with a hint of curiosity.
He cleared his throat, shifting slightly on the seat. âJust⊠cut it short. Something easy to manage.â He answered gruffly.
She nodded, assessing the length of his hair. âAlright, but I must wash it first since it's this long. Sprinkling it with water wonât be enough.â
He blinked, a hint of tension flashing across his face. The thought of sitting there, head tilted back, felt almost unbearably vulnerable, especially with her so close, and her hands threading through his hair. He nearly reconsidered, but the not-so-subtly narrowed gazes of the two older men lingering on him kept him in place.
With a quiet sigh, he managed to make a nod. âFine.â he muttered, more to himself than to her.
She gestured for him to follow, and he found himself standing and trailing behind her to the hair-washing station in the back. Every instinct screamed to keep his guard up, but his need to change this physical marker of his past kept him moving.
As they reached the back, Buckyâs eyes landed on her phone, resting near a small speaker that hummed with soft, melodic tunes. At first, he barely noticed the music since he was too focused on the discomfort of the situation and strengthening his resolve to not get up and leave. His shoulders stayed tense as he sat, hovering on the edge of the chair, every part of him coiled with instinctive caution.
Then, the warmth of the water broke over his scalp, and against his will, he felt the tension start to dissolve, just a little. Her touch was gentle, no sudden movements, just a calm, practiced rhythm as she applied the shampoo, working it through his hair. She didnât say a word, either; it was as though she understood something of the guarded edge to him, or maybe she sensed that he wouldnât welcome small talk.
A few beats into the quiet, the song changed. It was still low and unassuming, just background noise. But then the melody drifted in, a tune with an old rhythm and a foreign lyric, hauntingly familiar, and his attention flickered, drawn in by the music without him fully understanding why. His eyes closed briefly, and fragments of memory teased at the edges of his mind: a dim hallway, shadows, the scent of baking, and the quiet hum of a womanâs voice.
Before he could grasp it, the memory slipped away, leaving only the echo of familiarity, a ghost of something he almost remembered.
As she massaged his scalp, the tension that had gripped Buckyâs shoulders melted away. The steady, gentle pressure lulled him into a rare calm, his body betraying him with a warmth that crept over him like a slow wave. For the first time in a long time, he felt close to letting his guard down entirely, the comfort of her touch drawing him into an almost sleepy haze.
Then she reached for the conditioner, her hands moving with the same unhurried ease, but this time, she couldnât quite keep from humming along to the song that played softly from the speaker nearby. Her voice was low, almost shy, as though she hadnât meant for anyone to hear. But as she sang, each note seemed to tighten a thread in his chest, snapping him out of the drowsy trance.
Then it hit him like a punch to the gut.
The music, her voice, the way her fingers worked through his hair, it all brought him back to Pierceâs household, to those days he spent stationed in the shadows, monitoring everything in silence before the events of his escape. The faint aroma of something sweet drifting through the house, of cookies, or bread, something good, something he hadnât expected to find. He could still feel the strange weight of those illicit treats in his pocket, things sheâd left out in silent offering, her small, unspoken kindness filling a gap he hadnât known was there.
This woman... could it be?
His breathing grew shallow, each breath catching in his chest as a faint tremor ran through him. His gloved hands twitched against the armrests, fingers curling and uncurling as he fought the urge to reach up, to pull himself upright and turn, to really look at her. He needed to see her face, to study her features and search for that glimpse of familiarity, to confirm that this wasnât just some blurred, mismatched memory dredged up by the lull of her voice and the warmth of her hands. Worse yet, he needed to know this wasnât some fragment of imagination, a scene conjured by his mind to taunt him with memories he couldnât piece together. But before he could move, she stopped singing, her hands paused in his hair and he felt her hesitate, as if sensing his restlessness even though he hadnât said a word.
âThe wash is almost done,â she murmured, her voice quiet but steady, as if offering reassurance.
She inwardly groaned, mortified. Why on earth did she start singing? Way to scare off a customer, she scolded herself when she sensed his body tense beneath her hands. And of course, it happened with a handsome customer. She could feel the rush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Taking a steady breath, she forced herself to refocus, working to rinse the last of the conditioner as quickly as she could, her hands moving just a bit more briskly than before. Okay, finish up and keep it professional, she coached herself, feeling the sting of humiliation all over again.
As she finished rinsing the conditioner from his hair, she reached for a nearby towel. Without a second thought, still reliving the horror of exposing herself like that, she wrapped it around his head, gently pressing to soak up the excess water. Bucky barely registered the texture, just the warmth that enveloped him, and the unspoken relief of having her hands finally out of his hair.
âAlright,â she said softly, stepping back. âWeâre done here. Just head back to the front, and Iâll set you up for the cut.â
He rose from the chair a bit unsteadily, as though waking from a daze, and started toward the front of the shop, acutely aware of every step. He glanced sideways at her once, catching a hint of embarrassment lingering on her face, her gaze darting away when she noticed him looking. Something about her bashful expression twisted a new thread of familiarity through his mind, but he shook it off, trying to steady himself.
As he reached the main area, he caught his reflection in the mirror opposite the chair and froze. Wrapped around his head, neatly turbaned and unmistakably bright, was a fluffy pink towel.
The old barber glanced up from the new customer he was tending to, his gaze settling on Buckyâs reflection with poorly concealed bemusement. "Good lord, Cecil, look how things have changed," he muttered dryly only for the other old man to hear, unaware of Buckyâs enhanced hearing.
The other old man, Cecil, leaned back, shaking his head with a smirk. âUsed to be, folks would at least keep that kind of thing under wraps,â he muttered, his voice low but pointed. âRemember Karenâs brother? Now there was a guy who kept things to himself, blended right in,â he muttered with a knowing glance at Bucky.
Bucky gritted his teeth, faintly aware of heat climbing up his neck, but he forced himself to keep a straight face. He was determined to get through this without snapping. His reflection caught his attention again, and he let out an almost inaudible sigh.
Behind him, Y/n approached, unaware of the old men ranting. She held a bunch of hairpins in one hand and a comb in the other, gesturing toward the chair in front of the mirror. âWhenever youâre readyâ.
As Bucky settled into the chair, his gaze drifted to the handful of hairpins she was holding, and cleared his throat, struggling to keep his tone steady. âUh, I thought I asked for it short,â he murmured, nodding toward the pins and comb with a faint frown.
She didnât miss a beat, propping a hand on her hip with a half-smile. âAnd I thought you might like it to look decent,â she quipped, raising a brow in the mirror. âTo get it even, Iâve got to section it out first, or youâll end up with a patchy disaster.â
She worked with quiet focus, her fingers weaving through his hair, clipping sections with colorful pins until his head was dotted with bright little half-buns. Buckyâs jaw clenched as his gaze drifted somewhere distant, the rhythmic tug of the comb stirring faint, elusive memories. He barely registered the chime of the door until the soft shuffle of footsteps and murmured greetings filled the air.
Two more elderly men ambled in, one clutching a checkers game under his arm. They greeted Frank the old barber, then his client casually, and lastly waved affectionately toward Y/n, who acknowledged them with a smile. As their eyes landed on Bucky, they paused, taking in his partially pinned-up hair, the bright clips dotting his head. They shared a wordless look of faint, unspoken disapproval, the kind only those with a few extra decades under their belts could master.
Bucky tightened his jaw again, pressing his tongue against his inner cheek, as he caught the old menâs exchanged looks. What, was this some kind of veteran association headquarters or something? Heâd endured enough stares over the years, but the situation's absurdity hit a new level. If only they knew he was older than all of them. The irony almost made him laugh -or maybe just get up and walk out.- But he forced himself to stay put, keeping his gaze fixed on his reflection as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary, while she worked steadily, oblivious to the silent standoff between him and the retirement brigade.
As she started to cut with the scissors, couldn't resist trying to break the tension that clung to him like a second skin. âSo, how long did it take you to grow this out?â she ventured, her tone light, eyes focused on his hair.
Bucky made a vague grunt, somewhere between polite acknowledgment and indifference. âCouple years,â he muttered, the words barely escaping his mouth as his gaze flicked to her face again.
Trying not to stare, he let his eyes drift down, but they always found their way back to her. As she moved around him, carefully and practiced, the cadence of her movements, and the subtle kindness in her tone, all painted a picture in his mind. The woman from Pierceâs household, he was certain of it now.
She tilted her head thoughtfully as she continued cutting, her eyes briefly meeting his in the mirror. âGoing short can feel like a fresh start,â she remarked, her voice casual yet reassuring. âSometimes, itâs about more than just hair, itâs like letting go of whatever it held onto. It happens a lot.â
Buckyâs eyes flicked up, catching her gaze in the mirror before he could stop himself. There was a beat of silence as her words seemed to settle over him, hitting a little closer than heâd expected.
âYeah,â he murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. âThatâs⊠kind of the point.â
She met his gaze again, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes, but she didnât press him. She just nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting into a gentle smile. âWell,â she said softly, her hands resuming their steady rhythm with the scissors, âthen letâs make sure we do it right.â
Eventually, she paused the trimming, assessing the hairâs new length with a critical eye. âAlright,â she said, lifting the electric clipper with a raised brow. âAny specific style you want, orâŠ?â
Bucky met her gaze in the mirror, hesitating just for a moment. If he knew anything about styles, he mightâve had an opinion, but all he cared about was the fresh start heâd come here for. âJust⊠short,â he replied, his tone firm but with a hint of uncertainty.
She nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. âGot it,â she said, setting to work. The clippers buzzed to life, and as she deftly worked them through the remaining length, Bucky let himself drift, trusting her to handle the rest. By the time she stepped back to survey her work, he barely recognized his own reflection; shorter, cleaner, a stark shift from the man heâd tried so hard to leave behind.
As she brushed his shoulders for stray hairs, the old men ambled back to the front, their voices rising in a familiar, lively argument about the weapons used in the Vietnam War.
âIâm telling you, the M16 was practically useless in those conditions,â one of them grumbled, shaking his head as if reliving the frustration.
âOh, donât start with that again,â the other scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. âThe M14 was a good rifle but couldnât match the firepower.â
Bucky couldnât help himself. âThere were issues with both models,â he interjected, his voice steady and sure. The men turned, eyebrows raised as he continued, âM16âs jamming problems, and the M14âs recoil, that didnât make it any easier in the jungle.â
One of them raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. âSo, you a collector or something, son? Not many people remember those details.â
Bucky paused, weighing his words. He shot them a sideways glance, a hint of something unreadable in his expression.
âNah,â he replied, his voice low. âJust... good memory.â
It was all he said, but the weight behind it was enough to hold their gaze for a moment longer than either man expected.
She watched them leave, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she turned back to Bucky, tilting her head thoughtfully. âWell, would you look at that,â she said, amused yet curious. âDidnât think Iâd get to see you join in the shop banters so soon. Well, there you go,â she said, stepping back. âSharp as ever.â She reached over to grab his jacket from the hook, handing it to him with a small, encouraging smile that held a warmth he hadnât felt in ages.
Bucky gave her a faint nod and took his jacket, slipping it on. âThanks,â he muttered, feeling her eyes on him as he reached for the door.
As Bucky left the parlor after his haircut, the chill in the evening air prickled against his skin, grounding him in the present but doing little to quiet the memories that kept surfacing. Each step felt like shaking off a shadow of something long gone, something buried. He told himself, firmly, that she was just another person from his past, a woman who once showed him kindness in a place that had none. It shouldnât mean anything.
But over the next few days, he couldnât shake the feeling that heâd left something unresolved. Her presence haunted him in a way, not in the sharp, painful fragments of his past but in small, lingering echoes. He remembered the sound of her quiet humming when she thought no one was listening, the soft click of plates, and the surprising warmth of the treats sheâd left for him, knowing he might never touch them. She had looked at him, masked and silent, like he was a person, not just a thing covered in shadows.
A few days later, in session, his therapist caught on to his distracted state. She didnât exactly push, but she revisited the topic theyâd been circling for weeks: reconnecting with people, finding his place outside the shadows of his past. Her advice was calm, grounded, and compassionate, but it nagged at him as much as it reassured him. Connection. Yeah, right.
Then, one afternoon, his phone buzzed. It was Sam. He was doing outreach work in the neighborhood, trying to connect local veterans with PTSD resources. âLook, I could use a hand with some pamphlets,â Sam said, in a way that didnât leave much room for negotiation. âSome old-timers hang around that parlor you mentioned. I think theyâd be more open to it if you dropped these off.â
Despite his reluctance, Bucky ended up agreeing. Maybe he needed to see her again to put the memories finally to rest.
When Bucky stepped back into the parlor, pamphlets clutched in his hand, the faint scent of aftershave and coffee grounded hit him. Frank was busy with a client, and Y/n was at the counter, writing something down in a small notebook. She looked up when the door chimed, her gaze settling on him with a flicker of recognition, the kind that carries just a hint of surprise.
Bucky cleared his throat and handed some pamphlets to Frank, who glanced at them with a barely concealed frown. âWhat is this, some new-age help group thing?â Frank muttered though he took them anyway.
Before Bucky could respond, Sam walked in behind him, a wide grin plastered on his face. He slapped Bucky on the shoulder with an ease that Bucky envied. âHey, pal, didnât know youâd actually do it,â Sam said, casting a friendly nod to the old-timers who regarded him with wary interest.
The veterans, having heard the conversation, perk up. âWhatâs this?â one of them asked, and Sam jumped in, explaining with his usual charm about the outreach work for veterans, PTSD resources, and community support. Bucky stood back, feeling the walls around him starting to rise, the familiar urge to retreat coming over him. But then he caught her watching him. He returned her gaze, and suddenly it was as if no time had passed. She was the same woman who used to hum softly in a house that held no warmth.
Before he knew it, Frank was muttering about ânewfangled therapy and pamphletsâ while the veterans grumbled, though one of them eventually accepted a flyer with a shrug. The moment felt absurd, but then, with a quiet laugh, she came to Buckyâs side. âWelcome back,â she says, with a soft voice and a suspicious pink tone on her cheeks.
Bucky cleared his throat, barely meeting her gaze. "Hi. Just, uh, helping Sam here with these pamphlets." He gestured awkwardly at the handful still clutched in his grip as if that alone explained his return. But before he could slide into silence, she tilted her head, her brow creasing in curiosity.
"So⊠were you in the service, too?"
The question caught him off guard. His body stiffened, and for a moment, he considered deflecting. But then he took a short breath, steadying himself before speaking.
"Yeah. Sergeant⊠a long time ago.â The words came out almost hollow like he was not even talking about himself. âFeels like it, anyway.â
Her eyes roamed his face as if she was noticing the wear and ache behind his expression for the first time, but she didnât press him for more.
Behind them, Frankâs sharp gaze flicked over Bucky, his usual squint softening just a touch. He straightened, nodding with something closer to respect, his gruffness replaced by a rare moment of understanding. Bucky felt it, too, the unspoken acknowledgment from one whoâs seen their kind wear the years like scars. âWell,â Frank said, his voice a little less brusque, âgood on you for helpinâ out.â He didnât look directly at Bucky as he said it, but the words were meant for him all the same.
He nodded, unsure of what to say. The discomfort sat heavy, but there was a strange ease to it too, this small, unanticipated connection in a place that felt both foreign and familiar.
Her smile grew softer as she met his gaze again âGuess weâll be seeing you around, then, visiting the boys?â
Bucky shifted, glancing down with a faint nod. âYeah. Maybe,â he muttered. Then he glanced back at Sam, who was deep in conversation with the veterans, seemingly in no rush to leave. He noticed the way Samâs gaze occasionally flickered their way and caught the subtle grin playing at the corner of his mouth. To anyone else, itâd seem so, so casual, but he knew better, Sam was doing it on purpose.
Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam kept his focus on the other vets, though his eyes flickered with barely concealed amusement when he glanced back.
The silence stretched a little too long, and she cleared her throat, slipping behind the counter with practiced ease. âYou know,â she said lightly, âif youâre waiting on your friend, might as well have a coffee. Itâs on the house.â
Buckyâs eyes fell to the floor, and he hesitated just a second before nodding. âSure. Thanks.â
As she moved to make the coffee, he leaned on the counter, his gloved hands resting awkwardly on its surface as she prepared a mug for him. Then, without warning, she reached under the counter and pulled out a green tupperware, popping the lid to reveal neatly cut slices of pasta frola. The sight caught him off guard, his brows furrowing as a faint but vivid memory flickered to life, the faint smell of jam in the kitchen, the delicate pastry offered to him wrapped in a paper napkin, so his pocket wouldnât get stained.
She noticed his look and chuckled lightly, misreading his reaction. âDonât worry, itâs just a family recipe. I swear itâs not poisoned.â She gave him a half-smile, nudging the container closer. âItâs filled with quince jam, itâs tangy but sweet. Hard to come by here in the States, I know. But... itâs worth a try.â
Bucky blinked, the memory lingering in his mind as he glanced from her to the slice of tart. Her familiar, easy demeanor was almost too much to brush off. âIâve had it before,â he said quietly, more to himself than her, before reaching over and picking up a slice. The taste was startlingly similar, he didnât realize how vividly he remembered it. âPretty good,â he murmured, almost begrudgingly. But before he could stop himself, a flicker of raw emotion tightened in his chest, and he felt the familiar sting of tears prickling at his eyes.
He turned away quickly, bracing himself against the counter, willing for the feeling to pass. He couldnât explain it if he tried, not to her, not even to himself. A stray laugh reached him from across the room, and he forced himself to breathe, grounding his focus back on the sound of Samâs voice, on the distant grunting of the men, anything to steady him.
Her voice broke through the moment, her tone warm and light as she cleaned up the counter beside him. âWell, if you like it, thereâs plenty more where that came from,â she said with a playful smile. âThe âboysâ practically fight over the last slice every time. You should see them, itâs like watching kids in a schoolyard,â she laughed softly, wiping down the counter. âI swear, Iâve had to start hiding an extra plate in the back just to keep up the peace.â
She glanced over at him, still unaware of his reaction, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. âSo, no pressure, but if you plan on sticking around here, youâll have to stake your claim early.â Her voice was so light and easy, almost teasing as if sharing a small, harmless secret. It was as if sheâd drawn him into some familiar, warm rhythm without even realizing it.
Bucky managed to make a nod, keeping his face averted until he was sure he was composed. Only then did he turn back, giving her a quick, curt nod. âThanks. It⊠brings back memories,â he said, his voice steadier now, though the weight of those memories lingered in the quiet pause that followed.
âOh?â She tilted her head, her eyes bright with curiosity. âI hope good memories?â Her smile was warm, perhaps imagining a grandmotherâs kitchen or a friendly neighborâs table, after all, it was rare for an American to have tried this kind of tart.
Buckyâs mouth curved into a faint, thin smile as he met her gaze for a fleeting moment before looking away again. âSomething like that,â he replied, with a carefully neutral tone, edged with something unreadable. He lifted the coffee mug, taking a slow sip, hoping the gesture would gently close the conversation.
Before she could respond, the door chime sounded, and a man in his late thirties strolled into the shop with an air of easy familiarity. His gaze landed on her, his expression shifting into something smug and self-assured as he greeted her by name. His eyes lingered a little too long, sliding over her outfit in a way that barely bothered to conceal his interest.
Her posture stiffened, but she managed to smile, nodding his way. âHey, Brian. Frank will be back in a few if youâd rather wait.â
Brian chuckled dismissively as he made his way to the chair. âNah, itâs just a maintenance cut. I donât need Frank for that.â He settled in, leaning back with a casual grin. âBesides, Iâd much rather have you take care of me. Your hands are way more skilled.â
âRightâŠâ She gave him a thin smile. Glancing at Bucky, she excuses herself from his side and heads over to tend to Brian.
As she set up her tools, Brian leaned back in the chair, angling himself to keep her in his line of sight. âLooking good today,â he said, his tone dropping slightly as he studied her reflection in the mirror. âGotta say, it makes my day to come in and see you here.â
She responded with a brief, neutral laugh, brushing off his comment as she began trimming his hair. âJust here to make sure youâre looking sharp.â
Bucky stayed a little longer by the counter, pretending to be absorbed in his coffee. But his eyes flicked up occasionally, catching the exchange in the mirrorâs reflection.
Watching him quietly eating the last bite of tart at the counter, Brian smirked, leaning back in the chair with a lazy grin. âYou know,â he drawled, gazing at her intently, âOne of these days, Iâll have to get my mouth on that pie of yours.â The words were laced with an unmistakable undertone, his gaze lingering on her as if testing the waters.
Her hand stopped just for a fraction of a second before she responded, a quick, professional smile in place. âWell, Iâll let you know if I ever start taking special orders.â Her words were smooth and dismissive, sidestepping his implication with practiced ease.
Buckyâs fingers tightened around his mug. Was this modern flirting? He found himself suppressing the urge to remind Brian of a little respect. But with what right exactly? Some possessive urge rooted over a long-ago act of kindness? Theyâd barely exchanged a handful of words, words that, by the way, he could hardly string. Still, he couldnât shake a barely contained irritation that crept inside him, a feeling both unfamiliar and too familiar all at once.
Brianâs flirting continued, his tone growing bolder as he lounged in the chair, eyes fixed on her as she tried to maintain her professional composure. Eventually, Buckyâs patience snapped.
He placed his mug down with a soft clink, rising to his full height and striding over, casting a long shadow across the two of them.
With a calm, steely edge to his voice, he focused his gaze on her. âWell, sweetheart, Iâve got some things to take care of with Sam. But I canât wait to see you in that dress later.â
She blinked, her scissors pausing mid-snip as she processed what heâd just said. Then, catching on to the improvisation, she broke into a warm smile, tilting her head with a look of mock apology toward Brian before turning fully to Bucky.
âOh, of course! Canât wait to see you too, handsome.â she replied, adding a playful lilt to her voice. And without missing a beat, she tiptoed up, pressing a kiss to Buckyâs cheek, her hand resting on his shoulder for a bit of extra effect.
Brianâs smile faltered, his expression shifting to one of discomfort as he glanced away, the bravado vanishing from his eyes.
Bucky turned smoothly, not sparing Brian a single glance as he made his way over to Sam, his steps calm and unhurried. The entire shop seemed to hold its breath, caught in the aftermath of the exchange. Sam looked at him with a quirked brow, and Frank⊠just narrowed his gaze. Has something been going on under his nose with this redeemed hippie and he didnât know about it?
Meanwhile, she could barely keep her thoughts straight. Her heart pounded wildly, a thousand questions firing off in her mind as she mentally replayed what had just happened. First, the shock that Bucky had stepped in at all, with that calm authority that had left Brian squirming. Then, there was how effortlessly heâd delivered his line, so convincingly she almost believed it herself. And finally... God, the way he smelled when she leaned up to kiss him. Cedar, leather, and masculinity. She could still feel the trace warmth of his lean, muscular shoulder beneath her hand.
Had she overdone it? The kissing, the touching⊠she wasnât sure, though part of her almost wished it had been real. She bit her lip, determined to focus on the task at hand as Brian shifted uncomfortably in the chair, his earlier smugness replaced by an awkward silence.
Bucky reached Sam, who glanced up with a grin as he passed over the stack of pamphlets. âSo⊠all this time you had a girlfriend and didnât say a word, Tinman? That is low, even for youâ Sam teased under his breath, low enough that only Bucky could hear.
âNo, I didnât.â Bucky muttered; his jaw tight but the faintest hint of a smirk breaking through. He didnât meet Samâs gaze, he kept his eyes on the pamphlets, straightening them a bit too intently.
-----
A month had passed since that unusual afternoon in the shop. Today, with the sun warm and inviting, she had settled on a park bench, her fingers skillfully crocheting yarn into neat, colorful granny squares. The sunlight caught the vivid hues, making them seem to glow against her lap, and she was fully absorbed in her work.
Bucky was passing through the park on his way home, hands stuffed in his pockets, mind preoccupied with thoughts stirred up from a grueling therapy session. But then he saw her, sitting just across the path. The sight brought him to a sudden halt. There she was, peaceful and intent on her project, just as sheâd been all those years ago. Back then, heâd only dared to steal quick, curious glances, a silent observer bound by his handlerâs whims. But today, seeing her absorbed in those same small stitches, he felt an undeniable urge to bridge the distance between them. It took him a moment to remind himself that he was free to walk over, to break the silence himself. He took a breath, then walked toward her.
When his shadow fell over her work, she looked up, eyes widening with recognition. âOh!â she said, surprised, but quickly smiled, recovering from the initial shock. âHey, stranger.â
He felt a small, tentative smile come through despite himself. âHey,â he murmured. His gaze flickered down to the granny squares arranged on her lap. âIâm interrupting? You just looked focused.â
She chuckled, lifting the half-formed square to show him. âNot at all; itâs my therapy, I guess. Helps me unwind.â Then, after a beat, she patted the space beside her. âWant to join me for a bit?â
He hesitated briefly before nodding. âYeah⊠yeah, Iâd like that.â He sat down, the air between them comfortable but charged, a quiet warmth settling over them.
For a moment, neither spoke, just content to share the quiet. Then, she glanced over at him. âYou know, I never got the chance to thank you properly⊠for that day at the parlor, it meant a lot.â
He looked up, a hint of surprise in his expression, then shrugged slightly, a modest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âDidnât need thanking. But⊠youâre welcome.â
She smiled back, and that gesture eased something tense in his chest. He swallowed, gathering his thoughts, his fingers tracing the line of his glove. The moment felt right, and finally, he broke the silence, his voice a little hoarse. âThereâs, uh⊠something Iâve been wanting to tell you.â He glanced down at his hands, his thumb stilling over his gloved palm. âIf⊠if youâve got some time.â
She paused, looking at him with a hint of curiosity, her hands resting on her project. âOf course.â
He sighed, the sound heavy as if exhaling years of hesitation. Slowly, deliberately, he began tugging at the glove on his left hand, peeling it off to reveal the metallic gleam beneath. The sun's soft light caught on the intricate panels and joints, giving the hand an almost otherworldly sheen.
Her hands stilled, the yarn forgotten in her lap. Her eyes widened briefly as she took it in. At first, she assumed it was just a particularly advanced prosthesis. But then he flexed his fingers, the subtle, fluid movement far too precise, too seamless for any ordinary piece of tech. And then everything clicked.
Her eyes widened briefly as she saw his hand, assuming it was a regular prosthesis, until he flexed his fingers, and everything clicked. Sheâd seen that hand -arm- before, on news reports and grainy footage, the infamous name whispered in fear, The Winter Soldier. But alongside that news had been another truth: the revelation that heâd been a victim, conditioned to act against his will. A mere puppet of Hydraâs schemes. A human pet trained to secure their darkest ambitions.
Her gaze softened, a mix of understanding and quiet sorrow replacing her initial shock. She didnât flinch or retreat. Instead, she studied his face, the way his jaw tensed, his shoulders bracing as if he expected her to pull away. She hesitated, her hand hovering over his for a moment before gently resting on his vibranium fingers. âWhy are you showing me this?â
He stared at her hand, where it lay against his as if the touch was foreign to him, something he didnât know how to accept. Finally, he sighed, the weight of the confession evident in the way his shoulders slumped. âBecause,â he began, his voice low, âalmost nine years ago, you worked as a nanny for a family that went by Pierce.â
Her brow furrowed, surprised that heâd brought up something from so long ago, and puzzled by how he could possibly know. Only a handful of people had ever been in that apartment, and none of them had been a man with a metal arm.
âHow⊠how do you know that?â she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, though a thousand questions began swirling in her mind.
âThey told you I was security detail,â he said, watching her closely. âSome faceless bodyguard lurking in the shadows. Except it wasnât exactly⊠just that.â His voice softened, a hint of remorse lacing each word.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to connect the dots. She then remembered the quiet figure whoâd kept to the periphery, masked, his posture rigid and controlled, his entire presence veiled in secrecy. His silence had unnerved her at first, but soon, it had become as much a part of the background as the furniture in the apartment. âYouâre⊠that was⊠you wereâŠâ The realization dawned slowly, her hand involuntarily covering her mouth as the pieces slid into place.
He nodded, not breaking eye contact. âI couldnât say anything back then. Couldnât even⊠react on my own accord. But I remember you. I remember the little things you did. The treats you left, the music⊠your hobby.â His gaze fell briefly to her hands, where her current project lay forgotten. âIt was⊠one of the only kindnesses I knew, back then.â
She stared, absorbing the weight of his confession, piecing together the faint memories of that silent figure in the shadows, the one sheâd tried to reach in small, gentle ways. The realization that the man in front of her, the Winter Soldier, was him left her feeling as though a veil had lifted, revealing a hidden, tragic depth.
âSo⊠you were there, but you werenât allowed to⊠be you,â she said softly, the words tumbling out as she tried to grasp it all.
âYeah,â he murmured, almost a sigh. âThereâs a lot of shit Iâm still sorting through, but⊠I couldnât shake the thought of telling you. What you did back then,â he paused, his voice dipping to a whisper, âit meant more to me than you know.â
She looked down, her heart catching at the sincerity in his words. Before she could respond, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a bit of hesitation.
âLook,â he started, and she noticed his ears had turned a faint shade of red. âI, uh⊠donât want to scare you off here. I get it if you think Iâm coming on too strong, or if this seems⊠creepy.â He shifted, his gaze uncertain but still holding hers. âBut I wanted to ask if maybe youâd like to⊠if youâd want to get a coffee sometime⊠or, I donât know, maybe dinner?â A hint of nervousness flickered in his blue eyes, and he broke into a self-conscious grin. âUnless that sounds like a terrible idea, in which case, we could also just⊠feed some ducks in the park or something,â he said, a soft chuckle escaping him. âFeeding ducks? Do people still even do that?â
Seeing him tripping over his words made her heart skip. Smiling, she let the silence linger for just a moment before nodding. âIâd like that, whatever youâd prefer, coffee, dinner⊠or even feeding the ducks.â
Relief flooded his face, his shoulders relaxing. He chuckled, and for the first time, she saw a glimpse of someone who had spent far too long hidden behind walls, someone who was finally allowing himself a chance to live.
----------
Saturdayâs sunset hadnât even fully settled in when Bucky found himself pacing toward the parlor, nerves buzzing under his skin. This was his first proper date since 1943, and he felt like a high school boy. An awkward, brooding, traumatized, and scarred high school boy. Great, he thought, glancing up at the swirling clouds that promised rain, thunder echoing faintly from afar. He checked his reflection in a nearby window, adjusting his collar, brushing a hand through his hair. The frown he caught staring back only made him feel more ridiculous.
He stepped into the shop and spotted her immediately, busying herself around the place, her brow knit in concentration. She didnât notice him at first, but when she finally looked up, her eyes lit up in surprise.
âOh, hey,â she said, smiling wide as she took him in.
âHey,â he replied, a little awkwardly, realizing heâd arrived early. Clearing his throat, he lifted the small bouquet heâd brought, feeling hopeful and self-conscious as he handed them over. âUh⊠these are for you.â
She blinked, clearly touched. âBucky⊠thank you. Theyâre beautiful.â She inhaled the scent, and he could have sworn he saw a soft glow in her cheeks. The simple gesture seemed to have landed, warming him from the inside out.
Frank, from behind the counter, watched the whole exchange, his usual skeptical gaze softening just a little at the sight of the flowers. For a moment, Bucky felt like heâd earned a point of approval from the old man.
Just then, another roll of thunder echoed in the distance, making her glance up at him with a teasing smile. âYou think weâll beat the storm?â
He held out his arm, âGuess weâll find out,â he said with a lopsided grin, trying to keep his cool despite the nerves.
And with that, they headed out, stepping into the evening together, the storm chasing them as they walked to the nearby bistro.
The rain came down fast and thick, a relentless curtain that left them drenched within seconds. They huddled together under a small awning, Bucky grimacing as he realized he hadnât even thought of bringing an umbrella -not that he owned one, anyway-. He glanced over at her, taking in the way her dress clung to her, soaked through, her hair starting to curl from the dampness. He raked a hand through his dripping hair, sighing.
âDidnât see this coming,â he muttered, half to himself, half to her. âIâm⊠sorry.â
She blinked up at him, eyes wide and surprised. âWhy are you apologizing for the weather?â
He shrugged, a sheepish look crossing his face. âGuess I feel like I shouldâve been prepared.â He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little foolish for not planning better. âI could⊠call you a cab? We can try for another night.â
She gave him a tentative smile, her cheeks a little pink. âOr⊠if you want, my place is just upstairs from the parlor. Youâre already here, and itâs warm. We could dry off and⊠watch a movie? Order some dinner?â
Bucky blinked, a bit taken aback. The invitation tugged at something deep and old-fashioned inside him. A woman who lived alone, inviting her date to her house at night. But then again, times had changed, and so had he. He could feel the pull, that quiet, magnetic urge to spend a little more time in her company, and really, wasnât that the whole point of tonight?
With a flicker of a smile, he nodded. âYeah⊠yeah, that sounds nice,â he said, relaxing just a bit. He followed her through the rain-drenched streets, his boots splashing lightly in the shallow puddles until they reached the stairwell beside the parlor that led up to her apartment. She fumbled with her keys, glancing over her shoulder to flash him a quick, almost conspiratorial grin.
As they stepped inside, she chuckled, eyeing his soaked clothes. âI can get you some of Frankâs stuff to change into,â she offered, giving his drenched jacket a sympathetic look. âI do his laundry, so Iâm sure weâll find something that fits you. Just⊠donât tell him.â She winked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Despite the cold clothes sticking to his skin, Bucky felt a warm chuckle bubble up. âI think I can keep a secret,â he said, playing along, his gaze lingering on her smile a second longer than he meant to. There, surrounded by warm, mismatched furniture and soft, inviting blankets, he felt something uncoil, like he was being welcomed into a place that felt⊠real, lived on.
"Sorry about the mess," she murmured, disappearing toward a small laundry room tucked around the corner.
Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, his gaze following her despite himself. He tried to focus on anything else, but the soaked dress clung to every inch of her, tracing her silhouette in a way that made it impossible to look away. He found himself rooted to the spot, too aware of his heartbeat drumming harder than it should. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. Get a grip, he told himself. Standing there in a small puddle, he felt more out of place than ever, and yet, he wasnât sure he wanted to be anywhere else.
She returned a moment later with a bundle of clothes in her hands, a pair of worn pants that looked like theyâd sit loose and just shy of his ankles, along with a white tank top and a blue flannel. âItâll do for now, though, fair warning, heâs got about half your shoulders, so donât blame me if the fitâs a bit... weird.â
Bucky accepted the clothes, glancing at the pants with a wry smile. âWeirdâs fine,â he mumbled, grateful for anything dry but wondering if heâd end up looking like heâd raided a teenagerâs closet.
Her laughter was light as she stepped back. âIâll give you a minute to get changed,â she said, nodding toward a corner of the room. Then, she grabbed a set of fresh clothes for herself, giving him a quick nod before slipping off to the bathroom.
Once alone, Bucky looked down at the makeshift outfit, a mixture of humor and nerves settling in. It was strange how easy she made things feel, and stranger still how much he found himself wanting to fit, if only for this evening.
Eventually, she emerged from the bathroom with a casual skirt and a matching blouse, feeling more at ease, until her gaze landed on Bucky. He was leaning against the window, looking out at the rain-soaked street, lost in thought. The borrowed pants hung low on his hips, but it was the white tank top that made her brain stutter. It clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination, stretched taut across his broad chest, outlining every defined line of muscle. She could even make out the slight press of his nipples through the fabric, a testament to the strain his frame put on the shirt that was clearly never made for him. She noticed the blue shirt heâd left folded on the table, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, âCouldnât make the flannel work?â
Bucky glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-conscious smirk. âYeah⊠tried it,â he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. âDidnât quite fit.â
She quickly averted her gaze, trying to mask the impure thoughts racing through her mind as she gestured toward the bulky cabinet under the TV. âSo⊠movie or board game?â
Buckyâs gaze lingered on her for a beat, soaking in the warmth of her place, the easy coziness of being alone here with her. He felt a soft pull again, something that made him want to take another step closer, to reach out and⊠âLetâs play,â he murmured, his voice a bit rough. He gave her a slight smile. âShow me what youâve got.â
They fell into the games as if nothing else existed. The hours slipped by unnoticed, each turn they took erasing a little more of the self-consciousness theyâd started with. Laughter broke through the usual stillness of her living room, punctuated by playful jabs and shameless victory dances as they bickered over the rules and accused each other of cheating with an ease that felt familiar and comfortable.
At some point, she stopped worrying about how much she was watching him. It didnât matter if her gaze lingered on the way his shoulders hunched with focus, or if she found herself distracted by the rare, soft chuckle he let slip when she pulled a fast one on him. And Bucky, for his part, began to let go of his usual reservations. Here, in her warm, cluttered living room with mismatched furniture and board game boxes stacked by the couch, he felt no need to carry the weight of conversation or second-guess every gesture. He didnât need to measure himself against the usual question of what was ânormalâ or âappropriate.â He just⊠existed, slipping into her rhythm like it was second nature.
As the night wore on, they were sitting on the floor, engrossed in another game, the coffee table cluttered with pieces and cards. The mood had shifted from playful to fiercely competitive. Both of them were leaning forward, so focused on the game that they barely noticed how close theyâd become.
Amid a particularly tense round, she reached forward quickly to snatch one of his pieces. Bucky, acting on pure instinct, grabbed her wrist to stop her. But when doing so, his grip was a little too forceful, and before either of them could react, she lost her balance. She lurched forward, crashing into the coffee table, her hands scrambling for purchase as she toppled over, knocking the game pieces everywhere.
Bucky froze, his eyes wide with shock as he realized what had happened. His heart raced as guilt and embarrassment washed over him.
âIâm so sorry,â he blurted, his voice rough with panic. His hand hovered near her, unsure whether to touch her or give her space. âI didnât mean to⊠I didnât think⊠are you okay?â
She sat up, a little dazed but unharmed. Her face flushed with the surprise of the fall, but she managed to smile softly, trying to ease the tension. âIâm fine. Really. Just⊠caught off guard.â
Bucky didnât move from his spot, his entire body taut with self-reproach. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze as he muttered more apologies. âI shouldnât have⊠I didnât mean to grab you like that.â His words tumbled over each other in a hurried mess.
Her eyes softened, and she quickly tried to reassure him, though she could see the genuine discomfort in his posture. âItâs fine,â she said calmly. âIâm alright, seriously. You didnât hurt me.â
But Bucky wasnât listening. The self-reproach was already spiraling in his mind, the usual inner monologue of guilt and doubt taking over. âIâm a fucking mess,â he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. âI canât evenâŠâ
She reached out slowly, touching his arm lightly to ground him. âItâs okay,â she said again, but she saw it happening, his retreat, and it made her heart sink. He was going to pull away. She could see it in his posture, the way his gaze avoided hers, the tension in his shoulders as if he was already preparing to leave.
Without thinking, without any plan, she blurted out the only thing that had been swirling around in her head since the moment they started this strange, unpredictable connection. "I really like you."
The words hung in the air, louder than anything sheâd ever said before, a sudden bomb dropped in the middle of their awkward standoff. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as they left her mouth, and her heart skipped a beat, the rush of adrenaline almost as strong as the surge of fear. She could already feel her cheeks flushing, the vulnerability creeping in, but she couldnât take it back now.
Buckyâs head snapped up at her words, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as he looked at her, stunned. For a moment, all he could do was stare, as if he were trying to make sense of what sheâd just said. His mind had been racing, ready to bolt, but her confession grounded him, holding him in place.
âYou⊠like me.â he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper, still slightly skeptical.
She smiled in a way that was both reassuring and a bit teasing. âWell, that was the whole point of going on a date, right?â His gaze flickered up, surprised, as she continued, âWhy do you think Iâd say yes to your invitation in the first place? I was even down to feed ducks with you.â Her smile widened, trying to lighten the mood, and a bit of that earlier sparkle returned to his eyes.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head, a mix of relief and amusement in his expression. âI thought maybe⊠I donât know. Maybe youâd just be nice, humor me a little.â
She straightened up, putting on her best impression of an old-fashioned debutante. âExcuse you, but I donât feed ducks with just anyone, what kind of woman do you think I am?â The statement had him laughing, a deep, hearty laugh that made his eyes crinkle and his nose wrinkle in an adorably unguarded way, making her knees feel like jelly.
He held up his hands in surrender. âI didnât realize I was asking for such an honor. Guess Iâll have to work my way up to that level of duck-feeding trust.â
Her heart pounded as she met his steady, unflinching gaze, and managed to find her voice. âSo⊠if youâre serious about making up for that offense,â she teased, âI might be open to⊠one little act of apology.â
He paused, his eyes widening just a fraction as he took in her words, understanding dawning across his features. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze softened as he reached up, almost on instinct, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear with a featherlight touch.
âI⊠think I can manage that,â he murmured, his voice warm and low. His thumb skimmed her cheek, his fingers brushing along her jaw as he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. Then, finally, his lips touched hers, gentle and chaste. When they broke apart, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, neither quite ready to pull away. Buckyâs hand lingered on her face, his thumb still grazing her cheek as he whispered, âIs that enough to earn back your trust, or do I still have some work to do?â
She laughed softly, the sound carrying the last traces of nervousness and turning into pure warmth. âI think⊠that was a pretty good start.â Then she bit her lip, leaning further into his touch, âThough, maybeâŠâ she whispered, her voice dropping to a daring, playful note, âyou might have to put in a bit more effort to repair the affront on my reputation.â
He didnât need any further invitation. His hand slipped around the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her close, capturing her mouth with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. This wasnât the gentle, tentative kiss from before; this was raw, heated, as though he was pouring all the things he couldnât say into the way his lips moved against hers.
His mouth parted, his tongue sliding against hers, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from her. She melted against him, her hands finding his shoulders and gripping tight, grounding herself against the overwhelming rush of sensation. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his thumb brushing the back of her neck as he sensually assaulted her mouth.
When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he kept his hand on the back of her head. His burning gaze met hers, and he managed a rough, breathless murmur, âWas that⊠enough effort?â
Her cheeks flushed, her voice barely a whisper. âThatâll⊠do.â But the playful smile on her lips told him she wasnât entirely ready to let go either.
Buckyâs hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, whispering her name, low and reverent, as he trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck, each warm breath sending shivers over her skin. Her fingers wove into his hair, her other hand tracing the rough line of stubble along his jaw. Slowly, she tugged him up, their lips meeting again in a heated kiss.
The world around them seemed to fade entirely, the patter of rain on the window the only sound other than their breathless murmurs. His lips were hot and demanding against hers, his hand firm on her waist as he eased them both down to the plush carpet. The scattered board game pieces were forgotten, pressing into their knees and elbows as they moved together, desperate and unrestrained.
Buckyâs vibranium fingers brushed up her side, cool and deliberate, his other hand still cupping the back of her head to angle her closer. His lips left hers, trailing down her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin just above her collarbone as his hand slid beneath her blouse, fingertips tracing patterns along her skin.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, and his back, as she tugged him closer, her nails grazing just enough to make him hiss. His breathing was uneven, as he murmured her name against her skin, reverent and raw. âTell me,â He rasped, his voice thick with need, âTell me you want this.â
She reached for his face, her fingers tracing the rough line of stubble along his jaw. âI do.â
Buckyâs lips crashed onto hers, urgent yet unhurried, drinking in every soft gasp she gave him. His weight pressed her down against the plush carpet as his hand slid up the curve of her thigh beneath her skirt. The soft fabric bunched under his touch, his fingers brushing higher until the cool air met her exposed skin. She shivered, but not from the chill.
His other hand, the vibranium one, moved to the delicate buttons of her blouse.
Carefully, almost reverently, he slipped each button free, his knuckles brushing against her bare skin. When the blouse finally fell open, he pulled back just enough to drink her in, his chest rising and falling heavily.
The vibranium hand moved to the buttons of her blouse, steady but reverent. One by one, the delicate closures came undone, and as the fabric fell away, his knuckles brushed against the warm skin of her chest, drawing a quiet moan from her lips. When the blouse finally opened, he pulled back just enough to look at her, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with desire as his chest heaved with ragged breaths.
âGod,â he murmured, his voice rough and full of want. The hand on her thigh squeezed gently, as if grounding himself in her, while his other hand grazed her exposed collarbone, slipping beneath the straps of her bra.
Her breath hitched as his fingers teased along the edge of the fabric before slipping it down her shoulder. His lips followed, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that made her arch beneath him. The scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin only heightened the sensation. His mouth moved lower, dragging over the curve of her breast until his lips hovered above the thin lace of her bra.
She gasped as he nipped lightly through the fabric, his tongue following to soothe the sting. âBucky,â she whispered, her voice trembling but filled with need.
His gaze flicked up to hers as his hand came up to cup her other breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple through the lace, drawing a soft, breathy moan from her and then repeating the motion, this time circling the stiffened peak with a deliberate slowness that had her squirming beneath him.
Her hips shifted instinctively, brushing against his, and thatâs when she felt his hardness, pressing insistently against her thigh through the loose fabric of his borrowed pants, and she arched into him, her hands slipping beneath his tank top to trace the hard planes of his chest.
âFeel what you do to me?â he rasped, his voice breaking as her fingers trailed lower, tracing the edge of his waistband.
Her answer was a breathless kiss, open and hungry, her teeth tugging lightly at his lower lip before her tongue swept into his mouth. He groaned against her, his hips pressing down against hers in a slow, deliberate grind that made them both gasp.
The friction between them built as his hand moved from her breast, sliding down her side to grip her hip. He tugged her leg higher around his waist, pressing himself more firmly against her, the thin layers of fabric between them doing little to muffle the heat of their bodies. Her nails scraped lightly down his back as he thrust his hips again, the pressure of his cock against her clothed clit sending sparks of pleasure through her.
âPlease,â she whispered, her voice trembling, needy.
He stilled for a heartbeat, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, his lips curling into a sly smirk. âI need you to use your words, doll,â he murmured, his voice gravelly and thick with desire.
Her cheeks flushed, the weight of his gaze making her shy for a moment. But the throbbing between her thighs burned hotter than her embarrassment. She licked her lips, her voice a little bolder now. âI⊠want you to fuck me.â
His smirk vanished, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He reached behind his neck to pull off his tank top in one swift motion.
The scars on his shoulder and chest caught the dim light, jagged reminders of everything heâd endured. Her fingers stilled against his chest, her breath catching as she took him in. But there wasnât fear or pity in her gaze, only awe, tenderness, and something that made his throat tighten.
âYouâre so handsome,â she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to his collarbone. Her kisses trailed across his skin, soft and reverent, lingering on the edge of a scar.
The last of his self-consciousness melted away at her touch, and he growled softly, pushing her back down onto the carpet. His vibranium hand wrapped around her wrists, pinning them above her head with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.
âYouâre something else, you know that?â he said, his lips brushing her ear as his free hand slid down her body. He traced the curve of her waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. Her breath hitched as his hand dipped beneath the fabric teasing her, tracing slow circles over her clit with controlled and deliberate movements, as if savoring every little sound she made.
âSo wet for me,â he murmured, his lips ghosting over her jaw before pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. âAll for me, huh?â
âBucky,â she gasped, her hips bucking against his hand.
âPatience, doll, Iâm a little⊠rusty.â he whispered, as his fingers slid lower, parting her folds and slipping inside her. Her moan was like music to his ears, her body arching beneath him as he set a slow, maddening rhythm.
She writhed against him, her breathless gasps and whispered pleas spurring him on. He watched her intently, his gaze dark and focused, each stroke and curl inside her seeking out what made her moan, what made her gasp his name like a prayer.
Her hands twisted above her head where his metal hand kept them pinned, her thighs trembling as her body moved instinctively against his. "That's it," he murmured, his lips brushing over her neck. "Let me hear you. Tell me what feels good."
A strangled cry escaped her lips as his fingers found just the right spot, his thumb brushing over her clit in perfect tandem. Her hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he gave her. Her voice was breathless, broken as she moaned, "Bucky, right there⊠oh, God, right there."
His tongue traced the shell of her ear, and when he spoke, his voice was gravelly and thick. âGot you, sweetheart. Just let go for me.â
She shattered beneath him moments later, her head tipping back as the waves of her release washed over her. Her cries filled the room, mingling with the rhythm of the rain outside. Bucky felt the tight coil of his own restraint loosen at the sight of her coming undone. Any lingering self-doubt evaporated, replaced by the raw satisfaction of knowing heâd done that, heâd learned her, heâd given her this.
He slowed his movements, easing her down gently, his fingers still stroking her as she trembled beneath him. When her breathing steadied, he brought his hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers as he licked his fingers clean, savoring her taste with a low groan.
Her cheeks flushed, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. âRusty, huh?â she murmured with a shaky laugh, her voice tinged with both awe and affection.
With a wicked grin, Bucky shifted, his hands fumbling to rid himself of his pants as the heat between them threatened to consume him whole. But as he pushed up onto his knees, something sharp jabbed into him, and he froze.
âSon of aâŠâ He hissed, lifting his knee and finding a pointy plastic game piece stuck underneath it. He held it up between two fingers, glaring at the offending object like it had personally insulted him. âSeriously?â
She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away. âThatâs what happens when youâre too eager and donât clear the battlefield first.â
âOh, itâs a battlefield now, huh?â he grumbled, tossing the offending piece aside with a flick of his wrist. Despite his frustration, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a suppressed grin.
He stood quickly, tugging his pants down with a low, irritated huff, but the urgency in his movements never wavered.
Her gaze lingered on him, her breath catching as her eyes traced every line of his body, every mark that told a story he didnât always want to remember.
The heat in his expression faltered for just a second, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitched in a self-conscious smirk. Climbing back on top of her, he didnât hesitate as her hands slid up his arms, guiding him closer. Her lips found his pulse point, trailing lower to the curve of his collarbone. When her lips brushed over a jagged scar, he exhaled sharply, his hand catching her chin, tilting her face toward his.
âYouâre dangerous, you know that?â he rasped, his voice a mix of awe and hunger.
Her eyes gleamed with mischief as her lips curled into a teasing smile. âI thought weâd already established this was a battlefield,â she whispered.
âWell⊠Iâm not exactly known for doing sloppy jobs while battling sweetheartâ With one swift movement he ripped the seams of her panties, then guided himself with one hand, the thick tip of his cock pressing lightly against her slick entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it up and down her folds, catching on her clit with every pass. Her hips jerked against him, a breathless moan escaping her lips. âYouâre so ready for me,â he murmured, his voice thick as he pressed himself harder against her, the friction almost too much. âThink you can take all of me, doll?â
âWell, I guess weâll never know if you donât-â
A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips before he eased into her slowly, inch by thick inch, her teasing interrupted with a gasp that turned into a long, broken moan as he filled her completely. He groaned, his forehead pressing to hers as he stilled for a moment, letting her adjust to his size.
He started slow, rolling his hips into hers with a deliberate rhythm, his breath hot against her neck as he groaned softly with each thrust. Her body arched beneath him, meeting him as best she could, though the stretch of him left her gasping.
âFuck, you feel so good,â he murmured with roughed voice, as his lips brushed her temple.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and beneath her, the scattered cards and pieces dug into her back, but the discomfort was barely registered through the haze of pleasure coursing through her.
âBuckyâŠâ she whimpered, her voice shaky, her nails scraping lightly against his skin as she clenched around him.
âHold on, doll,â he rasped, his hand sliding behind her thigh, lifting her leg higher to hook it around his waist. The new angle sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through her, and she cried out, her head falling back as he thrust deeper, harder.
âGod, look at you,â he groaned, his dog tags swaying with each movement. The faint metallic clink added to the symphony of their labored breaths and the rain tapping against the window.
She couldnât think, couldnât ground herself as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and the sharp tug sent a low, primal growl rumbling through his chest. He shifted, sliding his arm beneath her other thigh, resting the back of her knee on his inner elbow, thrusting deeper, harder, making her cry out, her back arching as he drove her closer to the edge. âThatâs it,â he rasped, his voice rough and commanding, his rhythm relentless now. Her nails scraped against the rug beneath her, trying desperately to find some kind of anchor as her body writhed beneath him. âYou feel so damn good,â he muttered, his tone reverent yet hungry, his mouth finding hers in a searing kiss as he continued to take her apart.
Sensing he wouldnât last much longer, Bucky shifted slightly, his metal hand sneaking between their bodies. The coolness of vibranium against her overheated skin sent a jolt through her, and then his fingers found her clit. He circled it with slow, deliberate strokes, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips.
But he wasnât done. He pressed his index finger at her entrance, sliding it inside alongside his cock. The new stretch made her gasp again, her back arching against him.
âBucky!â she cried, her voice breaking on his name.
He froze for a fraction of a second, giving her time to adjust, before driving his finger in knuckle-deep. The motion coaxed a pleasured cry from her as he curled the digit, pressing into that spot deep inside that made her see stars.
His thumb resumed its work on her clit, circling in time with the thrust of his hips and the curling of his finger.
Her cries grew louder, each sound spurring him on. The dual sensation of his cock and his finger drove her higher, her body trembling beneath him as pleasure spiraled through her in an unrelenting wave.
âYouâre so perfect like this,â he muttered, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath hot and uneven as he continued to work her over. âFalling apart for me.â
Her nails dug into his shoulders, the only thing grounding her as she spiraled closer to the edge. The combination of his relentless thrusts, the pressure on her clit, and the maddening stretch inside her finally shattered her. She cried out, her entire body trembling as the climax ripped through her, pleasure blinding and all-consuming.
Bucky groaned deeply as he felt her tighten around him, her release dragging him over the edge. He withdrew his finger, his hand gripping her hip as he buried himself fully inside her with one final thrust, spilling his hot seed deep inside her. His breath came in heavy pants against her skin, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breathing and the faint patter of rain against the window. He shifted slightly, resting his forehead against hers while their bodies were still entwined.
She let out a soft, contented hum, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along his shoulder. âAgain, you call this being rusty?â she murmured, her lips curling into a smile, but before she could tease him further, his expression shifted, a flicker of self-doubt breaking through the earlier confidence.
He ran a hand through his hair, a faint blush creeping up his neck. âThat thing I did,â he started, his voice low, almost hesitant, âwith⊠yâknow, my fingerâŠâ He trailed off, his hand gesturing vaguely, the tension in his shoulders betraying his uncertainty. âWas that too much? Too⊠weird?â
Her lips parted in surprise, but then a small, warm smile curved them. âWeird? BuckyâŠâ She leaned in, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm. âIt wasnât too much. It was⊠creative.â She chuckled softly, her cheeks flushing at the memory. âUnexpected, yeah. But in the best way.â
His brow furrowed, still caught in his head. âI just didnât know if I⊠I mean, it felt right at the moment, but-â
She interrupted him with a light kiss, her hand sliding to cup his jaw. âIt was right,â she said firmly, her eyes locking onto his. âDonât overthink it. Just⊠trust me when I say you donât have anything to worry about.â
Her lips quirked into a teasing smile, the light tone of her voice breaking the intensity. âNow, if youâll excuse me, I have pointy things prickling at my ass.â
Bucky blinked, and then his eyes darted to the floor around them, suddenly remembering the scattered game pieces and cards beneath her. âShit,â he muttered, immediately shifting off her. âSorry, doll, hold on.â
He backed off her quickly, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes darted between the scattered cards and her flushed disheveled state.
âRelax. I was a little⊠preoccupied before to notice.â She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow.
Still, he bent to pick up every piece around her, muttering about âpointy plastic landmines.â When he finished, he straightened and extended a hand to her, pulling her gently to her feet.
âIâll make sure next time is on a battlefield thatâs⊠less hazardous,â he said, his lips quirking into a small, self-conscious smile.
âNext time, huh?â she teased, brushing her fingers lightly over his chest. âConfident now, are we?â
Buckyâs grin grew, a flicker of his earlier confidence returning. âI might be. If youâre not scared off by my⊠tactics.â
Her fingers continued to trail lightly along his chest, stopping just above his heart. âNot scared. Intrigued.â
Bucky bit his lip, his eyes darkening with a renewed spark as he slipped his hand around the back of her head. With a gentle yet insistent pull, he drew her closer, his lips capturing hers in a sensual kiss. Outside, the rain continued with its steady rhythm, soft and unrelenting, a distant soundtrack to the quiet intimacy they shared, where nothing else mattered but the heat of their kiss.
Dividers by: @strangergraphics
Just in case someone is interested, this is the song that inspired the story.
Warnings: fluff, Joelâs POV (first person)
Summary: As Joel watches you sleep beside him for the first time, he realizes just how deeply heâs come to crave something more than just fleeting moments together.
A/N: This one-shot has been sitting in my drafts for ages, and I could really use a bit of heartwarming fluff right nowâso I figured itâs the perfect time to share. I really hope itâll bring you some comfort, too. Can be read alone or within the fwb!Joel AU. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts! I love hearing from you! âĄ
Itâs been a while since anyoneâs slept in my bed with me.
Hell, itâs been a long time since I let anyone close enough to even get that far. But youâwell, you have a way of making everything feel different, even when you donât know it. Even when you donât mean to.
And tonight, after weeks of the same routine, of having you in my arms just for the space of a couple of hours and then watching you slip away again, you are still here.
Fast asleep in my bed.
I shift in the darkness, the mattress dipping just slightly beneath me as I turn onto my side to face you fully. The only light in the room comes from the full moon shining outside, its glow filtering through the slats of the blinds, casting faint lines of silver and shadow across your bare skin.Â
Youâre lying on your belly, one arm tucked under the one pillow in my bedâyeah, yeah, I knowâwhile the other rests loosely against the sheets. Your breathing is slow and steady, your chest rising and falling in a rhythm that is starting to soothe something deep inside me I didnât even realize was tense.
I canât sleep.
Not because Iâm not tiredâGod knows I amâbut because the idea of closing my eyes and missing even a second of this, of you being here, feels like something I canât bear.
Itâs strange. Iâm not used to feeling this way.
Most of the time, when weâve been together, Iâll lie awake for a bit after youâve left, letting the quiet of the house settle over me like a blanket, pretending I donât mind the loneliness creeping back in. Pretending I donât mind that you leave.
But tonight is different. Tonight, you stayed.
I didnât expect it, honestly. After the way the night had gone, with you laughing and dancing and a few too many Tequila shots, I figured youâd brush me off like you always would when we were doneâgive me that soft smile, kiss me one last time, and then slip out into the night before I could say anything to stop you.
But when I asked if you were alright, if you wanted me to call you a cab, you surprised me. You said no.
âI think I, uh, might have had just a liiiittle too much to drink,â you mumbled, half-laughing as you tried to sit up, only to sway slightly and grab onto my arm for balance. âMaybe I should justâŠstay here. If thatâs okay.â
Of course, it was okay. It was more than okay.
But the way you said it, so casual, like it wasnât a big deal, like it didnât send a rush of something sharp and warm straight to my chest, made me realize how much Iâd been hoping for this. Hoping for you to stay, to let me have this one night, where it wasnât just about theâalbeit fantasticâsex we had. Where it was about something more, even if we never put a name to it.
So, here we are.
You didnât say much after we settled in. Just curled up beneath the sheets, close enough that I can now feel the warmth of your body beside me, but not so close that it feels like youâre giving me more than youâre ready to. And thatâs fine. Iâll take whatever you are willing to give.
The truth is, Iâve been wanting this for a while now. Maybe even since the first time I took you home, if Iâm being honest with myself. Thereâs just something about you that has gotten under my skin from that very first time our eyes met, and no matter how much I try to keep things simple, I canât help the way I feel. The way you make me feel.
Youâre smart, funny, insanely gorgeous, and stubborn as hell sometimesâbut you have this vulnerability about you, too. Like youâre always holding back, keeping a part of yourself just out of reach, and for some reason, I want to be the one to reach it.
Tonight, thoughâŠtonight, I have you right here. No walls, no goodbye, no running off into the night. Just you, asleep beside me, looking so damn peaceful it makes my chest ache.
I shift a little closer, gently, just enough so that I can see your face better in the low light. I have the sudden urge to trace the contours of your face with my fingers, to put a soft kiss on your lips.
My hand twitches at my side, but I donât move. Donât want to risk waking you, even though part of me wants you to wake up, to look at me with those tired eyes and give me that sleepy smile that always makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, Iâm more than a temporary distraction to you.
I believe you when you say you like spending time with me. You make me feel it, too. When weâre together, youâre really here with me. But itâs just that, after every time, it ends. You always leave.
And Iâm left wondering when, or if, youâll come back to me.
I watch you for a long time. Longer than I should, probably. But I canât help it. Thereâs something about the way you look when youâre asleepâso soft, so unguardedâthat makes me feel like Iâm seeing a part of you you donât let anyone else see. Not even me.
I wonder what youâre dreaming about. If youâre thinking about anything at all, or if your mind is finally at peace, even for just a little while. I hope itâs the latter. Youâve had a stressful week you told me, and I hope youâre dreaming of something nice, something that makes you feel safe.
And I want to be that for you. I want to be the one who makes you feel safe. But I know better than to push my luck. You arenât ready, and Iâm not going to ask for more than you can or want to give.
Still, lying here beside you, feeling the warmth of your body so close to mine, I canât help but imagine what it would be like if things were different. If this wasnât just a one-time thing, but something we did every night. If you stayed, not because you were too drunk to leave, but because you wanted to.
Because you couldnât imagine being anywhere else.
I can picture it so easilyâwaking up with you next to me, your sleepy voice mumbling something incoherent as you stretch and blink the sleep from your eyes.
Iâd make you coffee, just the way you like it in the morning, and weâd sit at the kitchen table, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Maybe weâd bicker about something stupid, like which show to watch or who gets to choose the music while we cook dinner. And then, at the end of the day, weâd come back to thisâthis quiet, this closenessâand Iâd fall asleep knowing you are right here in my arms.
But thatâs not how things are.
I know that. Iâm not delusional. I know that whatever this is between us, it isnât something youâre ready to define. And maybe thatâs fine. Maybe I can be okay with that, at least for now.
But damn, itâs hard not to want more.
Not because I want to hold you back or limit the way you explore the world and discover yourselfâthatâs the last thing Iâd ever want for you. Youâre young and bright, and the worldâs wide open for you. Itâs because of youâthe way you make me feel when youâre with me. The way your smile lights up my world, the way you make everything feel like it matters.Â
The way you make me believe I could be the man you deserve.
You shift in your sleep, your body turning slightly toward me, and I freeze for a second, thinking youâre waking up. But you donât. You just let out a soft sigh, your hand twitching as it curls into the pillow, and then you settle again, your breathing evening out once more.
I let out a breath I didnât realize I was holding.
God, Iâve got it bad.
I canât remember the last time Iâve felt like this. The last time Iâve cared this much about someone, about something that wasnât already a part of my life. I was used to keeping things simple, keeping my world small. It was easier that way. Less messy, less tiring. But youâŠyou snuck in somehow, made a place for yourself without me even realizing it, and now that you are here, I donât want to let you go.
I wonât tell you that, though. Iâm not stupid. I know you arenât ready to hear it, and the last thing I want to do is overstep and scare you off. I can wait. I can be patient.
But that doesnât stop me from feeling it.
My eyes trace the curve of your cheek, the gentle slope of your lips, and my fingers itch to touch you. I know I shouldnât. I know this is already more than youâve given me before.
But Itâs hard. Itâs hard not to reach out and hold onto this moment, to hold onto you.
I let out a slow breath, trying to steady myself and my heartbeat, but my thoughts keep circling back to the same thing: What if this is the only time?
I reach out, finally letting my fingers brush lightly against your temple, tracing your soft skin, your cheek, your shoulder. You donât stir, donât even flinch, and for some reason, that makes my chest tighten even more. You trust me, even in your sleep. Trust me enough to let me be here with you, to see you like this, vulnerable and real.
And thatâŠthat means more to me than I could ever put into words.
I move closer, just enough so that our bodies are barely touching, and I let myself close my eyes for a moment, even though I know I wonât sleep. Not tonight. Not with you here, like this.
Instead, I just let myself feel it. The warmth of your skin, the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the steady beat of your heart just a few inches away from mine. Itâs a quiet kind of intimacy, one I havenât realized Iâve been missing for a long time.
Maybe tomorrow youâll wake up and slip away again, back to the way things always are between us. Maybe youâll put up your walls, tell yourself this didnât mean anything more than any other night. And maybe Iâll let you, because Iâm not ready to push for more, not yet.
For now, youâre here. Youâre here. And thatâs enough.
For now, thatâs enough.
I open my eyes again, letting them drift back to your face. Youâre still so peaceful, so soft in the moonlight, and I feel something swell in my chest that I havenât felt in years. Something big, something real.
I lean in, just a little, pressing the softest kiss to your warm forehead, barely more than a whisper of touch. You donât wake, donât even stir, but the simple act makes something settle deep inside me. Like this is right. Like this is how itâs supposed to be.
I could stay like this all night, just watching you, soaking in the quiet comfort of you beside me. And maybe I would, if I didnât feel the pull of sleep finally creeping up on me. My eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, and even though I try to fight it, I know I canât stay awake forever.
You keep me on my toes, but Iâm not thirty anymore.Â
So, with one last look at you, one last moment of quietly letting myself feel everything I havenât been ready to admit, I let my eyes close. My hand rests lightly against your waist, and I finally let sleep take me.
For the first time in a long time, I fall asleep feeling like Iâm not alone. Like I donât have to be. Like maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something more.
And that thoughtâyouâis the last thing on my mind before I drift off.