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i like editing & making things 23 | they/he !

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

marginalia

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: 5.6k

summary: what starts as an academic crush on your painfully observant professor becomes significantly harder to survive after spencer reid signs a piece of feedback with “I remain yours sincerely.” unfortunately, you make the deeply questionable decision to keep it tucked inside your phone case.

includes: no use of y/n, professor!spencer reid, student/teacher dynamic, mutual pining, slow burn, academic yearning, intellectual intimacy, awkward flirting, emotional repression, praise kink if you squint, small age gap, office hours tension, accidental confession, unresolved sexual tension, humiliation as a love language, reader is down catastrophic, hopeful ending

based on this request

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

[sassandscribbles]

Let me love you a moment more, It’s the last of it after all.

Pairing : Bucky barnes x Reader (Titanic au) Summary : Trapped in a cruel betrothal aboard the Titanic, you find unexpected freedom in the company of Sergeant Bucky Barnes—a charming stranger who sees the woman you truly are. In the span of a few stolen days, the stranger becomes your safe haven, your best friend, and the love of your life. But when tragedy strikes in the middle of the Atlantic, you must fight to hold onto each other—and the future you dared to imagine Word Count : 24k (This might as well be a book lol) Warnings : 18+ MDNI, angst with happy ending, hurt, comfort, more hurt, domestic violence, bruises, mentions of wounds, use of foul language, cheating (not on bucky), Smut, PinV, PWP, Tit play, Oral (f rec.), mentions of death, actual deaths, terrible fiancé, terrible mother, mentions of hypothermia, water, drowning, darkness, idk what else to put in the TW. But you get the point right? It's titanic au… A/N : Guys if this doesn't get notes, I'm gonna cry because this took four fucking months and a lot of tears and emotional devastation to write. This is not proofread coz I couldn't physically go through it again. So forgive me for any mistakes you find in there. Also huge shout out to my girls @singulartoast @phoenix-in-writing @venigrantrogers @buckybsdoll and @buckysdecaflove for hearing me yap endlessly about this fic for months. Without you all I would've gone insane writing this.

The cold air of the Atlantic bit at your skin as you stepped onto the deck.

It slipped beneath the thin fabric of your dress and wrapped around your bruised skin like icy fingers. The night air of the ocean was sharp enough to sting but you welcomed it. It was the first honest feeling you’d had all evening.

Inside, the music still floated faintly through the ship—laughter, clinking glasses, polished shoes gliding across marble floors. The grand world of the first class cabins glittered like something unreal.

Out here, the cold was real.

Your hand curled around the railing as you walked, the metal biting against your palm.

You didn’t even notice the ache in your ribs when you breathed too deeply. You were used to that kind of pain now. The dull throbbing beneath the silk sleeves. The fingerprints blooming purple and blue along your arms.

Your fingers traced your lips gently, You could feel the bruise forming. The makeup must have chipped away by now, the blue of it showing clearly in the glow of the ballroom lights.

The thought passes through your mind like a wave hitting the bow of the ship. You let it splatter away like water. Willing yourself not to care.

The man who adorned you with such grisly marks, didn’t care if it hurt. The mother who asked you to compromise, didn’t care if it stung. The friends who saw the evidence but remained silent, didn’t care if this was your life.

So why must you care?

There’s a burn behind your eyes. But the tears don’t fall. They refuse to, now. After all the times the tears fell, and went unnoticed, they have made their dejection known.

There’s an ache in your skull, that denies to make itself known. There’s a lump in your throat, that abstains the words from flowing out.

So you just stared wordlessly, into the darkness.

The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, black and restless beneath the moonlight. It looked peaceful from far away.

You climbed the railing slowly.

The metal was slick with frost as you lifted one foot up, gripping tightly with your numb fingers. The wind tugged at your hair, whipping strands across your face as the ship carved through the water beneath you.

For the first time in what felt like years, your chest filled with something close to relief. No expectations. No suffocating rooms. No dominating hands. No one watching you. Just the wind, the sea… and the quiet promise of freedom waiting below.

You balanced carefully on the railing, your toes gripping the narrow bar, dress fluttering wildly in the wind. The cold air burned in your lungs, but you leaned forward slightly, staring down at the dark water rushing past.

One step. A little courage. That was all it would take.

You could surrender yourself to the cold, to the waves below, to the loving embrace of mother nature, and put an end to your misery.

Your eyes closed themselves, body leaning forward before your mind caught up and alarmed you with the consequences. Just a little more. Just…..

“Careful there. The water must be cold at this hour.” The voice startled you. Body jolting in surprise as you gripped the railing harder for balance. You didn’t turn around to see who it was “Go away” your voice came out shaking.

The ocean roared beneath you.

“Ma'am” he tried again, softer this time, breath fogging in the cold “If you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in after you”

You turned around just enough to glare at the man. But the sight of him knocked the breath out of your lungs.

The man standing a few steps behind you looked entirely out of place against the dark ocean and freezing wind.

A soldier.

The sharp lines of a sergeant’s uniform caught the moonlight, the dark wool coat buttoned neatly despite the cold. The brass buttons glinted faintly, the insignia on his sleeve unmistakable even from where you stood. The wind tugged at his hair, a little longer than regulation perhaps, dark strands falling across his forehead.

He looked… warm. Kind. Real in a way the polished men in the dining hall never were. Your eyes drifted up before you could stop yourself and then they stopped.

His face. Strong jaw dusted with stubble, lips curved slightly like he already knew something you didn’t. But it was his eyes that held you—light in the moonlight, sharp and focused entirely on you. Watching you with a strange mixture of caution and curiosity.

You realized, dimly, that you had been staring at him for far too long. His mouth curved slowly to one side.

“Well now,” he said, voice warm and rough with a Brooklyn drawl softened by the wind. “That’s a first.”

You blinked. “What is?”

“Usually when a lady’s standing on the railing of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic,” he replied easily, taking one slow step closer, “she’s not lookin’ at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth interruptin’ the evening for.”

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal bar. “I wasn’t—”

“Because I gotta tell you,” he continued, strolling another step closer like the situation was nothing more serious than a late-night conversation, “I’ve had women look at me plenty of ways before. Annoyed. Amused. Once or twice impressed.”

His eyes flicked deliberately up and down your figure before settling back on your face again. “But that?” he said with a soft chuckle. “That’s a new one.”

“What do you mean?” Your brows furrowed

“The thoughtful look” He cleared “What's that about?” He leaned closer, like asking for a secret “What are you thinking?”

“None of your business” you attempted, but the bite in your voice was swallowed in the cold wind around you.

“Certainly not.” He agreed “But if I'm about to watch a young lady, and a very beautiful one at that, hurl herself into the cold waters of the Atlantic, Only to get mauled by the sharks and die of hypothermia, I guess it becomes some of my business”

“Who tells you I'm not getting mauled by sharks here.” You confessed, voice shaking, as your chest constricted at the agony you tried to swallow down.

His eyes softened, understanding rising beneath the concern. Its only then that he took in the the blue of your lips, the green on your arm, the slight limp in your foot.

He winced, the woman in front of him was the epitome of beauty to him by all means. Her skin glowing in the faint glimmers of moonlight.

Face bright but shadowed by something he recognised as torment. His heart gave a lurch. The only marks on the skin of a woman like this, should be of love. Of passion.

The only expression on her face should be of joy. Of glee. Not the raging dilemma of whether to suffer through or to end it.

“Well,” he tried slowly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t jump.”

You blinked at him, confused. “And if I do?”

He didn’t need time to consider that. He just shrugged, the answer clear as day in his head. “Well,” he said, “then I gotta jump in after you.”

Your brows drew together. “Why would you do that?”

He gestured vaguely toward the ocean. “Because if I stand here and watch a lady go over the side, someone’s gonna say Sergeant Barnes should’ve done something about it.”

You stared at him. “And that’s the only reason?”

He grinned slightly. “Well,” he admitted, “that and the fact I don’t much like the idea of you freezing to death down there.”

“I wasn't gonna jump” you lied. Still standing on the ship’ stern, gripping the railing for dear life, you lied. You didn't know why. Just something about him made you want to say that.

“That’s a relief,” he replied, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Here I was thinking I’d interrupted something important.”

His gaze drifted casually over the dark ocean below your feet. Black water surged alongside the ship, endless and merciless beneath the moonlight.

He let out a low whistle. “Hell of a view you've picked.” The waves roared past the hull, distant and cold and final.

Your stomach twisted. “It’s quiet,” you murmured.

“Quiet?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Lady, that water down there is about thirty degrees and meaner than a pack of alley cats,” he said. “Quiet ain’t the word I’d use.”

You glanced back at him. “Then what word would you use?”

He tilted his head, studying you more carefully now. “Cold,” he said. Another step closer. “Lonely.” The wind blew harder across the deck. “And permanent.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The wind whipped your dress around your legs as you tried very hard not to notice how close he was getting.

He was only a few feet away. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. The steady rise and fall of his chest as the cold air fogged his breath.

“You seem awfully calm about this,” you said.

“Oh I’m not calm,” he replied lightly.

“You’re not?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “I’m just buying time.”

You frowned. “For what?”

“For you to keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice turning teasing again, “instead of lookin’ down.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your head away from him feigning annoyance—And that was the moment he moved.

One strong arm shot forward, wrapping firmly around your waist. And before you could even gasp, he pulled you backward off the railing.

Your feet left the metal bar and suddenly you were stumbling against solid deck again, the world tilting as you crashed straight into him.

His other hand steadied your arm, holding you firmly against his chest until you regained your balance.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The wind rushed across the deck, louder now that your feet were firmly planted on it again. The ocean roared past the hull below, but it sounded farther away somehow—like it belonged to another world entirely.

Your hands were still clutching the front of his coat. You hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed him. The thick wool felt grounding beneath your fingers.

His arm was still around your waist, steadying you as though he didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t tip backward again the moment he let go.

Your breathing slowly began to calm. So did his.

When you finally looked up, you found him already looking down at you. The teasing expression he’d worn earlier had softened into something quieter now. Concern lingered in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything right away.

He just studied your face like he was trying to memorize it. Or trying to understand it.

The wind pushed a strand of your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and brushed it gently aside. The touch was so careful it startled you more than the sudden grab from before.

You weren't used to gentle touches after all. Of course you belonged from a rich family, a noble family. But money doesn't guarantee gentleness. Nor does it guarantee happiness.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, breaking the fragile silence.

You nodded after a moment. “Yes.” You confirmed.

But he didn’t let go just yet. Instead, his gaze drifted past you briefly to the railing you had been standing on moments earlier. The dark water rushed below it endlessly.

When his eyes returned to you, they were firmer. “Listen,” he said, voice low but serious now. “You don’t gotta tell me what put the idea in your head tonight.” The wind tugged at his coat as he spoke.

There was no teasing in his voice this time. No clever remarks. Just quiet certainty. “Just please don't do that again” he requested, as if you were something precious to him, that he was afraid of losing. “Don’t climb railings,” he added softly. “Don’t stand up there alone thinking nobody would notice if you disappeared.”

The words hung between you.

For a moment you didn’t know what to say. Not because it was true, it wasn't. People would notice your disappearance, just they wouldn't care. Your eyes dropped briefly to the brass buttons of his coat, still gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “Thank you,” you said finally.

“For what?” He blinked. Like he hadn’t just saved your life

“For pulling me down.” Your voice was soft but steady. “For not… letting me make the mistake.”

He studied you carefully, like he was weighing those words. “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment.

Silence settled again. Not the kind that was uncomfortable. But the kind that felt full.

He tilted his head slightly. Fingers coming up and brushing your lower lip. You winced at the sting that went through the blooming bruise. But even through the pain, you were surprised at the touch. It wasn't sexual in the slightest. Not demanding, not asking, not taking. Just feeling.

“Tell me what happened” he inquired, fingers still skimming against your lips.

You realized a second later that he isn't just talking about the bruise. Or about the railing. You feared he might have already connected the dots.

“What is it?” he insisted. His eyes shone with something similar to care.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat, eyes going glassy. “It’s nothing”

“Please—” he tried again but you shook your head. He didn’t need to know. He must not.

You had realized very quickly that the people around you were vultures. They would tear away at any one who tried to attack their reputation. And somewhere in the dark night and the cold waters, you had realized that this man, this stranger you’ve never met before would fight for your safety.

You had no idea how you knew. Just that you did. Just like you also knew that you'd protect him from those vultures at all costs. His eyes found yours again. waiting. Hoping. But the words that come out of your mouth are anything but.

“Thank you again.” you curtsied “If there’s anything I can do to return the favour, please—”

“Your name” he cut you off

“I’m sorry?”

His cheeks turned rosy as he answered. If it was due to the winter air, or something else, you didn’t let yourself think. “You can give me your name in return”

You hesitated. Part of you didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to tie this moment—this strange, unexpected kindness—to the world waiting for you inside. But something about the way he stood there… patient, but curious… made it difficult to walk away without saying anything at all.

You finally gave in. You told him your name. He repeated it quietly, almost testing the sound of it. A small smile appeared on his face, brightening it up even more than the moonlight in the dark night. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

You took a step back. Then another. The wind caught your dress again as you turned toward the doors leading inside. “Goodnight, Sergeant,” you said softly.

He straightened slightly. “You know my rank but not my name?”

You glanced back over your shoulder.A faint smile touched your lips. You almost didn't want to put a name on that face. Allowing yourself the only freedom you could by letting your imagination run wild. If you never see him again, you can call him whatever you wanted. In your dreams, he could be whoever you wanted. “I didn’t ask.” You whispered, smiling faintly.

Before he could answer, you stepped through the doors and disappeared into the warm glow of the ship’s interior.

Out on the deck, Sergeant Barnes stood there a moment longer, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Staring at the place where you had been. And wondering why he already hoped he’d see you again.

Warm air and music rushed over you the moment the doors closed behind you.

The ballroom glittered just as it had before you slipped outside—crystal chandeliers dripping light over polished floors, the orchestra swelling into another lively tune, couples gliding past in perfect circles. Laughter carried across the room, glasses clinked, silk and satin shimmered under the lamps.

It looked untouched by the cold night outside. Untouched by the ocean. Untouched by the moment that had almost happened.

You paused just inside the doorway, the warmth rushing painfully back into your skin. Your fingers still trembled faintly from the cold—and from the memory of steady hands pulling you back from the railing.

For a brief second, you considered turning around. Going back out. But before you could take another step— A hand seized your arm. Hard.

Your breath caught sharply as you were yanked sideways into the shadow of a tall pillar near the edge of the ballroom.

“Where have you been?” John Walker’s voice was low and sharp enough to cut through the music.

You froze.

He stood far too close, towering over you in his immaculate dinner jacket and overpowering cologne. Everything about him looked polished—the pressed lines of his suit jacket, the perfect knot of his tie, the slicked-back hair.

Except for the anger burning in his eyes. His fingers tightened around your arm. Pain shot up your shoulder. “I—” you began quietly. “I was just—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. The word came out through clenched teeth. His grip tightened again, nails digging through the thin fabric of your sleeve until you had to bite down on a small gasp.

“I turned around for one minute,” he said, leaning closer so no one else in the room could hear him, “and my fiancée had vanished. Do you have any idea how that looks?”

“I only stepped out for some air,” you said quickly, your voice small despite your effort to sound calm. “It was warm inside and I—”

“For air?” he repeated sharply. His eyes swept over your face with sudden irritation. Then they narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

Your stomach dropped.

His hand released your arm only to grab your chin, turning your face toward the nearest light. The bruise. The one blooming faintly along your lower lip, barely concealed beneath powder that had smudged in the cold wind outside. Your heart began to pound.

“You couldn’t even manage to cover it properly?” he hissed.

“I tried,” you whispered. “The cold outside must have—”

“You tried?” he scoffed.

His grip on your chin tightened painfully. “You walked into a ballroom full of people looking like this.”

Your gaze dropped immediately to the floor. Not by choice. By habit. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix my reputation,” he snapped.

A couple drifted past nearby, laughing together as they crossed the dance floor. No one looked your way. No one noticed the way his fingers dug into your arm again when he released your face.

“Do you have any idea what people will say if they see that?” he went on coldly. “What they’ll assume about me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s the problem,” he interrupted. “You never mean anything. You just do whatever foolish thing comes into your head without thinking how it reflects on your fiancé.”

His hand clamped firmly around your jaw again. Harder this time. “John,” you said quietly, trying not to wince. “You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he muttered. “You need to be punished for your foolishness”

And then he started pulling you through the crowd. You stumbled slightly as he dragged you along, trying to keep pace with his long strides. “John, please—” you murmured urgently. “People are watching.”

“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” he said bitterly.

The ballroom blurred past in glittering lights and music as he hauled you toward the grand staircase leading to the private cabins. “I was only outside for a moment,” you said again quickly, your voice shaking now. “I just needed some air.”

“Oh I’m sure you did,” he replied coldly. You almost tripped when he jerked your arm again.

“Walking around a ship alone in the middle of the night with your face looking like that,” he continued, his voice low with contempt. “Do you have any idea what conclusions people might draw?”

“I wasn’t speaking to anyone,” you said quickly.

He stopped abruptly at the base of the staircase. Turning to face you. His eyes were sharp and searching. “No?” he asked.

Your heart pounded. “No,” you whispered.

He studied your face for another long moment. Then his hand tightened again around your arm.

“Good,” he said flatly. And without another word, he dragged you up the staircase toward your cabin.

All the while you kept your head lowered. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the quiet man standing on the freezing deck outside—The one who had held you carefully. The one who had asked gently. The one who had said please like you mattered. So very different from the man now pulling you painfully down the corridor.

The music from the ballroom barely reached this far down the hall, softened into a distant murmur behind thick walls and polished doors. The carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps, leaving only the faint rustle of clothing and the tightening grip of John Walker’s hand around your arm.

You tried to keep pace with him. You really did. But his strides were longer, faster, fueled by anger that made his grip harsher with every step.“John—please,” you whispered once more. “You’re hurting—”

He stopped abruptly. The sudden halt made you stumble straight into him. Before you could regain your balance, he shoved the cabin door open and dragged you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cabin was dimly lit by a single lamp on the bedside table, its warm glow illuminating polished wood furniture and neatly arranged luggage.

The bedspread remained untouched, perfectly smooth, like the room itself had been waiting patiently for your return.

John finally released your arm. But only so he could pace away a few steps.

You stood where he had left you, hands clasped tightly together in front of you to stop them from shaking.

Your arm throbbed where he had gripped it. “Do you have any idea,” he began slowly, his voice tight with restrained fury, “how humiliating it is to stand in a room full of men who are watching my fiancée wander around looking like that?”

You swallowed. “I didn’t wander—”

“You disappeared.” The word cracked through the room.

“I stepped outside for a moment,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I told you it was warm in there and I just needed—”

“You needed, what!” he snapped. He let out a short, bitter laugh. You needed to parade that bruise around where people could see it?”

“If it bothers you so much, you shouldn't have put it on me in the first place” words tumbled out of you before you could stop them, your brain to mouth filter malfunctioning.

John whipped around. Eyes dark with fury, and regret washed over you like an ice cold bucket of water. His hand came around the back of your neck. Gripping tight enough that you could hear his knuckles crack.

“What did you just say to me?” He hissed through gritted teeth. He reeked of alcohol, making you grimace.

You tried to draw your face back, fighting against the grip. “John, please—” you tried again and his hand loosened slightly, before tightening again.

“I told you,” he snapped sharply, “to stop talking back.” The room seemed to shrink around you. Your hands trembled violently at your sides.

“I’m not talking back,” you said, your voice thinner now but still there. “I’m just saying it isn’t fair that you blame me when you’re the one who—”

“You don’t get to tell me what’s fair.” His voice rose suddenly, sharp and dangerous.

Before he drew his hand back, only to swing it down harder as it met your cheek with a sharp crack. The force caught you completely off guard.

You stumbled backward, your heel catching on the rug as the world tilted violently. Your shoulder slammed into the edge of the small wooden table beside the door before the back of your head struck it.

Pain exploded behind your eyes. You cried out softly as your body collapsed to the floor. The table lurched with the impact. The porcelain vase sitting on top of it crashed down beside you. It shattered against the floor with a sharp crack. Fragments scattered across the carpet and polished wood.

You barely had time to lift your hands before one of the larger shards sliced across your palm. A sharp sting followed by warmth. Your breath hitched. For a moment the room spun around you, the dull ache in your head pulsing with every heartbeat.

You stared down at your hand. A thin line of red welled across your skin where the broken porcelain had caught you. Across the room, John stood frozen. His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared at the scene in front of him—the broken vase, the overturned table, you sitting on the floor clutching your hand.

“You see?” he said finally, his voice tight with irritation rather than concern. “You can’t even have a simple conversation without turning it into a disaster.”

You looked up at him, stunned. Your head throbbed where it had struck the table. Blood slowly slid down your fingers.“For Fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Now look at this mess.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your injured hand, but his expression remained cold. “You should remember your place.”

Your throat tightened painfully. Slowly, you pulled your hand closer to your chest, trying to stop the bleeding with the fabric of your sleeve. Your vision blurred slightly—not just from the pain in your head. But from the agony in your heart.

You whimpered, trying to hold the sobs in. Trying not to break down in tears in front of the man who would rather worry about his expensive carpet getting stained from your blood than the anguish he had caused you.

He scoffed at the noise, turning around and storming out of the room like you weren't worth wasting another moment on. The door shut behind him with a firm, irritated click.

His footsteps faded down the corridor a moment later. And then the cabin fell completely silent.

You stayed where you had fallen.

For a long moment you didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even try to stand. The soft lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow across the room, catching on the shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like tiny pieces of moonlight.

Your head still throbbed where it had struck the table. When you touched the back of your hair carefully, your fingers came away trembling. Your other hand hurt worse. Blood had begun to drip slowly along your wrist, thin red lines slipping between your fingers where the broken vase had cut your palm.

You pressed your sleeve tighter around it. The sting pulsed steadily. But the pain barely reached you. Instead, your mind drifted somewhere else entirely.

Cold wind. Dark ocean. A steady voice saying Don’t move. You could still feel the warmth of strong arms pulling you safely off the railing. Still hear the quiet firmness when he had said, Don’t do that again.

You stared at the floor. For the first time that night, tears blurred your vision, before a soft knock sounded at the door. You quickly wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist before you could think about it.

The door opened slowly. Your mother stepped inside. She paused immediately when she saw you on the floor. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed. Her heels crossed the carpet quickly as she hurried toward you. “What happened?”

She crouched beside you, carefully lifting your injured hand. “Oh dear,” she murmured when she saw the cut. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” you said quietly.

But she was already rising, moving quickly to the washstand. “I told you to be careful,” she called gently over her shoulder as she fetched a clean cloth and the small tin of antiseptic she always carried while traveling.

You said nothing.

She returned and helped you sit up properly, brushing broken porcelain aside before guiding you to rest against the edge of the bed. “There now,” she said softly, dabbing the cloth against your palm.

The sting made you flinch slightly. “You must be more careful around these things.” Her voice remained calm, practical. As if this were simply another small accident.

You watched her hands as she worked. Precise. Efficient. The way she had done countless times before. “What happened?” she asked again, though her tone suggested she already knew.

“The vase fell,” you murmured. She glanced briefly toward the shattered pieces across the floor. Then back to your face. You saw disappointment flash across the eyes of the woman that had birthed you.

Her gaze lingered for a moment on the bruise along your lips. A small sigh escaped her. “I told you to cover that better before going downstairs.”

Your fingers curled slightly. “The powder came off outside,” you said quietly.

“Outside?” she repeated.

“I stepped out for air.”

She clicked her tongue softly in disapproval. “You shouldn’t wander around alone like that,” she said. “Especially when your fiancé is entertaining important guests.”

You stayed silent. She wrapped a bandage carefully around your palm. “You must try harder to avoid upsetting him,” she continued gently. “Men like John carry a great deal of pressure.”

Her voice remained patient, almost soothing. But you knew better. “They have expectations placed upon them. Responsibilities.” The cloth tightened around your hand. “And when his fiancée contradicts them or embarrasses them publicly…” she added, tying the knot neatly. Her gaze lifted to yours again. “You must understand how that reflects on him.”

You already knew what she was going to say next. You had heard it before. So many times. “Marriage requires compromise,” she repeated softly. “Adjustment.” Your eyes drifted toward the floor again.

“You’re very fortunate,” she continued. “John is well respected. Successful. A man with a promising future.” Her hand rested lightly on your arm. “You must try not to provoke him.”

The words slid over you like a familiar script. You didn’t argue. Didn’t correct her. Didn’t mention the slap. Or the bruise. Or the way your head still ached from striking the table. You knew she didn't care.

Instead, your thoughts drifted again to the freezing deck outside. To a man in a sergeant’s uniform who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had looked at you with concern instead of irritation. Who had said please.

You could still see the faint scar along his jaw. Still hear the warmth in his voice. Still remember the way he had repeated your name quietly, like it was something worth remembering.

Your mother finished tying the bandage. “There,” she said gently. “All fixed.”

You nodded faintly. But your mind was far away. Back in the cold night air. Back at the railing. Back with the soldier who had pulled you back from the edge. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet thought formed before you could stop it.

What might life have been… …if Sergeant Barnes had been the one waiting for you behind this door instead?

The night was dark out side the cabin. The ship had grown quieter.

Most of the laughter and music had faded into distant murmurs somewhere deep inside the great floating palace. The corridors outside the cabins were dim now, the lamps turned low as passengers retired for the night.

But sleep would not come to you. Not with your head still aching faintly. Not with your hand wrapped in fresh bandages. Not with your mother’s soft, practiced words still echoing in your ears. Marriage requires compromise. You must try not to provoke him. Not with John sleeping peacefully beside you like nothing ever happened.

You laid in bed for nearly an hour staring at the ceiling before finally giving up. Carefully, quietly, you slipped from the room. The corridor was empty. No one stopped you as you made your way up the staircase again, your steps light against the carpet.

Your heart pounded faster the closer you got to the deck. You weren’t entirely sure why. You told yourself it was the air. The cold that had felt good earlier. Honest.

But somewhere deep down, another hope stirred quietly beneath the surface. A ridiculous one. One that had no business igniting you like this. You pushed the door open. The wind greeted you again immediately, colder now that the night had deepened. The vast ocean stretched endlessly under the moon, silver waves rolling against the ship’s hull.

You stepped out slowly. And then you saw him. He sat on a floor near the railing, leaning back with one arm stretched along the hardwood floor, the other resting loosely against his knee.

His coat collar was turned up against the cold, his dark hair ruffled by the wind as he looked out across the water. Or rather— Up at the sky. The stars stretched a vast curtain of shimmering crystals above the ship.

For a moment you simply stood there watching him. Then the deck creaked softly under your step. His head turned. Those same sharp eyes found you almost immediately.

For a second he just stared. Before a slow grin spread across his face. “Well now,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Look who it is.”

You felt warmth rise unexpectedly to your cheeks despite the cold air. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with amused curiosity. If he saw the handprint on your cheek, he didn't mention it.

“Don’t tell me,” he continued, standing and brushing invisible dust from his coat. “You changed your mind again.”

You blinked. “About what?”

He nodded casually toward the railing. “The dramatic exit.”

Your lips parted and before you could stop yourself a laugh escaped you. The sound surprising to you in all it's honesty. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”

He placed a hand over his heart with exaggerated relief. “Well that’s good news,” he said. “I didn’t feel like swimming again.”

You walked a little closer. “Again?” you asked.

“Well if you’d jumped earlier, I would’ve had to,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You’re very sure of that.”

“Oh absolutely.” He gestured to himself with mock seriousness. “Heroic instincts.”

Your smile grew before you could stop it. “I see.”

He looked pleased with himself. But his gaze softened slightly. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

His eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to believe that. But he didn’t push. Instead he leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. “So,” he said casually. “What brings you back out here if it’s not the ocean calling your name?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “I suppose I was hoping to see the stars.” You said, gazing into his eyes like they held all the constellations you wished to see.

He glanced up at the sky. Then back at you. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I told myself I was doing.”

You raised a brow. “And what were you actually doing?”

He grinned. “Waiting to see if the mysterious lady from earlier came back.”

Your breath caught slightly. “You were not.” You huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

“Was too.”

You tried to look unimpressed but the hopeful look on his face made you fail miserably. “And what if I hadn’t?”

He shrugged. “Then I’d have sat here looking at the ocean pretending I wasn’t disappointed.”

That made you laugh again. Softly this time. He noticed, grin widening. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “She smiles.”

“Of course I smile.” You countered.

“Didn’t see it earlier.”

“That’s because you were too busy insulting my life choices.”

“Try, saving your life,” he corrected.

“Debatable.” You teased

He leaned closer slightly. “Oh I don’t think so.”

The wind shifted again, brushing your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand gently behind your ear again. The same quiet motion as before. Your breath caught.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You were standing closer now. Close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Close enough that the warmth from his coat reached you in the cold air.

“So,” he said softly.

“So?”

“You got a name,” he reminded you. “Feels a little unfair that I’m still just ‘Sergeant.’”

You smiled faintly, teasing slightly. “You never told me.” You said even though yku were the one who never asked in the first place.

“Well that seems like an oversight.” He straightened slightly. “James Barnes,” he said.

Then he added with a crooked grin— “But most people call me Bucky.”

You repeated it quietly. “Bucky.” The way you said it made something flicker across his face.

“And you,” he said, leaning a little closer again, “are still the most mysterious passenger on this ship.”

You tilted your head. “Is that so?”

“Oh absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you appear on a railing in the middle of the night, nearly give me a heart attack, disappear without explanation… then come back smiling like none of it happened.” He leaned slightly closer still. “I’d say that qualifies.”

Your heart fluttered strangely. “You’re very dramatic.”

“Only when necessary.”

The two of you stood there quietly for a moment. The ocean rolled endlessly beside the ship. The stars burned above.

You crossed the deck to lean against the railing. Settling beside him, wordlessly. Letting the moment settle softly around you. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt light. Almost giddy. Excited.

And somewhere inside, a quiet voice whispered that this moment—this strange, unexpected night under the stars—might be the beginning of something you had never dared imagine before.

For a while neither of you said anything.

You stood beside him at the railing, the cold wind brushing past you both while the great ship pushed steadily through the dark water. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, brighter than you had ever seen them from land.

Bucky leaned his elbows against the rail, looking out across the ocean. You followed his gaze. For once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt… easy. Like something that belonged there.

He turned around to face you, eyes drifting down, pausing on your hand. The bandage was wrapped clumsily around your palm. It was impossible to miss in the pale moonlight. His brow knit slightly. “Hey,” he said gently, making you look up. “What happened there?”

You glanced down at your hand as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” you murmured.

He waited. The wind tugged softly at your hair again. “It’s nothing,” you said after a moment. “Just a vase that decided it didn’t like gravity very much.” His eyes flicked back to yours.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Uh huh.”

He didn’t say anything else right away. But something in his expression changed—something quieter, more thoughtful. Like he understood that the sentence you’d given him wasn’t really the whole story.

You felt his gaze linger on your hand a moment longer. “Vases can be real dangerous like that,” he said lightly, but there was no humour in it.

“I can't really do anything about them” the words tumbles put of you before you could stop them.

“Then maybe you should let someone do it for you” his eyes never left yours as he spoke. Earnest. Willing. The honesty, too much for you. You turned away, willing your eyes to look at the stars and not at him.

The irony wasn't lost on you. “You can't really do much about the vases” you retorted

“Well, you can always throw them away” he shook his head slightly, hair moving with the wind.

“It's not so easy when you're attached to such vases” you looked away, the kindness in his eyes making your voice shake.

The wind shifted again, colder this time. You rubbed your arms slightly without realizing it. Bucky noticed immediately. “C’mere,” he said softly. Before you could protest, he guided you toward the bench he’d been sitting on earlier.

You hesitated only a second before sitting beside him. The wood was cool beneath you. For a moment you both stared out at the ocean again. Then, slowly, carefully— His arm slipped around your shoulders. Not forceful. Not claiming. Just… there. Warm.

You leaned into him before your mind had time to argue. The movement felt strangely natural. Your head rested lightly against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. For several quiet minutes neither of you spoke.

The ship hummed beneath you. The waves rolled endlessly beside it. His hand rested loosely against your arm. Then it shifted slightly. His fingers brushed the back of your head. The exact spot where it had struck the table earlier.

Pain flared sharply. You winced before you could stop yourself. He froze. “Whoa,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “What was that?”

You tried to wave it off. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That didn’t look like nothing.”

You gave a small shrug. “Just a table that didn’t like gravity very much.”

For a second he just stared at you. Then realization flickered across his face. The wind ruffled his hair again. His voice softened slightly. “You hit your head pretty hard?”

You shrugged again. “Tables can be unpredictable.”

“Your furniture doesn't seem to like you very much” His face was grim when he said it. The expression telling you that he wasn't just talking about the furniture.

You tore your gaze away.

Because it really was as simple as that. You don't hurt the person you love. And if John thought hurting you was his right, that it's not love.

“Can't really do anything about it” you said, still looking at the stars.

He sighed letting it go. He must've seen the ache behind your eyes. Must've realised this was the very thing you were trying to escape.

So he dropped it, letting the conversation drift somewhere else. Slowly. Naturally. You talked about the ocean first. About how endless it felt. Then about the stars. Bucky pointed out a few constellations he remembered from nights spent camping as a boy.

You admitted you’d never really looked at them before. “You’ve never just… sat somewhere and watched the sky?” he asked.

You shook your head faintly. “There was always somewhere I was supposed to be.”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “That sounds exhausting.”

You smiled slightly. “It is.”

He told you about Brooklyn. Small streets and crowded apartments and summer nights sitting on rooftops with friends. You listened quietly. It sounded like another world entirely.

“What about you?” he asked eventually.

“What about me?”

“What did you want to do?” he said. “Before all this.”

You hesitated. No one had asked you that question in a very long time. “I used to want to travel,” you admitted softly.His brow lifted.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to see cities,” you continued slowly, the words feeling strange on your tongue. “Different countries. Learn languages.”

His smile was warm. “Sounds like a pretty good plan.”

You looked down at your bandaged hand. “That was a long time ago.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders.“Plans don’t always stay buried forever,” he said quietly. The words lingered in the cold night air. You leaned into him again, your head resting against his shoulder.

For the first time in a long while— You let yourself imagine things. Dreams. Places. A life that felt different from the one waiting behind your cabin door. And beside you, Bucky Barnes kept talking softly under the stars—About everything. About nothing.

As if the two of you had known each other far longer than a single night on the deck of a ship crossing the Atlantic. Bucky leaned back against the bench, one arm still loosely around your shoulders. His coat was warm where you rested against him, the steady rhythm of his breathing quiet and calm beside you.

Then he glanced down at you. “So,” he said.

You looked up slightly. “So?”

“You told me about wanting to travel.”

You nodded. He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight.He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight. “What else?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said simply, “what else do you want?”

You stared at him for a moment. No one had ever asked it that way before. Not like it mattered. Not like the answer might actually interest them. “You mean… in life?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said easily, smiling a little. “In life.”

You let out a small breath, unsure whether he was teasing you again. But when you looked up at him, his expression wasn’t playful. He was genuinely waiting. Curious.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

“Sure I do.”

Your fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of the bandage on your hand. “Well… I suppose I always thought I’d live somewhere near the water,” you said slowly. “Not on a ship exactly but… somewhere you could hear the waves if you opened the window.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Good choice.”

“And I’d like a small house,” you continued, the words beginning to come easier. “Not very grand. Just comfortable.”

You paused. “Maybe with a garden.” His mouth curved slightly.

Your voice grew softer as the images formed more clearly in your mind. “There’d be a porch,” you added. “With a swing.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “So you could sit out there in the evenings.”

“And watch the sunset?” he guessed.

“Exactly.” You turned to look at him, eyes earnest as you talked animatedly about your dreams for the first time ever.

He looked pleased with himself. “See? I’m good at this.” You laughed quietly. The sound felt lighter this time. More natural.

“And children,” you added after a moment, surprising yourself. His brows lifted slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve always wanted children.”

“How many?”

You thought about it. “Four.”

He chuckled softly.“Four?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ambitious.”

You nudged his arm slightly. “I think it’s the perfect number.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t argue.”

You smiled again. “I’ve even thought of names.”

“Of course you have.”

You tilted your head, resting it on ypur palm as you spoke. “I always thought I'd name one of them James”

“Yeah? you like that name?” There was a slight smirk playing on his lips when your eyes found him again.

“I really do”

“Well what if your husband has the same name” he pretended to think, as if he was trying to find a solution for a problem that didn't even exist yet.

“Well I guess I'd have to find one who goes by his middle name then” you teased back.

“I guess you do” he winked making you laugh.

It was so easy with him. No practised smiles that were meant to appease important people. No ‘Don't laugh to loud’ and ‘Don't smile too wide’ comments from your mother or john every once in a while, when a real smile threatened to outgrow the fake ones.

Here the moment belonged to you and only you. No shouting voices telling you to stay in your limits. No whispered advices asking you to compromise. Just you under the stars with a man who listened like every word mattered

You kept talking. About books you loved. About the places you’d dreamed of seeing. Paris. Italy. Little towns along the coast where you imagined walking narrow streets and buying fresh bread in the mornings.

You told him how you loved music, though you’d never been allowed to learn an instrument properly. How you liked drawing when you were younger. How you always thought autumn was the prettiest season.

The words poured out of you before you even realized it was happening. Like something that had been locked away for years suddenly found an open door.

And strangely, none of the stories involved the life waiting behind your cabin door. You didn’t mention your fiancée. Or your mother. Or the expectations that had always surrounded you like invisible walls.

For once, the life you described felt entirely your own. Just yours. Just for this night. Eventually you paused, suddenly aware of how much you had said. You glanced up at him nervously. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

Bucky was quiet for a second. Then he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly.

His arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders again. “I think it’s the most beautiful conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

You looked at him. The moonlight catching the faint scar along his jaw. The quiet warmth in his eyes. And for the first time in your life, the dreams you had just spoken aloud didn’t feel foolish anymore. They felt possible. At least here. On this quiet stretch of deck. In the arms of a man who had asked simply because he wanted to know.

You stood on the front of your mirror dabbing compact powder on your skin with careless concern. Your mind was too preoccupied to care if the application was even.

The applicator kept hitting the same dip of your cheekbones again and again as you let yourself be lost in the thoughts of the night before.

Thoughts of the man who held you like you were precious. Of how much you talked and still had words left inside you. Of the animated look in his eyes when he told you about brooklyn and Steve. You felt yourself wanting to meet his friends. To see his life and to be a part of it.

“You ready?” John's rough voice cut through your thoughts like knife through silk.

You turned around, adjusting your gown and checking the makeup before nodding. He took your hand without a care to compliment you on your looks or even checking his grip to not hurt your ring clad fingers.

When you reached the main ballroom, it glittered more brightly than the evening before.

Every chandelier blazed with light, scattering gold across polished floors and crystal glasses. Music poured out in practised symphony from the orchestra, elegant and precise, while laughter drifted between carefully measured conversations.

You stood beside John, dressed exactly as expected. Silk draped perfectly. Hair pinned without a strand out of place. Makeup carefully applied—this time thick enough to hide every trace of yesterday.

From the outside, you were flawless. From the inside, Your chest ached.

“…a remarkable opportunity,” one of the men was saying, his voice rich with importance. “The expansion alone could double returns within the year.”

John nodded, fully engaged, his posture straight and confident. “Exactly my thinking,” he replied smoothly. “It’s simply a matter of timing.”

You stood at his side, quiet, poised, offering the occasional polite smile when expected. But your mind wasn’t in the room. It was somewhere else entirely. Cold air. Endless stars. A quiet voice asking, What else do you want? Your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of your glass.

The morning had arrived way too quickly for your liking and you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him ever since you left. There was a charm about him that you never could find in the men that belonged to nobility. There was an ease about being with him. About the way he listened. The way he made space for you in a world that had never done that before.

“…don’t you agree?” one of the men suddenly asked, turning toward you.

You blinked. “I—yes,” you said softly, though you hadn’t heard a word.

John’s hand brushed lightly against your back. A silent warning to pay attention. You straightened slightly. “I think it sounds… promising,” you added carefully.

The men nodded, satisfied enough. The conversation moved on. You exhaled quietly.

And that was when you saw him. At first, it didn’t make sense. A server moving through the room with a tray of drinks. Perfectly ordinary. Except—your breath caught—It was him.

Bucky.

Dressed in a waiter’s uniform that didn’t quite fit him right—too tight across the shoulders, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly neater than the night before, but no less unruly under the ballroom lights.

And his eyes, they found you immediately. A slow, familiar grin tugging at his lips. Your heart nearly stopped. What is he doing here? Panic flickered through you. If anyone noticed— If John noticed—

You forced yourself to look away quickly. But it was too late. You could feel it. That pull. That awareness of him moving through the room, closer, weaving between guests like he belonged there.

You swallowed hard.

“I’ll just—excuse me,” you murmured suddenly, stepping back from the group before anyone could question it.

John barely glanced at you, too absorbed in conversation. Relief rushed through you. You moved quickly. Carefully. Trying desperately to not draw attention.

Until you caught sight of him slipping through a side archway near the edge of the ballroom. Without thinking, you followed. The corridor beyond was dimmer, quieter, the music softening behind heavy curtains. You turned the corner—And nearly ran straight into him.

“Careful, doll,” Bucky murmured, catching your arm to steady you. Your eyes widened, both at the nickname and at the way he looked in front of you.

Skin slightly flushed and lips curved upwards into a grin. You told yourself that none of the views you've seen so far travelling around the world could top this one. It will always be the favourite to your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered urgently.

He looked entirely unbothered. “Well,” he said casually, shifting the tray onto one hand, “I was in the neighborhood.”

“This is not funny,” you hissed, glancing nervously back toward the ballroom. “You can’t be here.”

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Funny,” he said, “I seem to be here just fine.”

“Bucky—”

“James, when I’m working,” he corrected with a crooked grin.

You stared at him. “This is serious.”

“I know,” he said lightly. “That’s why I dressed for the occasion.”

You glanced down at the uniform. “This is not dressing for the occasion, this is—this is sneaking into a first-class ballroom!”

“Technically,” he said, “I walked right through the front.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead. “You’re going to get caught.”

“Not if I’m charming enough.”

“This isn’t one of your games!” Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Then his expression softened slightly. “I just wanted to see you,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than they should have. Your breath faltered. “You shouldn’t have—” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

He shrugged lightly, though his eyes stayed on yours. “Didn’t feel right not to.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice further. “If someone sees you—if they recognize you don’t belong—”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I got a pretty good track record so far.”

You grabbed his sleeve suddenly, pulling him slightly deeper into the shadowed corner. “You need to leave,” you said, your voice urgent now. “Right now.”

He looked down at your hand gripping him. Then back at your face. “Or what?” he asked softly.

“Or you’ll get in trouble.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Bucky,” you insisted, your voice trembling now, “I’m serious.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You’re worried about me.”

“Of course I am!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then his grin returned—softer this time, but unmistakably there. “Well,” he said quietly, leaning just a little closer, “that makes sneaking in here worth it.”

You stared at him, half exasperated, half… something else entirely. “You are impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile.

“This isn’t funny,” you repeated, though your voice had lost some of its edge. “You need to go before someone—” Footsteps echoed faintly from the ballroom. Your grip on his sleeve tightened. “Please,” you whispered.

This time, he heard it. Really heard it. The worry behind your trembling voice. The concern behind your eyes.

His expression shifted. The teasing faded just enough. “Alright,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on you for one more second.

“You look…” he started, then stopped himself, a faint smirk returning. “Different,” he finished.

You exhaled shakily. “That’s because I’m supposed to.”

He shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “Not that.” His voice softened. “You look like you don’t belong in there.”

Your heart stuttered but before you could respond, voices grew closer. He straightened quickly. “Guess that’s my cue,” he murmured.

You nodded, stepping back. But your eyes stayed on him. “Go,” you whispered.

He took a few steps back before thinking better of it, surging forward and pulling you into his chest. And despite being startled at the suddenness of the hug, your body melted into him all the same.

When he pulled away, you felt him pushing something into the palm of your hand—a note—before he turned, making his way towards the door.

He gave you one last look over his shoulder then turned, disappearing smoothly down the corridor with the ease of someone who had always known how to slip through places he wasn’t meant to be.

You stood there for a moment longer. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Before forcing yourself to return to the ballroom. Back to the lights. The music.

The music swallowed you again. Bright and loud. You slipped back into your place beside John as if nothing had happened, your posture perfect, your expression composed.

But your hand remained closed. Tight. Careful.

It took several long minutes before you found a moment to yourself—just enough to turn slightly away from the crowd, just enough to unfold the small piece of paper hidden in your palm.

Your eyes flicked down quickly. Third class dance room. In case this gets too dull. I’ll make sure you’re entertained proper.

His handwriting was slightly messy. Like his fingers were shaking when he wrote it. It almost seemed like a weak attempt at fine cursive but charming nonetheless.

Your breath caught. You folded the note quickly, hiding it again. Your heart was racing now. You glanced across the room instinctively.

He was nowhere to be seen. Of course he wasn’t. He had already gone. You'd asked him to. Even though you wished anything but that.

The room suddenly felt even more suffocating than it had before. Because now, you knew what it felt like to breathe. The note stayed hidden in your glove.

You didn’t dare read it again. You didn’t need to. The words had already carved themselves into your mind. Third class dance room. In case this gets too dull. You stood where you were meant to stand. Beside John. Perfectly composed. Perfectly still.

The ballroom shimmered around you—light catching on glass and silk, music rising and falling in careful rhythm. Everything was exactly as it should be.

And yet—Your fingers kept brushing against the folded paper tucked inside your glove. A quiet reminder. A possibility. You forced yourself to focus. To stay. To be sensible. This was your life. This was what was expected of you. You could not simply… walk away from it.

“…and of course, discretion is everything,” one of the men was saying.

John nodded, engaged, confident. “Naturally.”

You shifted your weight slightly, your shoes beginning to ache. No one noticed. No one ever did. You told yourself again— You’re not going. This is foolish. You will stay right here.

John’s hand came to rest lightly on your arm. At first, it looked like nothing..A casual gesture. Possessive, but acceptable. Then his fingers tightened. Not enough for anyone else to notice but enough for you to feel it.

You stiffened slightly. “Smile,” he snarled under his breath, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You look miserable.” You forced your lips to curve into the fakes smile imaginable. “There,” he said. “Better.”

The conversation around you continued. Numbers. Names. Opportunities. You barely heard any of it. His grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, his thumb pressed deliberately into the inside of your arm, right where the bruise from earlier still ached beneath your sleeve. A sharp sting shot through you making your breath hitched.

John’s smile never faltered as he continued speaking. But his voice dropped again, quiet and cutting. “Try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”

Your chest tightened. “I’m doing my best,” you whispered.

“Your best isn’t very convincing.” His fingers pressed harder for a second before they released as one of the men turned toward you again.

“You must find all this terribly dull,” the man said politely.

You blinked. “No,” you replied quickly. “Not at all.”

John’s hand slid back to your waist. Firm. Holding you in place. “You see?” he said smoothly. “She’s perfectly content.”

You felt it then. Clear. Sharp. Not just the discomfort. Not just the pressure. But the certainty. This was your life. This. Standing still. Speaking when spoken to. Smiling on command. Hurting quietly where no one could see. Your fingers curled inside your glove. The paper crinkled softly.

The orchestra chnaged tunes. Someone laughed too loudly nearby. John’s voice cut through it as he continued speaking with the men, confident and smooth, completely unaware of the storm building quietly beside him.

You tried to focus again. You really did. You nodded when expected. Smiled when required. But the words around you blurred. The room felt smaller. Heavier. The note in your hand seemed to burn against your skin. Third class.

You shouldn’t go. It was ridiculous and so very dangerous. Completely improper. You knew that. You knew exactly what your mother would say. What John would say. What anyone would say.

So you stayed where you were. Trying to ignore it. Trying to stay calm. Trying to be who you were supposed to be.

But your heart had already resigned itself to the man in sergeant’s uniform at the edge of the ship calling your name in the dark of the night.

His voice had already replaced the voice of John in your dreams, in your late night fantasies where you wondered how it would've been if John were a gentle man.

Now they were about how your life would've been if it was bucky holding your hand through it all.

You let yourself imagine it. The small house, the garden, the kids. And bucky through it all, building swings on the porch. Harvesting tomatoes from the garden. Teaching math to the kids.

You let yourself build the life of your dreams with the man you could never have. How could you? Women like you were born to be married for business.

And what you wanted for your life didn't matter to anyone but him. To him, it did matter. At least that was what you felt. It mattered to him that you smiled and that you were hurt. Or perhaps it was another fantasy of yours.

But you let yourself commit this sin. You let yourself dream and hope and wish and imagine. Because your mind was the only part of you that was still yours, that didn't have to obey someone else. The only part of you that you could still trust with a secret like this.

“…excuse me,” you said quietly.

The urge to see him again suddenly overpowering enough to mask your fears. You should have thought about consequences, about your reputation. But you couldn't bring yourself past the thoughts of how fun it would be to do something reckless for once.

No one paid much attention as you slowly tried to slip out. John barely glanced at you. “Don’t be long,” he muttered. Voice gruff and insolent.

You nodded faintly. But something in you had already shifted. You stepped away, swiftly at first. Then faster once you were out of their immediate sight.

The music grew faint behind you as you moved toward the doors. Your heart began to race. And for once you didn't think about stopping. Turning back. Rturning and apologising. You didn't care about being good. Being proper. Being—

Your hand tightened around the note. His messy handwriting swimming in your mind waiting to sink in.

You pushed through the doors. The corridor air hit your face, cooler, and quieter than the ugly screech of tables and chairs of the ballroom.

You didn’t stop walking. Didn’t hesitate this time. Your steps quickened, pulse followed. And the further you went, the lighter something inside you felt.

Like a weight was slowly lifting with every step away from that room. From john. From all of it.

You gathered your gown and started moving faster. Almost running now, ignoring the echo of your footsteps. Ignoring the voice that told you this was wild.

Because another voice—stronger now—answered back. He is not worth it. None of this is worth it.

You reached the lower decks breathless. The sound of music met you before you even saw the door. Loud. Unrestrained. Alive in the way rehearsed orchestra could never be.

You slowed just long enough to catch your breath, hand hovering at the door. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you pushed the door open.

The moment you stepped into the third-class dance room, warmth crashed into you like a wave. Not just heat. Life. The room pulsed with it.

Music rang through the crowded space, fiddles playing fast enough to make your heartbeat stumble into rhythm with them. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, laughter burst from every corner, people sang loudly and terribly without shame, and somewhere near the back a group of men were arguing over cards while someone else balanced precariously atop a table.

It was chaos. Beautiful in all its liveliness. Nothing matched. Nothing was restrained. Nothing was orchestered in the way the noble people loved to have. And somehow it felt more real than every polished ballroom upstairs combined.

For a brief moment you lingered near the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place you looked in your expensive gown and carefully pinned hair.

Several people noticed immediately. Conversations faltered. A few heads turned. A woman carrying drinks nearly stopped mid-step.

You could practically feel the room thinking the same thing, ‘A first-class woman? Here?’ Your eyes scanned the crowd impatiently until you spotted him.

Bucky sat at one of the long wooden tables near the corner of the room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, suspenders slightly crooked now like he’d long since given up trying to look respectable.

He was laughing at something the blonde man beside him had just said. Probably Steve. You remembered him telling you about his best friend.

Then his eyes lifted and immediately found you. You watched his entire face change in real time. Like the room vanished for him. Like you were the only thing he saw.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the blonde man beside him said, following Bucky’s stare toward the doorway.

Another friend leaned over, a black man. Probably sam. Bucky told you he was the funniest of them all. “No way.”

“Barnes,” someone muttered in disbelief, “you actually got her to come?”

Bucky was already standing before they’d finished talking. He crossed the room quickly, weaving through dancers and chairs with that same easy confidence he seemed to carry everywhere. You barely had time to smile before he reached you.

“There she is,” he said warmly. And before you could even think about it—His arms came around you, pulling you into a hug.

It startled you at first. Not because it was unbecoming. But because it was so natural. So genuine. His arms wrapped around you tightly, stroking your back in gentle sweeps of his massive palm, like he was honestly happy you were there.

No hesitation. No calculation. Just happiness. You laughed softly in surprise as he held you for a second longer than necessary before pulling back slightly.

“I hoped you’d come,” he murmured with unmistakable satisfaction.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Would've been a shame if all my charm was wasted.” You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming in your chest.

Behind him, you noticed his friends openly staring now. Not rudely. Just… shocked. And rightfully so. It wasn't everyday they saw a person like you in a place like this. The blonde man blinked at you several times like he still wasn’t convinced you were real.

Bucky glanced back at them with a grin. “Alright, stop gawking,” he called. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s her?” one of them asked.

“You make it sound like he caught a rare animal,” you replied before thinking.

The table erupted into laughter immediately. Bucky looked positively delighted. “Oh she’s funny too,” someone, probably sam, announced proudly.

The blonde man finally stood, recovering enough to offer you a kind smile. “Steve Rogers,” he introduced himself warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

You told him your name.

Steve’s expression softened immediately. “Well,” he said, “any friend of Buck is welcome here.”

He was every bit of the person bucky told you he was. Kind blue eyes. Sweet serene smile. Thin and frail body but voice of iron. Unwavering in a way you rarely ever saw nowadays.

He greeted you like you were one of them. Making you feel wanted in a place where you only knew almost nobody. While the polished men and rich women upstairs, despite them being your fiancée or mother, wouldn't care if you're alive or dead if you went missing for days.

The others quickly followed, introducing themselves one by one, suddenly eager and warm now that the initial shock had passed.

But what struck you most wasn’t just their friendliness. It was how easily they included you. No one cared whether your manners were perfect. No one watched your every movement waiting for you to embarrass yourself. No one seemed interested in your family name or social standing.

They simply… welcomed you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the women at the table, natasha from what you knew, scooted over immediately to make room for you.

Another handed you a drink with a grin. Someone else asked if you danced. The warmth of it hit you so suddenly it almost hurt. Because it felt so different from the people upstairs.

John’s friends spoke at you. Bucky’s friends spoke to you. John’s world felt polished and cold and careful. Bucky's world felt alive and real. And before you even fully settled into the feeling, Bucky leaned closer.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “You gonna sit here lookin’ pretty all night or you gonna dance with me?”

Your stomach fluttered. “You dance?”

He looked offended. “Lady, I dance beautifully.”

Steve snorted loudly from behind him. “You dance like a drunk sailor.”

Bucky pointed at him immediately. “Don’t listen to him.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Bucky’s expression softened instantly at the sound. He watched you for a moment—this woman who was totally out place in his world looking up at him like he was the best thing that happened to her that day.

He held out his hand toward you. “C’mon,” he said. “One dance.”

You looked at his hand. Strong and warm and waiting patiently for yours. You realised that this was the first time in your life where no one was forcing you. No expectations. No obligations. Just a choice. Your choice.

Slowly, you placed your hand in his. The grin that spread across his face nearly made your knees weak. “Thank you my lady” he murmured again softly making you giggle.

He pulled you toward the dance floor in a swift motion. The music was fast. Far faster than the elegant waltzes upstairs. You barely had time to react before Bucky spun you into the crowd. “Oh my God—” you gasped between laughs as he caught your waist.

“Relax,” he teased. “I got you.”

“That’s exactly what you said before dragging me into this.”

“And was I wrong?”

You opened your mouth to argue but your words came out as startled laughter as the room blurred around you when he spun you again. He danced like everything else about him—messy, confident, entirely unconcerned with dignity. And somehow it was perfect.

His hands stayed firm on your waist as he guided you through the crowd, grinning every time you stumbled slightly. “You’re doing that on purpose,” you accused breathlessly.

“What?”

“Spinning me too fast.”

“Well,” he said solemnly, “A guy’s gotta impress a woman somehow”

You laughed again. It wasn't the small polite sound you used upstairs. But an actual laugh. A real one. Bright enough that even Steve noticed from the table and shook his head with a smile.

Bucky chuckled softly when he heard it. Your heart skipped. He looked so handsome with that amused smile. That joyous laugh. You realised almost immediately that this moment would haunt your dreams for a long long time.

The dance slowed slightly as the music changed. Bucky’s hands settled more carefully at your waist now. You moved closer naturally.

Neither of you seemed to notice it happening. Or maybe you both did. But nobody said anything. The room around you faded softly into warmth and music and laughter.

And when you looked up at him, he was already watching you. Not your dress. Not your manners. You. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real either. “You know,” he murmured as you swayed together, “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

You smiled faintly. “I almost didn’t.”

His brows lifted slightly. “What changed your mind?”

You thought about the ballroom upstairs. John’s hand digging into your arm. The suffocating conversations. The feeling of disappearing piece by piece every time you stepped back into that world.

Then you looked at Bucky. At the warmth in his eyes. At the way he held you like something precious instead of something owned.

And your answer had nothing but honesty in it when you said “I remembered there was somewhere else I’d rather be.”

You saw a flicker of something pass between his eyes. Maybe shock or surprise. Or maybe something else entirely.

You wished to know what that look meant. You wished to ask him. You wanted to talk. Tell him everything you felt. And somehow, you also wanted to saty quiet. Not utter a word and let this moment ingrained itself into your very bones.

Before you could think better of it, you leaned in, nose brushing his as his eyes flicked toward your lips before finding your eyes again.

When your lips met, the kiss wasn't explosive. It was warm. Tenuous in a way new things always are. Both mouths desperate to feel each other. Both tongues itching to explore each other.

He let you savour it. Let you melt into him as his hands found your jaw, tipping it up just enough that his tongue delved deeper into your mouth.

Your eyes shut themselves closed as you forgot all sense of time. Not caring if people saw or if rumors spread.

This was your moment. And for the first time in your life, you were sure, you'd rather die than let it go.

“Take me to your room, bucky” you whispered against his mouth, pulling away, your breath fanning his face.

“What?” his eyes widened, and you repeated, a smile making its way to your face.

“Your room, buck”

He didn’t waste another moment. Didn't give another thought to what people around you would think. What they'd say. He just took your hand in his and guided you out of the dance room.

The hallway to his room was narrow. Very much I like the wide pathways to luxurious first class suites. When he pushed the door open, his room was small. Very small compared to lavish first class cabins.

It was simple—two narrow bunks, a tiny washbasin, a crooked little mirror hanging against the wall. A jacket was tossed carelessly over one chair and a pair of boots sat near the bed like they’d been kicked off without thought.

It was nothing like rooms you grew up living in but somehow, it felt warmer. More lived in and honest. And you found yourself willing to spend an eternity in this tiny room instead of palaces that John talked about gifting you.

Mostly because a palace with John would still be a cage while a small brooklyn apartment with bucky would be heaven to you. “It’s not much compared to your nice rooms. But if you compare it to brooklyn, it's basically luxury” he attempted to joke but you could hear the nervousness behind it.

“I like it better,” you admitted quietly.

Bucky looked at you for a second like he thought you might be teasing him before smiling softly. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It feels real.” you answered honestly making something in his expression soften at that.

The sounds of the ship hummed faintly around you—the distant rumble of engines, muffled laughter somewhere down the hall, the quiet creak of the ocean beneath everything.

You took his hand in yours walking in and tugging him with you until the back of your knees hit on one of the bunks.

He shut the door with a flick of his arm and your hands found the lapels of his coat the moment the door shut behind him with a conclusive click.

You pulled him closer like he was oxygen you needed to breathe, and before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips on his in a searing, desperate kiss.

It might just have been the most outrageous thing you have ever done in your entire life. If anyone came to know about it, you'd be banished, and tortured, and what not.

But you couldn't bring yourself to care. Your lip trembled against his, making its insecurity known when bucky didn't kiss you back immediately, more out of surprise than anything.

He felt your hands shaking around the lapels of his coat and he gently slid them around his torso, before cupping your face in both hands and kissing you back.

It was slow. Nothing like the impatient kiss you had started with. You realized he was savoring the feeling of your lips on his, of your face in his hands, of your hands around his body.

He didn’t ask for more, didn't delve deeper into your mouth. Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to. But he wanted you to feel comfortable even more. He wanted you to feel cared for. In command of.

Your courage ignited just a little more and you let your tongue dart out to brush at his lower lip in the slightest of a lick.

He let you in immediately. Mouth opening, chasing you, as your tongue explored his mouth with curious adoration of someone having their first real kiss.

His own tongue had found home in your mouth. Sliding against your tongue and licking at your lips before promptly pulling away for air.

His mouth was shiny from the kiss, lips swollen where you had sunk your teeth in them. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but fond all the same.

His hands didn't leave your cheeks, fingers caressing the soft skin as he finally spoke, “You okay?” You nodded pulling him furhter into you until the back of your knees hit the bed again and you stumbled down onto the mattress with him on top of you.

He adjusted his weight on his forearms with a low groan, unwilling to move too much and lose the feel of your body under his. His mouth chased yours with the kind of urgency that only someone who's been waiting too long can have.

His lips trailed down slowly, mouthing at your neck until you whined, tugging at his shirt. He took the bait, pulling it off of him in a swift motion and revealing the planes of his toned chest to you.

It was clear he worked out. He was a sergeant and it showed. Your mouth went dry, hands itching to feel the skin and muscle of him under your palms, your lips.

His hands shook at their resting place on your waist, pawing at the skirt of your gown, pulling at the strings of your corset.

You helped him with a giggle, swiftly peeling each layer off and baring yourself to him. You were flustered in a way someone having a new experience always would be. But the way he looked at you, so adoring, so fond, made you feel respected even though you have never been in a more vulnerable position before.

He kissed every inch of you revealed to him, muttering praises into your skin and making you giggle. By the time youre both naked and breathless you don't think there's any part of you left unkissed.

Maybe because bucky didn't rush it, he touched you like he was worshipping you. Asking every step of the way if you're okay. Murmuring soft praises as he explored parts of you that no one else ever had.

Which was exactly what he was doing right now. Knelt between your thighs, as his mouth worked slow and teasing on your dripping core.

You shuddered beneath him as he licked a long stripe from your sopping hole to your clit, circling his tongue on the aroused bundle of nerves making your thighs tighten around his head.

He made a pleased sound of approval at that. Working to fast and slow, alternatively, the pleasure building tighter and hotter inside of your until his name was the only thing on your mouth. “Buck, please—” you whimpered

“You don't gotta beg sweetheart.” He kissed your thigh “C'mon. Come for me”

You broke with a loud cry, white waves of pleasure washing over you completely. Bucky didn't let up, his tongue worked you through your orgasm until you pushed weakly at his shoulders.

He crawled back up your body and you immediately pressed your lips onto his, tasting yourself on his tongue and moaning at the feel of it.

His fingers found you then, stroking slowly, sliding through the slick wetness of you and nudging at your entrance.

He leaned down slightly. Mouth finding your breast and closing over a nipple. Your back arched itself, offering more of you to him, as your mouth opened in a silent gasp.

His fingers slowly slid in, one at first then another. Two thick digits driving in and out of you as his mouth fondled over your breast.

“Need you bucky” you whined, wanting more of him.

“Not yet baby,” His hand replaced his mouth on your chest as he spoke “gotta stretch you out for me.” His fingers scissor inside you and you cry out.

“Can't have you hurting, can we?” he kissed the tip of your nose, fingers ploughing into faster now. “Come for me baby.” He cooed “You want my cock, don’t you?”

“Want it bucky. Need your cock” you whimpered.

“Then come on my fingers first.” His thumb came up to rub tight circles on your clit, making your thighs shake “Come for me sweetheart. Then I'll give you my cock”

The orgasm surged violently through you. And by the time bucky's fingers left you, your chest was heaving. He waited patiently for you to come down. Ridding himself of the tight constraints of his pants and stroking himself at the sight of you.

There was a faint blush to your cheeks. Face dewy with sweat and mouth open in ecstacy and bucky decided that there was never anything more beautiful than this. Than you.

He stopped the movements of his hand as yours came to wrap around him instead. Your hand felt soft and warm on his cock. So tiny but so much better than his own calloused hand. You grip wasn't as tight as he'd like but having you like this was already so fortunate of him.

Your thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the wetness there and making him groan. And before he knew it, you nestled slightly closer still, letting his cock slide through the slick of your core, the tip of him nudging your clit and making you both moan into each other's mouths.

He pushed in slowly. Inch by torturous inch as you fluttered and clenched around him, adjusting to his size. “Fuck” he cursed “Still so tight, Sweetheart. I can't even move”

You drew your hips up slightly, helping him slide all the way in to the hilt. His body lowered itself onto you with a low grunt. Face finding the crook of your neck and biting down on your shoulder as he began to rock forward slightly.

His thrusts were shallow at first. Barely pulling out before rutting back in. The pace built slowly, mostly because bucky wanted to take his time with you. His hips stilled every time he felt his restraint snap. He fucked you until your whole body was taut and ready to snap.

“Why are you so tense honey?” He asked driving back in faster now “You can let go. Its just me. Its your bucky.” His hand found your cheek, thumb stroking softly at your cheekbones. “You know I'd never hurt you.” He reassured.

Your eyes found his then, holding his gaze. This man who was so earnest, so painfully reverent even in a moment like this. And in a passing second, you decided that this was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

Not John. Not anyone else. Bucky. Only bucky.

He saw the burn behind your eyes, kissing your tears away as they swiftly leave your eyes. “I love you” he said, voice shaky but firm all the same. You surge forward in an instant. Hiding your face in his neck, the sudden change in the angle making his cock hit deeper and your sniffle comes out breathy.

“I love you too, bucky.” You sobbed “I love you so much”

He ground down, before pulling back out. Rutting into you with more urgency now. The room was filled with muffled sounds of gasps and moans. It reeked of sweat and sex.

But neither of you could bring yourself to care. All you could think about was bucky on top of you. All you could feel was him inside you, twitching ever so slightly as he held himself back.

His fingers found your clit again, circling faster, tighter, pulling you toward the edge with him. You surrendered yourself to the pleasure as it developed you whole, your mouth parting in a choked gasp and you felt bucky's hips still, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into you with a grunt.

He let the weight of his body fall onto you ever so slightly as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. When he finally caught his breath, he rolled over, taking his weight off of you and your body immediately protested at the loss of him.

He would've understood it because he tugged you closer to him almost instantl. Pulling you onto him until you were laying on his chest.

His lips found your forehead in a chaste kiss. Hands settling on your back, stroking it slowly and gentle. Occasionally taking q detour anf playing with your hair, twirling it around his fingers.

It should've been soothing, but as you came down from the high the reality of the situation began to dawn on you. You might be here right now, sated and so in love. But when tomorrow you're forced to go back to your old life, your real life, the nightmare that you're trying so desperately to escape, what would you do then?

And as if it was a cruel joke, your brain suddenly reminded you that bucky didn't know about any of it. About John, about you practically cheating on your fiancée. “What's got you thinking so loud, sweetheart?” He turned your face to meet his eyes.

And yoh realised, he desevred the truth. After what he said to you, after what you did, you owed him honesty. “Bucky, I—um, maybe you don’t know that—I mean, you definitely don't know—You had no idea and I know its my fault. I should've said something before we—”

“Hey, if this is about me not knowing that you have a man in your life, then you don't need to worry. I know”

“You know?” You were shocked to hear that.

“I saw that man with you when I sneaked into that ballroom to meet you” he confessed “And I realised what your relationship was.”

When you didn't show any signs of horror that bucky was worrying about, he went on. “For a moment i thought about pulling away but then i remembered the vase” his fingers found your forearm where the scar from the vase was still fresh.

“And the table” His hand went to the back of your head as if to emphasise what he was talking about.

“And the way your eyes shine when you’re with me.” he whispered. “I saw it in that room, baby. How dead you looked. How miserable. And all I could think about was that you deserved better than that. So much better, sweetheart. You deserve the world.”

His eyes shone with something you didn’t know if you truly understood, he cupped your cheek as he said the next part. “And even though I know I can't give it to you. But I’d sure as he'll die trying.”

“You might have known, bucky. But that doesn't make me less guilty” you confessed

“Maybe not. But I'm no less guilty either. I courted you despite knowing you have a fiancée. I’m at fault too, honey” he said looking into your eyes. “But what we did, what I said—I want you to know that I mean it, every word, every gesture, everything. If you're willing to give me a chance, I want to do this right. Just say yes.”

And for the firsttime that night, you hoped that maybe you could have it all with him. All you had to do was say yes and the future would be right there. He would be right there. He'd hold your hand and everything would be fine.

You could disappear. John would never find you and you would find everything. The freedom. The joy. The dreams. The future. Him.

“Yes”

The room had grown quieter as the night passed. Not silent—never truly silent on a ship this large—but softer somehow.

The distant hum of the engines vibrated faintly beneath the walls while muffled footsteps echoed occasionally through the corridor outside. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone laughed loudly before being immediately shushed.

But inside the little cabin, everything felt warm. Safe. You lay curled against Bucky’s side on the narrow bunk, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.

At some point you had both decided sleep wasn't the priority for your tired bodies and now you both laid awake in each other's arms.

The careful curls that your hair had been arranged in a few hours ago had come apart almost completely. Bucky seemed very pleased about that.

“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, twisting one escaped strand around his finger, “I think this is my favorite version of you.”

You glanced up at him suspiciously. “Your favorite version?”

“Mmhm.”

“What happened to the mysterious elegant first-class lady version of me?”

“Oh she’s alright,” he said. “But this one laughs at my jokes.”

“They’re still bad jokes.”

“You keep laughin’ though.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s pity.”

“Sure it is.” His grin widened when you smiled again.

The warmth in your chest felt almost frightening now. Like you were becoming too attached to this. To him. But every time you tried to pull back mentally, he’d say something ridiculous and drag you right back in.

At some point the conversation had dragged your consiousness to future again. He talked about wanting a cat. You joked that the cat would hate him.

He pinched your side and you tried to turn away feigning annoyance, only to be pulled back into him. You shook your head, smiling helplessly.

“You think about this often?” You said after some time, when he started talking about building a garden for you in your house.

“Not usually with such a pretty audience.” Your cheeks warmed immediately.

Bucky looked unbearably pleased with himself. Smug in a way that made you feel like you've made the right choice in a man. “You blush real easy, you know that?”

“You flirt constantly, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “Mostly because watching you react is my new favorite hobby.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “you’re still here.”

Your fingers traced lightly over the fabric of his shirt while the conversation drifted again. You told him about books you loved as a child. He admitted he once tried to impress a girl by pretending to understand poetry and accidentally quoted a laundry advertisement instead. You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bunk.

He looked deeply offended about it. “You’re never lettin’ that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cruel woman.”

“You deserve it.”

He spoke quietly about wanting a little mechanic shop someday. Nothing grand. You listened carefully while he described it. “You’d hate it,” he warned.

“Why?”

“Grease everywhere.”

“That’s manageable.”

“I’d come home filthy every day.”

“I think I’d survive.”

He smiled softly at that. You were lost to the dreams of future and into each other when a sudden pounding hit the door. Hard enough to rattle the walls. Both of you jolted upright immediately.

“Buck!” Steve’s voice shouted from the other side. Urgent and panicked. “Buck, open the damn door!”

Bucky frowned instantly, already climbing off the bed. “What the hell—”

Another fist slam against the door. “BUCKY!” Something in Steve’s voice made your stomach drop ominously. Bucky yanked the door open. Making steve practically stumble inside, breathless and pale. Paler than bucky had ever seen him.

“Steve?” Bucky said sharply. “What happened?” Steve grabbed his arm. “The ship hit something.”

For one second, nobody moved. The information taking it’s time to sink in. “What?” you whispered, breaking out of the trance as you felt the floorboards rattle beneath your feet by the surge of water.

Steve looked between both of you. “It’s bad,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Water’s coming in downstairs already.”

A strange sound groaned through the ship beneath your feet and one of the tile creaked open, giving way to an insistent trickle of water flowing into the room.

Your blood went ice cold. Bucky’s expression changed instantly. No teasing now. Only sharp focus. “How bad?” he demanded. Steve swallowed. “They’re saying it’s sinking.”

The room went utterly still. You could hear the faint voice of people shouting, children crying, feet rushing as groups of guests ran toward the deck, doors slamming open and luggage thudding behind as they dragged whatever they could save, with them.

The ship tilted, just slightly. But enough. Enough to feel it. Your breath caught. “Oh my God.”

Bucky moved immediately. “Coat,” he said sharply, already grabbing his own. “Put your coat on.” Your hands shook as you obeyed.

Outside the corridor, panic was building fast now. Voices overlapped chaotically. “What’s happening?!” “Move!” “Get upstairs!”

The ship groaned again beneath your feet. Louder this time, more insistent. You looked toward the floor instinctively and saw water slipping beneath the corridor door farther down the hall. Cold seawater rushing inward from the farther side of the hall

Your heart stopped. “Bucky—”

“I see it.” He grabbed your hand immediately. “Stay with me.”

Steve was already moving into the corridor. “C’mon!”

The hallway outside had transformed into chaos. Passengers poured from cabins in various stages of dress, frightened voices echoing against narrow walls while crewmen shouted conflicting instructions.

The ship tilted again. Harder this time. A woman screamed as luggage slid suddenly across the floor. The lights started to flicker like you were in a horror movie. Which, given the situation was an accurate description.

Water rushed visibly now at the far end of the corridor. Fast. Far too fast. Your pulse thundered painfully in your ears.

Bucky tightened his grip around your hand. “Stay with me,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, you don’t let go of my hand, understood?” You nodded shakily.

People shoved past desperately. Someone cried openly nearby. A child screamed for their mother. The sound of metal groaning deep within the ship echoed like thunder through the walls.

“Move!” Steve shouted ahead. You ran.

Your shoes slipped against wet flooring as the ship tilted again beneath you. Bucky kept one arm firmly around your wrist whenever the angle shifted too sharply, practically dragging you upright through the crowd.

Water surged suddenly around your ankles. Ice cold and unforgiving. You gasped sharply. “Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered ahead.

The hallway behind you erupted into screams as the water rushed faster. People started running in earnest now. Pure panic. The ship groaned violently again.

Lights flickered themselves off, turning the lower deck dark and unsettling. Someone fell. Bucky immediately pulled you around them before the crowd crushed forward again. “Keep moving,” he said tightly.

Your breathing came in panicked bursts now. The staircases were packed. People shouting and pushing. Trying to get to the lifeboats before the others.

Crewmen tried desperately to direct passengers upward calmly. But calm had gone out of the window the moment ice cold water of the Atlantic touched people’s feet.

“Women and children first!” “What’s happening?!” “Is it true?!”

The ship tilted harder.

A chandelier somewhere crashed violently. Glass shattered. You nearly lost your footing entirely before Bucky caught you against him. “I got you,” he said immediately and his voice cut through the panic somehow. Grounding.

You clung tightly to his hand as you climbed higher and higher toward the deck. Toward the freezing night air. Toward whatever waited above the chaos below.

When you reached the deck, it was chaos. The moment you emerged into the freezing night air, the full horror of it crashed into you all at once. People everywhere. Shouting. Crying.

Crewmen yelling orders over one another while passengers pushed desperately across the tilted deck. Steam billowed into the night sky from the great funnels overhead, and the once-beautiful ship now groaned like something wounded beneath your feet.

The cold hit brutally. Wind tore through your hair and clothes while the Atlantic stretched black and endless around you.

But more merciless than the cold right now was fear. Real and endless and bone deep fear as the reality and graveity of the situation suddenly started to dawn on everybody.

You could see men making calculations as to how to get their wives and kids to the lifeboats, in case they themselves couldn’t make it. You could see women trying to mask their own fear to console their crying children and worried husbands. You could see children trying to make sense of the situation and trying to believe as their mothers said “everything will be fine” even though they could visibly see the otherwise.

You clung tightly to Bucky’s hand as he guided you through the crowd, Steve trailing close behind. “Stay close,” Bucky said sharply over the noise.

You nodded quickly, struggling to keep your footing as the ship started to crack right down the middle. Women were crying openly now. Children clung to parents. Some people still stood frozen in disbelief while others surged toward the lifeboats in growing panic.

A crewman shouted nearby “Women and children first!” The words sent a chill through you colder than the wind. Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened. His eyes darted quickly toward the lifeboats. Then toward you.

Something in his face changed. “No,” you said immediately.

He blinked. “What?”

You shook your head before he could even speak. “No.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No.”

Bucky looked briefly stunned. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes I do. You were gonna tell me to go.”

Another violent groan echoed through the ship. Somewhere nearby, metal screamed loudly enough to make everyone flinch. The crowd surged suddenly, people falling through the cracks in the ship into the dark endless abyss beneath.

Bucky immediately steadied you against him. “Listen to me,” he said firmly.

“No.”

“You need get on that boat. You have first class access, now's the time to use it.” Your stomach dropped painfully. “Go sweetheart.”

There it was. You shook your head harder. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes, you are. You have to.”

“No.”

“Hey.” His voice softened slightly despite the chaos around you. “Look at me.”

You did. And immediately wished you hadn’t. Because there was fear in his eyes now. Not for himself. For you.

“You have a better chance than me,” he said carefully. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

He huffed out a breath that almost sounded frustrated. “Darlin’, this ain’t the time to be stubborn.”

“And this isn’t the time for you to tell me what to do.”

Despite everything, his mouth almost twitched. “Now’s really when you decide to start talking back?”

You cupped his face in tour freezing hands “You listen to me bucky barnes, you are the omly thing that matters to me now. Don't you see it? How precious you are to me? I can't—” your voice broke “I can't lose you. I won't”

Another lifeboat began lowering nearby, half-full already while people screamed to be let aboard. Crewmen held them back. “Stand back!” “I have a child!” “Please!”

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Bucky cupped your face suddenly, forcing your attention fully back to him. Holding in all that he felt for you in the moment because now wasn't the time to say it aloud.

Maybe if he gets another chance at life, he would try. But not now. Now his only priority was to get you on the boat safe and sound. The world around you blurred for a second. “I need you to listen,” he said quietly. The seriousness in his voice terrified you more than the sinking ship. “You can survive this.”

“So can you.”

He didn’t answer quickly enough. And you saw it. That flicker of doubt. Tears stung your eyes instantly.

“No,” you whispered shakily. “No, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His expression broke slightly. “Sweetheart…”

“You don’t get to decide I leave without you.”

His thumb brushed quickly against your cheek, cold from the night air. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t want safe without you.” The words came out before you could stop them.

Bucky went still at that. Even with the panic raging around you. Even with the ship dying beneath your feet. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to understand whether you really meant it. You did. And he knew.

Steve appeared beside you both again, breathless. “Buck, more boats are loading on the port side—” Then he stopped when he saw your faces. Understanding crossed his expression immediately. “Aw, hell,” he muttered quietly.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair roughly. “She needs to get on a boat.”

“She does,” Steve agreed gently.

You looked between both of them in disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Bucky almost laughed despite everything.

“See?” Steve said. “She’s scarier than you.”

“Not helping.”

The ship tilted sharply again. People screamed as several passengers lost their footing and slid directly into the ocean. Bucky stumbled but you caught his hand instantly in both of yours. “I got you,” you said automatically.

You realised your hands clutched tightly at his coat even when he found his footing. And there was a moment where suddenly you realized something with terrifying clarity. You trusted him more than anyone else in the world.

More than your fiancee. More than your mother. More than yourself, maybe. And the thought of stepping into a lifeboat while he stayed behind felt impossible. Like tearing something out of your chest.

“I’m not leaving you,” you repeated quietly. Bucky shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy and it nearly undid you.

“You barely know me,” he said softly.

A watery laugh escaped you. “And i’m not losing the only chance I have at knowing you more.”

“Honey—”

“No buck. Don't you know that if I leave we'll never see each other again? They'll take me away bucky. They'll lock me up somewhere and—” you sniffled “and memories of us will all I have for the rest of my life.”

He sighed. Undone by emotion but logic still weighing heavy on the back of his mind. “You will die here” he blurted out the ugly truth.

“Then it'll be kinder than a life with him” you pointed behind you where John would probably be somewhere trying to get into the lifeboats with all his precious jewels and artifacts.

Bucky looked away. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't ask that of you. Your life in return of his love was too high a price.

You pressed your palm on his chest. “I'm choosing this bucky. I’m choosing you. It might be the last and the only thing I get to do with my own will. So, please let me make this choice.”

The lights on the topmost deck flickered and dimmed slightly. A fresh wave of panic ripped across the deck. People began running now.

The bow dipped lower. The reality finally impossible to deny. Bucky looked around once. At the lifeboats. At the freezing ocean. At the terrified crowds. Then finally back at you. And something in him gave way. A small, helpless smile crossed his face masking his concern for your sake.

“You are unbelievably stubborn,” he murmured.

You nodded shakily. “That’s a first.”

He stared at you one more second. Then pulled you tightly against him. His arms wrapped around you fiercely enough that you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. And quietly, against your hair, he whispered “Alright.”

Not agreement. Not surrender. Just Alright.

Like he understood now that neither of you was walking away from the other again. And even when he wasn't sure of it, he knew one thing for sure that if it meant keeping you, he'd die trying.

The night had become a nightmare. The deck was no longer a place of music and laughter. It was screaming and chaos.

The great ship that had seemed unsinkable only hours ago now groaned like a dying thing beneath everyone's feet. The bow was disappearing into the black Atlantic fast and irreversible.

The stern rose higher and higher. People stumbled across tilted decks desperately trying to find safety where none existed. Steve was ahead of you both, helping clear a path through panicked passengers. "Over here!" he yelled.

The deck lurched violently. Bucky never left your hand through it all. All around you, people were crying. Praying. Calling for loved ones. The sound was almost unbearable.

That was until you heard a terrible noise. A deep metallic roar that seemed to shake the entire world. Everyone froze for one horrible second. Then screaming erupted everywhere. The ship was breaking apart. "Oh God," you whispered.

Bucky's face had gone pale. "Run."

Nobody needed telling twice. The deck became a flood of terrified people. The angle grew steeper way too fast. Much steeper.

You found yourselves climbing rather than running now. Clinging to railings. Pulling yourselves upward while the ship rose beneath you. The ocean seemed impossibly far below. Black. Endless and deadly. "Buck!" Steve shouted.

A section of deck shifted suddenly beneath you. Metal shrieked. People fell through. Bucky grabbed your arm and yanked you toward him just as the flooring buckled. The movement saved you. But not him.

A heavy piece of twisted railing slammed into his left arm. The impact throwing him sideways. You heard him cry out. "Bucky!"

He hit the deck hard. You stumbled toward him, worried. Hands cupping his face and making him look at you before your mind had caught up with the incident.

For a terrifying second he didn't move. Then, much to your relief, he opened his eyes. They were glassy and terrified. You helped him as he pushed himself upright.

His face had gone completely white.Left arm hanging awkwardly against his side, bleeding profusely and flesh peeking out from where the skin had given way when the railing struck him.

"Bucky—" "I'm fine."

He wasn't. He was anything but fine. You tore a piece of fabric from your skirt, wrapping it around the wound in a makeshift bandage. When you looked up again his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. Steve saw it too. "Jesus, Buck—"

"I'm fine. We gotta keep going." The lie was obvious. But there wasn't time. The ship groaned again, deck tilting further. People were already sliding. Bucky grabbed your hand again with his good arm. "Move."

The stern rose higher and higher. The freezing wind tore at your clothes. And in a moment, the railing slipped from your hand and the ship disappeared beneath you.

For one impossible second there was only weightlessness. The stars overhead. Bucky's hand in yours as you both tumbled down towards endless nothingness.

The terrified look in Steve's eyes as he watched his best friend fall into the dark abyss. Then the ocean hit. The cold stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Your voice.

It felt like being struck by lightning. Sudden and all at once. Like every nerve in your body had shattered. You surfaced choking and gasping for air. The screams around you were worse now. Far worse. Hundreds of voices crying out in the darkness. You spun desperately, looking for him, praying, hoping…….

"Bucky!"

There he was. A few feet away. Still alive. Still fighting toward you through the freezing water. Relief crashed through you. "Bucky!"

He reached you moments later. Face pale, Lips blue, Teeth chattering but smiling nonetheless. "There you are." You almost laughed.

"Steve!" bucky suddenly shouted.

You turned around just enough to hear steve yell, "I'm here!" He must’ve jumped in after you and was now fighting the surgung waves to reach his best frined.

You and bucky tried to cross the short distance toward him the best you could. The three of you fought through floating debris. Broken furniture and pieces of the ship, to reach each other.

The cold was unbearable, every movement feeling harder than the last. At some point a wooden panelling floated toward you, you grabbed it with sheer will power, hands and legs feeling numb in the cold of water.

The three of you held onto it for dear life. Then another wave struck. The wreckage spun violently making bucky lose his grip. The injured arm failed him completely.

You caught him before he could disappear bemeath the water. Interlocking your fingers with his good arm to keep him afloat as you could visibly see his consiousness fade slowly due to the blood loss.

The cold continued to steal strength from all of you. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. The lights of the unsinkable had died between all the commotion. Leaving you in nothing but endless darkness. The ocean down below and the sky up ahead.

And somewhere during the darkness and silence, you realised how quiet everyone had gone. Maybe everyone was tired, maybe dead. Bucky was barely holding on in front of you, eyes drowsy and ice kissed. And steve,….STEVE?

Where was he? “Buck,” you shook him awake, “Where—Where’s steve?”

You both looked around desperately, one moment he was there. Holding onto the wreckage. Talking. Trying to keep everyone awake. The next you knew, he’s nowhere to be found. "Steve!" Bucky yelled. No answer. You looked everywhere. Every direction but there was nothing but darkness. Bodies. Debris. And the endless black ocean.

"STEVE!" You shouted too. Silence. Only the wind and waves answered. The realization settled slowly and terribly, like a rock hitting the bottom of a pitt. The ocean had taken him.

You both kept looking anyway. For minutes. Maybe longer. Until your voices became too weak. Until the cold became too much. Until there was nothing left to do.

The stars blurred overhead. Your body felt impossibly heavy now. Sleep tugged at you. Dangerous sleep. The kind where you know there’s no waking up from.

As the hours passed, the cold became its own world. After a while, it stopped feeling like water. It became something larger than that, something scarier, pulling at your consiousness asking to surrender yourself to it.

Something that wrapped itself around every thought, every movement, every breath. The wreckage beneath you creaked softly with each passing wave. The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction. Black water. Black sky. Only the stars remained bright.

You couldn't feel your feet anymore. Or your hands. You weren't even entirely sure how long it had been. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime.

Beside you, Bucky was still holding on with his good arm. Barely. His injured arm remained limp against his side, hanging uselessly in the freezing water. Every so often his jaw tightened sharply when a wave jostled it. But he never complained. Not once.

You hated him for that. Because it made it harder to ignore how badly he was hurt. And you realised with a terrifying certainty, that he was waiting. Waiting for rescue. WAiting for death. Whichever came sooner.

The ocean rose and fell beneath you, slow and endless. As if unaware of the lives it had taken tonight. "Hey." His voice sounded rough now.

You turned your head. Or at least you tried to. Even that felt difficult. "What?" His eyes were fixed on the stars.

"You still awake?"

"Unfortunately." A faint smile appeared.

The darkness stretched around you. Somewhere far away voices occasionally echoed across the water. Fainter now. Far fewer than before. The reality of that sat heavily between you. The ocean had become quiet. Too quiet. And you hated it.

"Bucky." "Hm?"

"I'm scared." The admission slipped out before you could stop it. He turned his head toward you immediately.

For a moment he looked younger somehow. Not Sergeant Barnes. Not the confident man from the dance floor. Just a frightened young man floating in an impossible ocean. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "So am I."

You stared up at the stars again. They seemed cruel now. Beautiful. Unreachable. Uncaring. "I thought tonight would be different."

Bucky huffed softly. "I'd say it definitely qualifies as different."

You rolled your eyes weakly. How could this man still hold onto his humour. "That's not what I meant."

"I know." His good hand found yours beneath the freezing water. The grip was weak. But present. Grounding. "I know."

Silence settled again. You listened to the waves. To the wind. To the sound of Bucky breathing beside you. And gradually a terrible realization began creeping into your thoughts. No lights. No boats. No rescue. Nothing. Just darkness. And cold. And waiting.

Your throat tightened. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"If..." The word got stuck in your throat. You tried again. “If I don't make it."

Immediately he shook his head. "No."

"Bucky." "No."

His voice was firmer this time. You looked at him. He wasn't looking back. His eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the horizon. As though refusing to acknowledge the possibility made it less real. "Bucky."

His jaw tightened. Finally he sighed. "Fine." The word sounded reluctant. Painful.

You swallowed. "If I don't make it..." His grip tightened immediately. You almost stopped. But the words were already coming. "If I don't make it, I need you to promise me something."

His eyes closed briefly. "What?" You thought for a moment. About the little house. The porch. The wildflowers. The future you'd built together in conversations over a handful of hours. A future that suddenly felt very far away.

"Be happy."

Bucky immediately looked offended. "What kinda request is that?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Another wave rolled past. The cold dug deeper making you shiver violently. Bucky shifted closer immediately. Trying to block some of the wind. Trying to protect you from an ocean. The ridiculousness of it almost made you cry.

"You deserve happy," you whispered.

His eyes softened. "So do you."

You looked away. The stars blurred slightly. "You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I only got one day."

His brow furrowed. "One day?"

"With you."

The words came out quietly. Truthfully. "I spent years doing what everyone else wanted." You swallowed hard. "And when I finally got something for myself. I only got one day."

Bucky stared at you. His expression breaking a little more with every word. “Hey” His voice was firm. “Look at me” "We're getting that house."

You smiled sadly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"The garden too?"

"Especially the garden."

A laugh escaped both of you. Small. Fragile. But real. The only sign of life in this pitt of darkness. Then silence returned. Longer this time. The cold kept pulling at you. Pulling you downward. Toward sleep. Toward rest. You could feel it.

And judging by the way Bucky's eyes kept drifting closed, he could too. Eventually he spoke again. "So if I don't make it."

Your chest tightened immediately. "Bucky—"

"Let me say it." His worrds hung heavily between you. You nodded. His gaze returned to the stars. "Travel."

You blinked. "What?"

"Everything you told me." His voice had grown soft. Dreamy.

"See Paris." You felt tears sting your eyes.

"See Italy."

"Bucky..."

"Learn those languages."

His smile was faint now. "But don't get one of those tiny dogs."

You laughed through the tears. "Why?"

"They're mean."

"They are not."

"They absolutely are." He stayed quiet for a moment Then; "And name one kid after me."

Your eyes widened. "One?"

"Minimum."

You laughed again. "Bucky Barnes, that is incredibly arrogant."

"I know." His grin appeared briefly before fading again.

The darkness seemed heavier now. Both of you were drifting. Fighting it. Losing. Winning. Losing again. Your head felt strange. Far away.

The stars blurred into streaks. And for the first time all night, neither of you had a joke. Neither of you had a plan. Just each other. The ocean rocked gently beneath the wreckage. Peaceful now that it's hunger was quenched.

You rested your forehead against his. Too exhausted to hold it up any longer. And for a moment it felt like maybe this was it. Maybe this was where the story ended.

Not with screaming. Not with panic. Just darkness and cold. And one last quiet moment together. And when you decided to finally surrender yourself to the current, you heard it. A sound. Faint and distant but an anchor nevertheless.

The sound came again. Louder now. A voice. Shouting and looking for survivors. Bucky's eyes widened. "Wait."

"What?" He lifted his head, slightly. And then a lantern appeared in the darkness. Tiny. Far away. But real. A boat. Someone shouting. Someone searching.

"Bucky..." His face transformed. Relief. Disbelief. Joy. All at once.

"Hey!" His voice cracked as he shouted. "HEY!" You joined him. Weakly. Desperately.

The light turned toward you. Toward the wreckage. Toward the two stubborn people who had refused to let go. And as the boat drew closer through the darkness, neither of you said a word. You simply held onto each other.

And watched hope come back across the water.

The first thing you remembered after the rescue was warmth. Not safety. Not relief. Just warmth. Blankets piled over your shaking body. Hands helping you sit up. Voices speaking somewhere nearby.

And Bucky. Even half-conscious, barely awake himself, he kept searching for you. Every time his eyes opened, they found you.

The weeks that followed blurred together. Hospitals. Questions. Officials. Lists of survivors. Lists of the missing. Lists of the dead.

You hated all of them. Especially the questions. "What is your name, ma'am?" The man sat behind a desk with a pen poised above a ledger.

You looked down at your hands. Then at Bucky.

He was sleeping in a bed across the room, pale from surgery and exhaustion. His left arm had been too badly damaged during the sinking. The doctors had done everything they could. In the end, they had been forced to remove what could not be saved.

The loss hung over him quietly. Neither of you spoke about it much. Not yet. The grief was still too fresh.

The official cleared his throat. "Your name?" For a moment you saw John Walker's face. Your mother's. The life waiting for you if anyone found you. The cage you escaped.

Then you looked at Bucky again. At the man who had pulled you from a railing. Pulled you through a sinking ship. Pulled you through an ocean. And somehow given you back yourself.

You lifted your head. The words were soft when they came out, yet firm all the same "Mrs. Barnes."

Bucky hated the first months after surgery. Not because of the pain, though there was plenty of it, but because now suddenly simple things became difficult. Buttons. Doors. Writing. Even holding a cup.

When the grief got too heavy, you sat beside him and took his hand. The real one. The one that still trembled slightly when he was upset. "Bucky." you would say.

His eyes remained fixed on the floor. "Buck." Finally he looked up.

"You’re still you” you said “and you still got me," He didn’t say anything. He never did. Just leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

Eventually a metal replacement was fitted. Crude by later standards. Heavy. Silver. Complicated. The sort of thing people stared at. Bucky hated that too. At first.

Then one day he accidentally crushed a walnut with it. Then realised he could do stuff that was harder for him to do before the metal arm. Like pulling doors right off the hinges. Fixing stuff that required heavy lifting. After that he became considerably more enthusiastic.

You found him showing it off to children in grocery aisles at least twice. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?"

"You are using your metal arm to impress six-year-olds."

"They think it's cool."

"They absolutely do." You grinned.

"They got excellent judgment."

And even though the scars of past were slowly healing but through everything, the one subject neither of you could escape was Steve. For months you hoped. People kept being found. Survivors appeared unexpectedly. Rumors spread. Stories changed.

Every knock at the door made Bucky sit up. Every newspaper made him look twice. Every list made your stomach twist. Maybe Steve had survived. Maybe he was somewhere else. Maybe he was recovering. Maybe…….

Hope can survive a very long time when there is nothing else to hold onto. Until one morning the final list arrived. Government officials. Recovered remains. Confirmed identities. You watched bucky pull the paper open with shaky hands. He read it with glassy eyes and the moment you saw Bucky's face, you knew.

You crossed the room slowly. "Bucky?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Words had left him the moment he read the paper. The finality kicking in as the hope flickered out like a flame in a stormy night.

He handed the paper to you, wordlessly. Your eyes found the name almost immediately. Steven Rogers. Recovered. Identified. Deceased.

The world stopped around you as you stared and stared at the paper until your vision turned blurry from unshed tears. You read it again and again. As though repetition might somehow change reality. It didn't.

The paper slipped from your fingers. And suddenly you couldn't breathe. “Oh God."

The words came out chocked and watery. Bucky bowed his head. One hand covering his eyes. His shoulders shaking slightly. And for the first time since the ocean, he cried. Years of friendship and memories gone in an instant.

The grief hit both of you like a wave. You cried until your throat hurt. Until your eyes burned. Until exhaustion finally forced silence where words could not. That night neither of you slept much.

You sat together on the porch steps watching the stars. Thinking about a blonde boy fromBrooklyn. Thinking about laughter in a third-class dance hall. Thinking about all the futures that the ocean swallowed whole that night.

Life continued anyway. Slowly and reluctantly. But it did. Because that's what life does. It goes on even when it's stained with grief and scars. And that was how you found yourself several months later, standing in front of a small cottage near the water.

The paint needed work. One shutter hung crooked. The garden was mostly weeds. The porch creaked alarmingly. It was perfect. You looked at Bucky and found him already looking at you, smiling. "The porch squeaks."

"I know."

"The roof's uneven."

"I know."

"The front gate doesn't close."

"I know." You laughed.

"So we're buying it?"

"We're buying it."

The first year at the cottage chaos. Wonderful chaos. You planted wildflowers only for half of them to die. Bucky insisted he could fix the roof himself. He nearly fell off twice. You learned quickly that neither of you had any idea what you were doing.

That did not stop either of you. The garden slowly grew. He built a porch swing one day to surprise you. And day by day, piece by piece, the house became home.

Then one rainy afternoon a scruffy little stray cat wandered into the garden. She was tiny and grumpy. Covered in mud and entirely unimpressed by humans. Naturally, Bucky fell in love immediately.

Bucky picked her uo from the graden like she already belinged to him and the moment she curled up in his lap, bucky knew he'd lost his heart. "We're keeping her." He looked up at you with puppy eyes.

"Obviously." You rolled your eyes but there was no heat in it.

"What are we naming her?"

The answer came almost immediately. "Alpine." The cat yawned. Completely indifferent.

And so Alpine stayed. The garden grew. The porch swing creaked. The house filled with laughter. And some evenings, when the sun dipped low over the water and painted everything gold, you'd find yourself sitting beside Bucky on the porch.

His metal fingers intertwined with yours. Alpine sleeping nearby on the way tree her dad had built for her. Wildflowers swaying in the breeze. And sometimes you'd look at him and remember a freezing night beneath impossible stars. A railing. A dance. A sinking ship. An ocean that had nearly taken everything.

And you felt immensely grateful that somehow, against all impossible odds, the two of you had made it home.

Epilogue coming in a different post because tumblr keeps fucking with me

[fablebarnes]

saving this for my bed time story tonight :)))

[sc3ptre]

Lessons on sex

Pairing: Scott Miller x Storm Par partner!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!

Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.

Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.

Word count: 9,2k

There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

[bimbosicko]

BUT YOU FOUND A WAY TO KEEP ME HERE

no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when you’re alone. you’ve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature. ۶ৎ

pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem! reader

warnings ! lowercase on purpose, reader can be read as neurodivergent, mentions of body image issues, mentions of past depression, non-sexual nudity, implied family issues i think, ooc lars maybe??, a little angst/comfort, FLUFF. english is not my first language!! part two of this ! title from: misuse oh — ethel cain.

author's note ! oh my god, this is long as hell and i lowk didn't know how to end this!!! please remember that my requests are open for any ryan gosling character!! please YAP ABOUT THEM IN MY ASKS!! PLWEASSEEE 🤧 ok thank u.

word count ! 3,9k words (so long i'm sorryyy).

since meeting lars, you’ve learned two things about him very quickly: he is devastatingly good at scrabble, and he knows how to chop wood.

you watch him outside sometimes through the kitchen window, sweater discarded and only wearing his flannel and white undershirt, splitting logs with repetition.

lars loves repetition. you think it makes him comfortable with himself; actions repeated enough times stop requiring conscious thought entirely.

you don't think anyone else has noticed that about him.

“...and you don’t use wet wood,” he explains one evening, crouched carefully beside the fireplace. “it smokes too much.”

you nod seriously like this is the first time you've heard this information. it is not.

you already know how to build a fire; your father taught you years ago during one particularly bad winter when the power kept cutting out for hours at a time. you remember sitting cross-legged on the floor wrapped in blankets while he explained airflow and why flames suffocate without enough oxygen. you remember the gray in his head more than the instructions.

still, you let lars explain it anyway.

“dry leaves first,” he continues, focused entirely on the tiny structure he’s building between the logs. “then smaller branches. then bigger pieces after it catches.”

his personality changes when he teaches things. care reveals itself in strange ways, you suppose. sometimes it’s simply someone believing you’re worth explaining things to carefully. you hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone last treated you gently enough to teach you something without irritation. years, maybe? no. longer than that.

lars’ house is comfy. it's not really a house; it's more like a modified garage, but you never cared about that.

your mother used to say calling a house “comfy” was just a polite way of admitting it was small. but lars’ house isn’t small; at least you don't think so, and your mom used to be more wrong than right most of the time.

lars’ house feels safe in quiet ways your apartment never has. you find yourself lingering longer every visit. gus didn't believe you the first time you explained the way his house made you feel, thinking you were making a bad joke.

“he doesn’t even turn his lights on,” he said slowly, fork suspended halfway to his mouth. “that’s insane.”

you shrugged a little, suddenly embarrassed by how defensive you felt. “i don’t either.”

across from you, karin looks delighted. you think she genuinely loves how similar you and lars are.

which is a little concerning, honestly.

the snow has started melting by now. ice dripping from rooftops and patches of dead grass reappearing.

no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when you’re alone. you’ve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature.

ever since meeting lars, you’ve been spending less time by yourself. you're careful about not being too pushy; you can tell lars needs space the same way animals need quiet after being startled. too much pressure, and he retreats into himself immediately, gaze darting elsewhere, shoulders tightening beneath his sweaters, and an uncomfortable smile.

you knock exactly three times whenever you visit; routine makes the behavior yadda yadda, and he opens the door almost immediately now.

still awkward. still avoiding direct eye contact most days. his eyes usually land somewhere beside your shoulder instead, or on the floorboards, or briefly towards the trees outside before flickering back again.

but he opens the door.

sometimes, while stepping inside, you catch the curtains moving in karin and gus’ house across. you know they’re watching.

you know they think the two of you are already together. you aren’t.

probably.

the distinction feels blurrier lately than you’d like admitting.

you don’t actually do much at lars’ house. that’s the weirdest part. you sit at the kitchen counter while he cooks dinner quietly beside you. you fill the quiet, telling him about fabrics at the shop. which materials retain heat best. which textures people buy most during winter. you explain how velvet catches dust embarrassingly fast and how wool shrinks if washed incorrectly.

lars listens carefully to all of it.

sometimes you don't have more fabric to tell him about, so you talk about the weather instead.

“think it’s gonna rain tomorrow,” you say one evening, chin resting against your sleeve while lars stirs soup quietly at the stove.

he glances towards the window automatically. “yeah...”

“i hope it’s not a storm," that catches his attention, and you shrug awkwardly under the weight of his gaze. “i hate storms.”

you don’t tell him thunderstorms used to keep you awake as a child, convinced every sound outside your window meant something terrible approaching. you don’t explain how loneliness worsens during storms—somehow, every room suddenly feels too small and too loud at once.

lars doesn’t ask for explanations anyway.

after dinner, he suggests scrabble quietly. you always say yes immediately.

the two of you play for hours sometimes, knees accidentally brushing beneath the table before both of you subtly readjust in opposite directions. lars becomes strangely competitive during the game, focused intensely on every letter, brows furrowed with concentration severe enough to make you smile.

you didn't even know you could get your ass kicked at scrabble, and you think lars likes winning more than he likes speaking.

you’re not even sure if what you feel for him is romantic, but you know your body feels colder after leaving his house.

that evening ends earlier than you want it to.

you linger by lars’ doorway longer than necessary, coat already on, keys in your hand, while neither of you seems particularly eager to initiate the goodbye. lars stands there half-hidden beneath the warm yellow light from the lamps inside his house.

your boss advised you about this.

“give the man some space,” she’d told you once while folding some clothes behind the counter. “leave him wanting more.”

you hated that immediately, because she didn't seem to realize that you leave wanting more too.

you wave goodbye from your car anyway. lars lifts his hand back awkwardly from the porch.

and then you drive home alone.

making dinner for one person feels different now. the apartment feels too quiet while you stand over the stove. every sound is exaggerated: water boiling, the refrigerator humming faintly, and forks clinking against ceramic plates.

you thought about adopting a cat sometimes. you’d almost gone through with it once, months ago, after seeing a little gray kitten sleeping in the pet shop window downtown. something small and warm waiting for you at home sounded nice back then.

now the idea feels wrong, egoistical.

your mother used to say pets were like permanent babies. you’re not that good with babies.

you know this because karin and gus once asked you and lars to babysit theirs.

you’re still fairly certain it was a setup, karin practically radiating happiness. but they’d both looked so exhausted, pleading that they needed some time alone that refusing felt cruel somehow.

so, there you were, standing awkwardly in their living room, holding an actual human infant against your hip.

“i don’t think i’ve ever taken care of a baby before,” you admit carefully, bouncing the baby gently the way you’ve seen people do in movies.

the fact gus doesn’t immediately correct your form feels encouraging.

“they mostly eat, poop, and sleep,” he says casually while wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“they’re also incredibly fragile.” you remind him. “does lars know how to take care of one?”

“oh, god, no,” gus says instantly, laughing softly. “he is the baby of the family.”

something twists unexpectedly in your stomach at that.

the baby coos suddenly in your arms, tiny hands flexing against your sweater. without thinking, you press your nose gently against theirs. you’ve seen karin do it dozens of times by now; she looked cute doing it. you hope you look the same way.

your mind wanders briefly to what lars looked like as a baby.

“what was he like?” you ask, eyes looking for gus’s ones. “as a baby, i mean.”

“oh.” he smiles to himself as the memories flood his mind. “lars cried constantly. drove our dad and me insane.”

the answer lands strangely inside you. a small heavy feeling settling beneath your ribs, deep into your stomach.

you imagine tiny baby lars crying somewhere in the middle of the night, sensitive to everything already. too cold, maybe. too lonely. wanting comfort badly enough to scream for it.

the image hurts more than it should.

“mhm.” you murmur softly. “yeah, i was a crybaby too.”

“you don’t seem like one," he says, barely giving you any attention while he looks for his coat.

you don’t know why the comment bothers you immediately.

you shift the baby slightly higher against your chest. “my mom used to say i cried every time she left the room,” you admit quietly. “i was always attached to her side.”

you aren’t entirely sure why you say it. maybe to defend yourself. maybe to defend lars.

gus only nods vaguely, already focused on finding his keys. you realized he stopped listening to you entirely.

the front door opens. karin steps inside first, cheeks pink from the cold air outside, lars following close behind her.

your entire body notices him immediately, straightening your posture at the mere sight of him.

“hi,” you say. you would wave, but there’s a whole baby occupying both of your arms currently.

“hi,” lars answers softly, lifting his hand awkwardly instead.

karin looks thrilled. “you both know where to find us if anything happens,” she says brightly while pulling on her gloves. “good luck.”

you press your cheek softly against the baby’s. “say bye to mom and dad,” you murmur playfully.

you see by the corner of your eye lars closing his eyes tightly for one brief second before reopening them again.

a second pit forms in your stomach, this time different. heat rising towards your cheeks. you hope that you imagined that, because the idea of lars liking the image of you with a baby is too much to handle at the moment.

so you say nothing.

——

you were right about the rain. unfortunately, you were also right about the storm.

the sky had looked wrong all afternoon, heavy in a swollen gray. customers at the shop kept glancing towards the windows nervously while wind rattled against the glass.

“i can drive you home,” your boss offered while locking up for the evening. “your car looks like it dies out of spite.”

you narrowed your eyes immediately. “that was unnecessarily mean.”

“it’s also true.”

you refused anyway. partly because accepting help still embarrasses you in ways you haven’t outgrown apparently and partly because you trust your car despite everything. it’s old and ugly, yes, but loyal. your car has seen you cry before; that has to count for something in your opinion.

so naturally, because your opinion doesn't matter, it breaks down halfway home.

you stare ahead in silence for a full five seconds after it happens, hands still gripping the steering wheel tightly as rain pounds violently against the windshield.

“well,” you mutter finally.

thunder cracks somewhere nearby. the sound is so sudden and close your entire body jerks instinctively.

you hate thunderstorms.

as a child you used to think lightning existed specifically to reveal terrible things hidden in darkness. murderers, monsters, and people that walked too slow.

the church nearby only makes the fear worse. its lightning rod cuts sharply against the storm-dark sky now; you feel every thunder deep into your ribs. you inhale slowly, then exhale, and you try again.

your car is not restarting.

of course it fucking isn’t.

rain batters loudly against the roof while you debate your options. karin and gus’ house is close enough to walk to from here. you know they wouldn’t mind helping.

but then your thoughts drift automatically towards lars. and immediately recoil again.

you saw him yesterday, and showing up unexpectedly during a thunderstorm feels dangerously close to becoming too much. too needy. too attached. you know people can grow tired of being needed eventually.

the possibility terrifies you more than the storm does.

because you genuinely don’t know what you’d do if lars ever started looking exhausted by your presence.

you sit inside your car for another two minutes listening to rain hammer against metal. then finally step outside.

your coat darkens within seconds, rain clinging heavily to your hair and your sleeves, soaking through denim at the knees almost immediately. spring rain is different from winter snow: less sharp, but somehow more invasive. you shiver hard.

you hate how afraid you still are of storms at your age. every lightning flash still turns the world briefly unreal around you, empty streets appearing and disappearing in violent white bursts. the neighborhood is completely deserted.

your socks are already wet despite your best boots. at least it isn’t winter anymore; you think snow might actually kill you in weather like this.

you reach karin and gus’ porch first. your hand lifts automatically towards the door, about to knock. your eyes can't stop themselves from stealing a look at lars’ house.

across the road, his porch light is on.

your brain thinks it before you can manage to stop it: home.

thunder cracks again over your head, and before you can fully think better of it, your feet are already moving towards lars’ house instead.

you knock three times, as always. then again, louder. you knock a third time before realizing you’re dangerously close to beating his door down entirely.

then you hear movement inside, quick shuffling footsteps. the lock turns.

lars opens the door and stares at you openly for a second, surprise completely unhidden across his face.

“you’re wet.”

you blink at him. “there’s sort of a thunderstorm happening,” you point out gently.

a smile slips onto your face despite the cold. lars standing there half-awake and startled somehow immediately eases the panic sitting beneath your ribs.

“my car broke down,” you explain. “sorry.”

your teeth chatter slightly around the last word, “god, i’m freezing.”

instinctively, you almost reach towards his hand to prove your point, but halfway there you remember yourself and pull your hands quickly back against your chest instead. lars notices anyway.

without hesitation, he steps aside immediately to let you inside.

warmth hits your body all at once. not enough to stop the shaking yet, but enough to hurt slightly. your soaked clothes cling heavily to your skin as water drips onto his floorboards. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and laundry detergent and burnt wood from the fire earlier still lingering in the air.

you suddenly feel horribly intrusive.

“i’m sorry,” you say quickly while pulling your shoes off awkwardly by the door. “i was actually going to go to karin’s house, but…” but what?

but your body chose him automatically? but thunderstorms make you want comfort in embarrassing ways?

you say nothing instead.

“i’m glad you came here.” he says, softly.

your entire body reacts immediately, warmth rushing suddenly beneath your skin despite the freezing rain still soaking through your clothes. it’s humiliating how much power simple kindness has over you.

“do you maybe have a towel?” you ask, squeezing water absently from your sleeve. “or— i dunno, maybe i could shower or something? i really don’t want to bother you, i just—”

“yeah.”

lars answers so quickly you stop talking entirely.

“yeah,” he repeats, already moving slightly towards the hallway. “i’ll make you a bath.”

you smile at him instinctively despite still visibly trembling. “i’m probably going to need some clothes too,” you admit.

lars nods once.

“i think i still have some things from bianca.”

of course you know who bianca is. you know most things about lars by now, collected slowly over evenings at his kitchen table. bianca. the doll. the breakdown, then the funeral. you’d never make fun of him for it.

“okay,” you say gently. you give him a small thumbs-up even though your fingers are still shaking violently from the cold.

lars immediately starts moving around the house afterwards with hurried awkward energy. he looks slightly lost, but he’s trying so hard.

and there’s something devastating about watching someone unfamiliar with caretaking attempt it carefully anyway just because you need them to.

lars disappears down the hallway for several minutes. you stay there, standing near the front door, rainwater slowly collecting beneath your boots while thunder rattles faintly through the windows.

when lars finally comes back, he’s carrying a towel folded carefully over one arm and a pile of clothes against his chest. he extends them towards you without fully meeting your eyes.

you take them gently. “thank you.” the sweater on top is soft-looking, pale blue. slightly oversized. “they’re cute.”

lars blinks hard at that.

“i’ll—” he swallows once. “i’ll fill the bath.”

his hands are shaking a little. you notice because you’ve started noticing everything about him now. the way his breathing changes when he’s overwhelmed. the way he clenches his jaw slightly before speaking difficult sentences aloud.

you nod softly. “okay.”

you stay put after he leaves, partly because you’re worried about dripping water all over his floors. you glance absently towards the kitchen and you wonder if lars owns a mop. thunder cracks outside again. you wrap the towel tighter around yourself instinctively, breathing slowly until the shivering stops slightly.

lars returns a few minutes later.

“bath’s ready.”

he sounds slightly breathless. you immediately hope it isn’t because of nerves.

“okay,” you say, again. without meaning to, you mimic his tone exactly out of breath.

the bathroom is small. like everything in lars’ house. you’re oddly surprised by the bathtub. for some reason you always imagined lars as exclusively a shower person.

you place the folded clothes carefully on the sink cabinet. then you turn towards him, waiting for him to leave.

lars stays exactly where he is, watching you. his hands are curled tightly into fists at his sides. shoulders stiff. eyes fixed somewhere near your face but not making eye contact.

he looks terrified suddenly, though of what exactly you can’t tell. your stomach twists uneasily.

“lars?” you say his name gently, confused.

the rain continues softly outside while the bathroom light hums faintly overhead.

“can i…” lars’ voice catches halfway through the sentence. you wait quietly. “watch you bathe?”

your eyes widen slightly in surprise.

you know lars well enough by now to recognize that whatever this is, it isn’t casual. nothing about him is casual.

“oh,” you say softly.

your mind tries to fit the pieces together; lars standing rigid in the bathroom doorway. lars avoiding touch but watching your every move. lars admitting once that he’d never actually seen a woman naked before. not even bianca.

“oh, lars,” you murmur gently now, understanding dawning slowly. “is this because you’re curious?”

his shoulders tense immediately, eyes closing with force.

“about bodies, i mean,” you clarify.

he nods softly.

“that’s okay,” you say softly. “i’m curious about your body too.” the confession leaves your mouth before you fully think it through.

your eyes widen almost immediately afterwards.

“not like—” heat rushes painfully into your face. “i mean, i would never ask you to— not that there’s anything wrong with—” you stop yourself before embarrassing yourself entirely.

you inhale once slowly, then nod. “okay,” you murmur. “yeah. you can… watch me bathe.”

the soaked fabric hits the bathroom floor heavily when you drop it. cold air brushes immediately against newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and stomach. standing in your underwear in front of someone who isn’t technically your boyfriend should probably feel more scandalous than this.

but lars doesn’t feel like not your boyfriend either.

you wonder what this means to him. surely lars wouldn’t ask this if he didn’t imagine some future between you both eventually. unless he trusts you this much because he sees you as something safer than romance entirely: a best friend, someone comforting precisely because desire isn’t involved. your stomach twists uneasily at the possibility.

your fingers linger uncertainly against the clasp of your bra. you hesitate, and think briefly about bianca: perfect plastic proportions, smooth untouched skin, impossible symmetry.

your body is painfully human in comparison. real skin, stretch marks against your thighs, tiny scars you barely remember getting, and texture everywhere.

you hope lars doesn’t notice any of it. and immediately feel guilty for hoping that at all. as if insecurity itself is a betrayal against the female body.

“do i…” you glance towards him for the first time since you dropped your clothes, doubtfully. “keep my bra on?”

lars hasn’t looked away from your body once. he’s barely blinking, expression fixed in intense concentration, like he’s terrified of missing even a second of your skin.

“lars,” you say again softly, trying not to laugh despite your nervousness. “my underwear?”

that finally seems to break him from the state he was trapped in. he nods quickly, almost alarmed by the alternative.

you think that if he sees anything more, he might actually die on the spot.

it feels strange stepping into a bath while still wearing your underwear, but the warmth reaches you so quickly you stop caring almost immediately.

the bathtub is smaller than you expected. your heels brush the porcelain when you shift slightly, water lapping softly against your stomach. lars keeps watching you.

your body notices him immediately; you should probably feel nervous sitting half-dressed in warm water while someone watches from beside the bathtub, but instead you just feel… seen gently.

you close your eyes for a second, letting your head rest lightly against the edge of the tub. the warmth sinks deeper into your muscles now, softening places inside you that have been tense for months.

suddenly, water spills softly across your shoulder.

your eyes open immediately; you see lars crouched beside the bathtub, holding a small plastic cup in his hands. he looks deeply concentrated while carefully pouring warm water over your skin, his movements slow enough not to startle you.

you stare at him quietly; his brows knit together with focus. the nervousness is still lingering visibly in his shoulders despite how gentle he’s being. you want to thank him, but speaking feels wrong, like words might shatter whatever delicate thing exists in the room.

your eyes settle on the bathroom tiles instead. you want to watch him, but you know lars startles easily around attention sometimes, especially the direct kind, so you keep your gaze lowered instead.

“that’s nice,” you admit softly, sighing relaxed.

lars pauses beside you. “yeah?”

you nod.

from the corner of your eye, you notice lars moving again. his hand hesitates near your shoulder for half a second, then moves to your bra strap.

your breath catches, and his fingers hook gently beneath the damp fabric strap, pulling it slightly lower against your shoulder. your stomach fills with an overwhelming warmth, so intense it almost hurts.

you think suddenly, helplessly: my lars.

he thinks back: your lars.

[fablebarnes]

i am sick. this is so sweet :( you depict lars so well

[metal-armed-muse]

A TORTURE CALLED LOVE

Bucky x fem!reader (college au)

SUMMARY. You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?

WORD COUNT. 17.5K WARNINGS. college au, lowk enemies to lovers, enemies-with-benefits but with like so many feelings, MDNI, both reader and bucky are toxic, extremely messy, they hurt each other repeatedly, sometimes deliberately, verbal degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, romanogers on the side (i like them together, sue me), intoxication, caretaking, reader gets sick (hangover, a fever), acts of service as love language, smut, brat taming, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), fingering, public-ish sex (bar bathroom, an alley), public risk, pussy pronouns, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, slight overstim, slight edging, choking, nipple tugging, hair tugging, hate-fucking, dom!bucky, mean!bucky, no use of y/n. NOTES. that was long. no, seriously, please read the warnings before you interact. these guys are messy. college students acting like college students, and who better to tell you than someone who got fucked over so many times in college? heh. I am incapable of not ending on a happy note, so there’s obviously a happy ending. Like I’ve truly tried my best to actually redeem them both, but if you don’t like it… please don’t complain 😭 Inspired by this fic by @smorgaswhored ! thank you 🥹

READ ON AO3

Steve and Natasha are dating, which is fine. Great, even. They're stupidly perfect together. What's decidedly not fine is Bucky Barnes tagging along everywhere like some sort of gorgeous, infuriating barnacle you can't scrape off.

The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one. 

Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.

It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.

So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.

He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.

What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.

The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."

You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"

"Steve's sick. We're leaving."

The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.

"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.

The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."

"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"

"Looked like more than a conversation to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"

Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."

"I'm not drunk."

"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"

"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.

"Fuck off, Barnes."

You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.

The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.

"What are you —"

His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.

"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.

"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.

"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"

God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"

"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."

You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.

"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"

"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."

He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.

"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."

"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."

"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.

"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"

"Yes — fuck — yes —"

"Who's making you feel good? Say it."

"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good

"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."

You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"

"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.

"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."

True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.

Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.

Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."

When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"

He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."

It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight. 

Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.

He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.

"Fine."

"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."

Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.

Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.

"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.

"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."

It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate. 

Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you. 

"Where's Barnes?" Nat asks, stepping inside and immediately gravitating toward Steve.

"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."

You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?

Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.

Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.

An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent. 

The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.

"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.

"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."

"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"

"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.

Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.

You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.

The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Go away, Steve."

"It's not Steve."

Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"

Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath. 

"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."

He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."

"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."

"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"

He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"

"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"

Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.

"I didn't —"

"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."

Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."

"That an offer?"

"You're such a prick."

"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"

Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."

His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"

"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.

"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"

Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."

"You can't —"

"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."

That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."

"Don't —"

He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."

"You're —"

His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."

Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"

"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."

His?? 

"It's not—"

"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"

"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"

"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."

What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.

"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"

Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."

Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"

"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him. 

"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"

He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"

"Bucky, please —"

"Please what? Use your words."

"Make me cum, you asshole —"

"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.

"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect. 

"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"

You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."

"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.

He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.

"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.

"Right. This again."

If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."

"You said that two days ago."

"Well, I mean it now."

For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."

"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"

"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."

On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"

"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you. 

Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.

This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.

Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now. 

The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.

Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.

It's infuriating.

Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.

You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.

Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.

You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading. 

What the actual fuck.

"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.

He hands it over without looking at you.

There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.

Bucky doesn't say anything. Again. 

You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.

At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.

'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.

"Thanks." The word is saccharine. 

"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.

You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut. 

"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.

"Yeah. I'm done."

It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist. 

The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.

His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.

You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.

The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.

Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.

Fuck him.

You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.

Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.

You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.

Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."

"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."

"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."

You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."

"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."

"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.

"Liar."

"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."

"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."

"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."

"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"

"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."

"You agreed!"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to do something about it."

The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.

Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"

He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."

The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"

"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."

"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"

"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.

"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.

"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.

The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.

His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"

When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.

Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."

"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —" 

Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him. 

He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.

"Takes one to know one."

"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"

His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.

"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"

"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.

"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."

The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"

"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"

"Yes —"

"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."

"That's not fair —"

"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."

Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."

It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.

After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"

"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."

"I'm not drunk."

"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.

The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.

Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.

You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his. 

Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —

The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.

"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"

Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."

The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"

"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you. 

"No?"

Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."

Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."

"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."

The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.

Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.

"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."

He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.

Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.

The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.

When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.

The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him. 

By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.

You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks. 

He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.

"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."

"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.

He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.

Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.

No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.

His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."

"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."

"Okay."

"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"

"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.

The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"

"Yeah. We're good."

There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it. 

The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.

You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.

The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.

It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.

You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is. 

Except he's not. He's never actually there.

Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.

He's not.

Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.

"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."

Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.

The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.

Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.

What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.

Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.

Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.

He's not here either.

You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.

The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it? 

He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.

What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?

Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.

She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."

"Talking about what?"

"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"

"I'm sleeping fine."

"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."

You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."

There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."

"What? How —"

"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"

"Does it matter?"

"Humour me."

You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."

"Ish?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"

You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."

"Did you want him to disagree?"

The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"

"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.

"Instead you were what?"

"I don't know. Something else."

"Like what?"

You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"

"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear. 

"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."

"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."

"That's not —"

But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."

"Little bit, yeah."

"What do I do?"

"Tell him."

"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."

"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"

She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.

Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings. 

After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.

"I need to talk to you."

There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."

"It's important."

"I said I'm busy."

"Bucky, please."

Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."

"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"

He hangs up before you can finish.

Bucky is ten minutes late.

Not that you're counting.

Eleven minutes now.

You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.

Twelve minutes.

Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.

He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.

"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.

"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.

"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.

He shrugs. 

This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.

"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."

"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."

"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"

"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."

"But I do want —"

"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."

The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."

The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard. 

"You're confused," he says finally.

"I'm not —"

"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."

"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"

"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."

"That's not fair."

"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."

"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"

"So you ended it. Which was the right call."

You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."

"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."

"Bucky —"

"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."

Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe."

"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"

"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."

You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."

"I'm really not."

"Then why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.

He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.

The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.

"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot. 

"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."

Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.

"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.

"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."

Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.

What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?

You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.

He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.

Nothing.

You meant absolutely nothing.

Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.

Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.

Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.

Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.

Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.

The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh. 

Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning. 

Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.

You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out. 

The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.

There's Bucky? 

Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.

You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."

He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.

"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."

"It's not a dream, baby."

Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.

"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."

You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.

Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.

And dream-Bucky is still there.

Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."

Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."

He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."

You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Nat told Steve you were sick —"

"Why the fuck do you care?"

Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.

The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."

"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."

"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways. 

"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think. 

You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"

"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now. 

"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."

His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."

"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."

He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."

"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"

"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"

"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.

Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.

"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."

The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.

You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."

The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."

"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"

"I came because I was worried about you."

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You can barely stand."

"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.

Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.

You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.

"I'm not a dog."

"Please sit down before you fall down."

You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you. 

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something."

"I said I'm not —"

"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act. 

"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.

"It matters. Drink the broth."

"You're not my mother."

"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated. 

You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.

Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.

"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.

"Getting there."

You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.

But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.

After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.

When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.

Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.

You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.

Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.

You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.

Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."

You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.

He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"

Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.

"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"

He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.

"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.

"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.

When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."

The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.

But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside. 

His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."

The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?

"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."

The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.

Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."

You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"

"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.

"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate. 

Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.

"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."

You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."

"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.

"What?"

"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."

Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.

You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."

He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.

You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.

"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."

Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.

"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."

Wait.

"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"

"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.

"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"

The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.

You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.

"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"

Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you. 

"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."

"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.

"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."

Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him. 

"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."

"What about it?"

"You told me you liked me."

Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"

"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."

No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."

"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."

Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.

"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"

The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck. 

"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."

The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.

"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."

It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.

"So you decided to hurt me first," you say. 

The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."

He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.

"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening. 

"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"

"Bucky." 

"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"

You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.

This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."

His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.

Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.

There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.

He's crying.

Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.

The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.

You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.

"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."

His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."

Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."

He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."

One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.

"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek. 

"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.

You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.

None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"

You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.

Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."

Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.

But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."

His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.

No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.

He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.

He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words. 

You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."

His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."

There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.

"Okay?"

"I believe you."

His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.

"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."

"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything. 

"So we're both disasters."

"Seems like it."

His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."

Together.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."

"Anything."

"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"

He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."

"What was the speech?"

"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."

"C'mon."

"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."

"That's actually kind of creepy."

His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."

You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.

"I liked fighting with you," you admit.

"I know. I could tell."

"It was the only time you paid attention to me."

"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."

All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.

"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"

There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."

"And then we fucked instead."

"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."

You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.

"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."

The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.

"For what?"

"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."

"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."

"Yeah. We're here."

His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.

There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.

You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.

Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.

He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed. 

He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up. 

It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.

But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.

His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.

"How we got here."

"Long fucking journey."

"Worth it?"

"Every second of it."

The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.

But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.

Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!

TAGLIST. @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[winteryn]

VIBE CHECK

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break. WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (I just love beefy men so much ❤️‍🩹); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.  WORD COUNT: 14k A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor. 

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms. 

“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame. 

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint. 

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning. 

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another. 

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work. 

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you. 

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing. 

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.

You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.

He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder. 

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... it’s just unbearable. 

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace. 

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes. 

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.

With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”

Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.

“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. 

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.

You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds. 

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.

“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why—”

“You have your own stuff to do—”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.

He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... the last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.

“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.

Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.

She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.

She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.

She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart. 

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest. 

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs. 

His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.” 

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?” 

“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But—”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him. 

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow. 

His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?” 

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, mh?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?” 

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw. 

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond. 

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.” 

“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.

“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”

The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions. 

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.  

“Feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting. 

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

Yes, a good girl. His. 

“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”

You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core. 

“Shit.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.” 

Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom. 

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner. 

“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.

“Swallow.” 

Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.

“Beautiful.” 

“Bucky please.” 

“Please what? Need words, angel.”

Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”

“I need—can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.

“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me.”

You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge. 

“Again.” 

You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around. 

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?” 

“Please.” 

“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.

“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”

“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”

The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance. 

Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.” 

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.

Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens. 

“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.

Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously. 

His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock. 

He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. 

His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.

“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. 

“Give it to me, doll. Use me.” 

You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble. 

“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you.

“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick. 

Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.

“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.

“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”

“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”

He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.

Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.

You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.

“You are mine, right?”

“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds. 

“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.

“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.

“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.

“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.

“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw. 

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.

It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head. 

And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.

You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.

“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”

His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done. 

Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.

Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks. 

It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.

“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.

Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.

His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest. 

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍

[fablebarnes]

holy shit

[diorinthenight]

SOMETHING ABOUT YOU

❝and there was something about you, that now I can't remember❞

pairing: dr. ryland grace x fem! reader summary: you signed up to save the world, not work with the person you can't stand. ryland grace is the reason why you lost all credibility in academia. he is the reason why you can't do your research in peace. yet he's also the reason you get butterflies. wc: 7.3k cross-posted to ao3 tags & warnings: mdni please! angst & fluff. enemies to lovers. slow burn. reader is lowk mean af. black cat! gf x golden retreiver! bf. recommended listening: about you - the 1975

part two: do you think i have forgotten about you?

It was just another day.

You were in the lab, suited up, testing materials for space applications. As an aerospace engineer specializing in energy and fuel systems, your work should have felt groundbreaking. It didn’t.

You carefully placed thin samples of aerogel into a vacuum chamber, monitoring their thermal response under cryogenic conditions. Liquid nitrogen cycled through the system, pushing the material to extremes while sensors tracked heat transfer and structural stability. 

On paper, it was fascinating work. In reality, you hated your job.

You have a doctorate in aerospace engineering from a prestigious university. You specialize in energy systems, making you one of the few women in your field. You have connected with impressive names in the aerospace community. NASA practically waved you a job offer fresh out of undergrad. You had spent more hours in research than you had sleeping. The pay was good. Good enough to indulge in your hobbies, but none of it mattered. You were the only woman on your team, constantly undermined, constantly handed the worst tasks, and you were the youngest person in the building by a long shot.

No one took you seriously.

You had taken this job believing you would do something meaningful with your life. Instead, you felt like you were slowly wasting away. You’re ready to go home, heat up leftovers, and cuddle with your cat, Atom. It was 5:00 PM. You were quick to clean up your work space and remove your personal protective equipment.

You packed your bag, ready to leave, when a woman approached you. She was elegant. She is dressed in black, contrasting from her beautiful, red hair.

“Good evening, Doctor,” she said with a soft smile.

Doctor. You hadn’t been addressed like that in a long time.

“My name is Eva Stratt. I’m part of the Petrova Task Force.”

“Hello, Eva,” you replied cautiously. “If you’re looking for the chief engineer or my supervisor, they just left.”

You reached for your keys, but something about her steady gaze made you hesitate.

“I’m actually here for you,” she said, setting a thick stack of papers on the table. It had to have been at least a stack of one hundred pages. You skim over the title and immediately, your eyes widen.

"Bioenergetic Systems for High-Efficiency Energy and Fuel Storage in Spacecraft Propulsion."

Your name sat neatly beneath the title. It was your research thesis that you were profoundly proud of until it became your stack of regrets. It investigated bioinspired energy storage sources that could outperform traditional chemical storage systems used in spacecraft today. It was something you believed in.

You hadn’t thought about that paper in years. Mostly because no one else had believed in it. Not after everything that happened. Not after the fallout with a certain scientist. A scientist that makes your blood boil and heart hurt at the thought of him. .

“I haven’t looked at that in years,” you said carefully. “And I’m not sure if you’re aware, but… it didn’t exactly win awards. If anything, I was ridiculed because of my association with—”

You cut yourself off. Thinking about him still made your chest tighten, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Eva didn’t react.

“Don’t worry,” she said calmly. “I’m not here to discuss what happened then. I’m here to offer you a new position.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. New Position? Give up your dream role for some random lady that’s digging up the past. You were blessed to even land this role despite your reputation.

“Unless you can pay me double what I make now or somehow let me save the world from its inevitable doom… I’m going to have to decline.”

Eva held your gaze.

“What if I told you,” she said carefully, “that you could do exactly that?”

You felt something change in your heart for the first time in a long time. You felt hope.

“Okay, so when do I start, and can someone watch my cat?”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

The lab Eva led you into was nothing like yours.

It was cleaner, quieter. Not to mention the tighter security. Every surface gleamed like it had been scrubbed of mistakes. You feel giddy, thinking about all of the new equipment you get to work with.

You stepped inside anyway, and then you saw him.

Ryland Grace stood on the other side of the room, hunched over a workstation, mumbling to himself as he pipettes black matter into petri dishes. He’s focused, unaware of you or Stratt entering the lab. He looked the same. Maybe a little more tired. A little more worn down. Unfortunately, still very handsome.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

You turned immediately, hand already reaching for the door.

“Absolutely not.”

“Doctor—” Eva started.

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you realized. “You didn’t tell me he was here.”

At the sound of your voice, Ryland froze. He recognizes your voice immediately. The power it can command in a room. Slowly, he turned around. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

His eyes widened, like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.

“...You?” he said quietly.

There it was the same hesitation that had driven you insane years ago.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Me.”

You moved to leave again, but Eva stepped slightly into your path to prevent you from leaving.

“We need both of you,” she said calmly.

“I don’t need him,” you shot back.

Ryland flinched. Of course he did.

Eva didn’t react. “This project involves a form of extraterrestrial microorganism.”

There it goes. Your interest is piqued. Something groundbreaking, meaningful that can prove you can make a positive impact on this world.

“You specialize in bioenergetic systems,” she continued. “He specializes in the organism itself. Separately, you are useful. Together, you are essential.”

You clenched your jaw. “Can you find someone else?”

“There is no one else.”

Silence stretched between the three of you. Ryland is bouncing in his chair, the anxiety obviously consuming him. 

Behind Eva, Ryland shifted awkwardly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get there. Typical.

“I thought academia chewed you up and spit you out.,” you muttered, not looking at him.

“It did,” he said, voice small. “I just… kept getting spit back.”

You closed your eyes for a second, irritation flaring.

God, he was still the same. Still self-deprecating. Still unsure. Still—

“I read your paper again,” he added suddenly.

“What?”

“The bioenergetics one,” he said, taking a hesitant step closer. “It was… it was really good. Actually brilliant. I should’ve said that back then.”

The memory hit whether you wanted it to or not. The conference. The room was full of people. Grace, laughing nervously, deflecting, making a joke at the wrong time. You remember. He called someone a waste of carbon. It was true, but your credibility depended on Grace maintaining professionalism. You devoted your life to this research, but you did what any good person would do. You stayed by his side because he wasn’t just your colleague but he was also your friend. Someone who you cared for deeply. Standing beside him as the room turned on both of you.

Your work was dismissed. Your credibility dragged down with his.

Eva didn’t seem to pay too much attention to the tension in the room. If anything, it entertained her.

“The astrophage can store and release energy at efficiencies we do not fully understand,” she said, cutting cleanly through the moment. “Potentially enough to solve a global energy crisis. Or end us, if we fail to understand it.”

You didn’t respond, but you also didn’t leave.

“Okay, I’m staying. Only because I want to save the world.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Despite the large size of the lab, you feel very suffocated. It might be because of Ryland’s hovering. For every step you take away from him, he takes two steps closer to you.

“Do you always stand that close,” you mutter, not looking at him, “or is this a special occasion?”

He immediately takes a step back. “Right. Personal space. I remember that. I respect that. Big fan of space, actually professionally and… socially… and actual space is cool…”

You glance at him, unimpressed and a little annoyed. “Good. Stay in it.” You wave your hand at him to move just a bit more. He awkwardly shifts to the side, still watching you work.

“…You look the same,” he blurts. 

Slowly, you turn your head. “What?”

“I panicked,” he admits. “When I look at you, my brain just—” he makes a vague exploding motion with his hands. “—explodes.”

“Hmm… Okay....”

You turn back to the screen, typing away at your findings.

He winces. “Okay, deserved.”

Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of equipment.

“So,” he says cautiously, “biomatter that can survive vacuum and extreme radiation. That’s… new since I last saw you.”

“Yeah,” you reply flatly. “Turns out when your reputation gets dragged through the mud, you either quit academia or get better.”

Another stab to Ryland. 

“Right. Still deserved.”

You pull up a thermal output graph, tapping the screen. “Astrophage stores energy at absurd densities. Way beyond anything we’ve modeled. The question is how it regulates release without destabilizing or you know kaboom.” You make an explosion using your hands, earning a small smile from Ryland.

Ryland leans in again, but slower, like approaching a wild animal. He’s afraid that in any second, you might take a bite at him.

“It migrates toward radiation,” he says, slipping into science mode. “Like it’s feeding, but it also—uh—self-regulates temperature somehow. I think.” 

“Interesting… because if this thing is even half as efficient as it looks, we’re either looking at the greatest energy breakthrough in history… or something that cooks the planet.” You say, scrolling through the graph. You’re honestly in awe, working with Ryland again. He’s smart, but his issue is he just doesn’t believe himself.

“Optimistic as always,” he mumbles.

“Realistic,” you correct. “Someone has to be.”

He glances at you, hesitant. “You used to believe in things more.”

You stop typing. Slowly, you turn to face him fully now.

“I used to believe in you,” you say. If Ryland listened closely, he would be able to hear the underlying tone of sadness underneath your sharpness. 

He goes still and scratches the back of his head.

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s… kind of the problem.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you should. Then you break it, turning back to the screen. You used to believe in Ryland. Honestly, a part of you still does, but you can’t give him that satisfaction yet. There is something so brilliant about Ryland, you just wish he could see it sometimes. The fact that he doesn’t makes you more annoyed than anything else.  

“Alright,” you say briskly. “If you’re done spiraling, explain this to me.”

You point to another graph. “Why doesn’t it overload?”

He blinks, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Oh—uh—okay, yeah. Good question. We think it converts energy into some kind of—like—temporary mass storage? Or… not mass. Something else. I don’t know yet.”

You stare at him.

“You don’t know,” you state.

“Not in a satisfying, publishable way, no,” he says. “In a ‘I stayed up for 36 hours and this is my best guess’ way? Yes.”

You sigh. “Right.”

“Hey,” he says, a little defensive now, “I’m working with alien space microbes, not a lab manual.”

Your anger starts to bubble, and you can't find a way to contain it. See this is why you were concerned about working with him again.

“Ryland, you know what your problem has always been?,” you shoot back. “You don’t believe in yourself. You have terrible imposter syndrome, and it makes it so hard for people to believe in you when you can’t even believe in yourself.”

You can't believe Stratt thinks you two can actually be productive. You can't even listen to Ryland breathe without being a little pissed off. How are you two supposed to get any work done?

“We could have this figured out sooner if you actually took yourself seriously.”

Ryland pauses. He knows you’re right. He has nothing to defend himself over. Then a small, reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.

“…You’re still really mean,” he says nervously.

You feel a tinge of guilt. Maybe you have been too hard on Ryland, but you have to. You have to guard yourself from disappointment. 

“…Not without reason,” you say more quietly, eyes dropping back to the screen. “And not… intentionally.”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to push your buttons or let it go.

“When have you ever done anything unintentionally?” he asks.

You huff out a small breath. “Please. I’m extremely intentional.”

You sigh, dropping your head in your hands.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “you’re still sitting here.”

You smirked despite yourself. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the alien space bacteria.”

You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair. “You’re lucky the world might be ending,” you add. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be within a ten-mile radius of you.”

Ryland raises his eyebrows, a bit amused. “Wow,” he says. “That’s sweet.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he replies, a little too quickly. Then, softer, “I think I missed this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Miss what? Me insulting you?”

“…Yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes. “A little.”

“Grace, that’s really weird.”

“I.. I know.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

“So why do you hate Dr. Grace so much?” Carl asks from his booth while you hover over the microscope, carefully adjusting the focus to look at your little astrophage babies.

The astrophage glows faintly under the lens. You smile to yourself, imagining they’re all saying Hi Mama. You’ve spent hours stabilizing this batch, coaxing them into reproduction like they’re something delicate instead of potentially world-ending. 

“Okay, Atom… don’t embarrass me,” you murmur, sliding the petri dish back with careful hands.

Carl watches you, amused. “You named it.”

“I name all of them,” you reply, matter-of-fact. “I am their mother, and it keeps me from going crazy in here.”

Carl doesn’t really understand what you mean, and instead just stares at you in confusion.

“I don’t hate him,” you say finally, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t hate anyone.”

Carl raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

“Dr. Grace and I go back,” you continue. “Way back.”

You cross your arms, staring at nothing in particular as old memories try to organize themselves into something coherent. Honestly, the more you think about it, the more you’ve realized that you forgot really the main point of why you’re so angry at Ryland. Sure, you have tons of small reasons, but you can’t seem to remember the big why

“We were both working on our PhDs at the same time at the same university. Same building, just a couple of floors apart. Same conferences. Same rooms where everyone was trying to prove they were the smartest person alive.” You huff a quiet laugh.

You push yourself off the counter, pacing slowly.

“I believed in him,” you admit. “Even when his research sounded insane. ‘Life without water’? Most people wrote it off immediately. But he didn’t. He stood by it. He was willing to die on that hill.” You stop, softer now. “And I admired that. A lot.”

You glance back at Carl.

“Especially because I didn’t have that kind of confidence. I was the youngest doctoral candidate in the program. Every room I walked into, I had to prove I deserved to be there.” You shrug slightly. “And then there was him… just existing in his own lane. He fought for what he believed in.”

Carl nods slowly. “So what changed?”

You hesitate because that’s the part that never comes out clean. You’ve been clouded by so much anger in the past that this part gets a little bit fuzzy.

“That conference,” you say finally. “He… said something. To the wrong people. Suddenly, everything tied to him—his work, his collaborators—became a joke. He was really hell bent on his ideas and it got to the point where he was willing to put his reputation on the line.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. “I was one of those collaborators.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Ouch.”

You run a hand through your hair, exhaling.

“I know I come off as bitter. Or like a bitch,” you add bluntly. “But it’s not about hating him. It’s about protecting myself.”

You look back at the incubator, watching the faint glow inside.

“I can’t let Grace make a fool out of me again.”

Carl leans back in his chair, considering that. “So you’re just… petty?”

You shoot him a look. “Wow, Carl. You really woke up and chose violence today.”

You hold your hands up in defense. “Scientists don’t get a lot,” you say after a moment. “Our work is everything. Our reputation is everything. Without that, we’re just… people who spent too many years in school with nothing to show for it.”

You wait a moment, then add more quietly. “And I almost became that. Just some idiot with too much knowledge and nothing to do with it.”

“I mean, look at him,” you continue, trying to lighten your tone again. “He got pushed out so far he ended up teaching middle school science.”

Carl chuckles, but you immediately point at him and shake your head firmly.

“Hey—don’t laugh. That was actually… good for him.”

Carl blinks. “What?”

You sigh.

“Any other egotistical academic would’ve spent years trying to claw their way back into the spotlight. But Ryland…” you shake your head slightly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your mouth. “He stopped. He found something he actually cared about.”

Carl studies you more closely now. It’s apparent you’ve grown soft in the conversation. Yes, you were driven by anger, but now it’s different.

“It wasn’t about validation anymore,” you continue. “It wasn’t about impressing people who think being the smartest person in the room is a personality trait.”

You glance down at your hands.

“…He was happy, and that’s really cool he found fulfillment there. I can’t even say I was happy before I came here. I hated my job.”

Carl leans forward slightly. “...So what?.. Do you still care about him?”

“I—” you start, then stop, shaking your head like you can physically push the thought back.

“I do,” you admit quietly. “I just try not to.”

Carl doesn’t say anything this time. He listens intently, letting you have your moment with your emotions. It’s clear to him you haven’t spoken about this much. Carl also has a very therapeutic aura to him that makes it easy for people to talk to him.

“After everything that happened,” you continue, voice a little tighter now, “it was hard for me to get taken seriously. My name got tied to his, whether it was fair or not. Interviews went cold. Offers disappeared. People smiled at my face and then questioned me behind closed doors.”

Your fingers tap absently against the counter. Your foot anxiously bounces your knee. You’re trying to find the right words, but maybe there are no right words.

“And the worst part is… I don’t even know if I’m still angry at him for that.”

Carl frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

You shake your head.

“I mean I remember being angry. I remember being humiliated. I remember telling myself I’d never let him anywhere near my work again.” You let out a small, frustrated laugh. “But why? The exact moment everything broke? It’s… fuzzy.”

You look back at the incubator.

At Atom and all of the other little cultures of astrophage. 

“…All I know is that when I see him,” you say quietly, “I feel like I have to be angry.”

“Because if I’m not—” Your mind begins to trail off.

Carl raises an eyebrow. “If you’re not…?”

You shake your head, cutting yourself off before you can finish the thought.

“…Then I might forgive him,” you say. You start to feel a little bit of regret. A little bit guilty for holding onto this grudge for so long, but you’re scared of disappointment again. Even now you’re scared something might go wrong with Project Hail Mary, and your name will go down with it.

“Have you ever considered a therapist…?” Carl asks. You shake your head and laugh at him.

“Why would I need one if I have you, Carl.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

A few hours pass, Carl is now long gone, and it’s just you alone in the lab. You’re starting to think you’ve hit the thousands in terms of hours spent in this lab. You could be blindfolded and still be able to perform any procedure. That’s how well you’ve gotten to know the space.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too focused on your cultures. Atom and the rest of the astrophage cultures behaving exactly the way they’re supposed to, and now you’re trying to figure out the best material to keep them in that would allow them to survive the journey to space. 

Then you feel it. A slight shift in the room. There is a quiet, hesitant presence you’d recognize anywhere.

You don’t look up.

“…You’re hovering,” you say flatly.

A pause.

“I’m standing,” Ryland Grace replies.

You adjust the microscope slightly. “It feels like hovering.”

Another pause.

“…Okay, yeah. I might be hovering.”

You sigh, leaning back just enough to glance at him.

He looks nervous. Not awkward in his usual way. Not distracted or rambling. Just nervous. You can’t predict what he’s going to say. You can’t predict anything about him actually.

“What do you want, Grace?” you ask.

He shifts his weight slightly, hands fidgeting at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s new,” you mutter.

“I deserve that,” he admits immediately.

You straighten, crossing your arms. “Okay. Talk.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for a while.

“I feel like this is a step needed to better our working relationship. I never really gave you what you deserve. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and well, I also spoke to Carl. Carl told me—”

“Okay, so are you going to get to the point or?”

“I’m sorry. I am truly sorry. With everything in my body, I am sorry.”

“Oh…” You bite your tongue from saying anything else. You would hate to say something you will regret. You sit quietly for a second, trying to quiet all the anger in your brain.

Ryland stands close to you, fiddling with his thumbs. He look as though he’s holding his breath until you respond because his face is starting to look a little blue. 

“I thought if I just… removed myself, it would make things better for everyone else,” he continues. “Like distancing myself would somehow undo the damage.” 

“It actually just dug a bigger hole for myself, and I couldn’t get out of it…”

“I know, and I’m sorry about that too. I’m sorry for everything. Embarrassing you and ruining your reputation alongside mine,” he tries his best to keep his voice steady and mind from trailing off.

You look up at Ryland. The guilt is clearly eating him from the inside out.  You take a deep breath in. It’s time to let go. For once, feel something other than mad. 

“...I was angry at you for a long time,” you say finally. “I built my career back up from that mess. I had to become someone who couldn’t be undermined again.”

“I want to fix what I can now.” 

You relax, just a little. You didn’t realize your fists were balled up tight enough to leave imprints of your nails in your palms. 

“I don’t know how to not be angry at you. There is just something about you...,” you admit, more quietly now.

He nods in agreement.

“That’s fair.”

You huff a breath, shaking your head slightly. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says.

“…But,” you add reluctantly, “I don’t think I want to keep being this mad forever.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. A wave of relief washes over Ryland. You can finally see the color come back to his cheeks.

You nod slightly.

“Yeah.”

You shift your weight, leaning back against the counter now instead of bracing yourself against it.

“I don’t need some big apology speech,” you add. “I just needed you to… acknowledge it and not pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ryland suddenly sticks his hand out to you. You are a bit confused on why he wants to shake hands on it.

“…What are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m—uh—making it official?” he says, like even he isn’t entirely sure.

You raise an eyebrow. “Official what?”

He hesitates. Then, slowly, his hand shifts. His fingers curl in until only his pinky is extended.

You stare at it.

“…Are you serious right now?”

“A pinky promise is legally binding in at least three middle schools,” he says, completely straight-faced.

You can’t help it. You laugh. What starts out as a few chuckles turns into full body laughs before you can stop it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head.

“Extremely,” he agrees.

But he doesn’t drop his hand. He just waits. There’s something oddly sincere about it. 

You hook your pinky around his.

“And I pinky promise,” he says, a little quieter now, like the joke has settled into something more real, “I won’t let that happen again.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around his.

“And I promise,” you reply, glancing up at him, “to be less of an ass.”

A small smile spreads across his face.

“What if I were to tell you,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “I didn’t mind it?”

You slowly let go of his finger and pull it back to yourself.

“Grace… that’s still really weird.”

“I.. I know.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Weeks have passed since you were assigned to work with Ryland. The hours slipped by unnoticed. At some point, the world outside stopped mattering entirely. It felt like the lab was just a secret place for only you and Ryland.

It might’ve been weeks on working with the astrophage. The clock is ticking, but you and Ryland don’t lose hope. Ryland has seen parts of you, he’s never seen and vice versa. The way you mumble equations and theories when you sleep, or how he sings to himself when he’s deep in focus.

You are leaning over the console, eyes tired but sharp, fingers moving on instinct as the astrophage model pulsed in front of you. It’s brighter now and barely holding a steady shape.

“Run it again,” you murmured. “With the adjusted input.”

“I am,” Ryland Grace said, voice rough with exhaustion, but there was something else there too. Focus. Awe. “Just—give it a second.”

The curve aligned and became consistent. Energy in. Energy stored. Energy released. Balanced perfectly.

Your breath caught. “Ryland…”

“I see it,” he said, softer now.

You both leaned in at the same time, shoulders brushing. This time neither of you even noticed. You grab his hand covering the mouse and drag it over to increase the model size. Ryland notices this touch instantly and tries to hide his nerves. He hasn’t been touched in such a long time. 

“It’s stabilizing itself,” you said. “The astrophage is not losing energy randomly. I-It’s regulating it. Like it knows—Holy shit”

Ryland looks at you. Not the screen. Not the data. You.

For a moment, the breakthrough wasn’t the thing that made his chest feel too tight. It was you.

The way your eyes lit up when you were excited. The way your voice beamed when you were thinking through something brilliant. The way you leaned into the problem without hesitation or fear. The way you get a bit snappy and mean when you’re hungry. 

You had always been like this, and he always enjoyed watching it.

You rise out of your chair, stumbling over because you lost sensation in your legs after sitting in a chair for hours. Ryland catches your arm, balancing you. You look into his eyes and smile. A childish grin is on your face, and your eyes look a bit crazed. It might be a delusion from lack of sleep but you’re so excited. Almost instinctively, Ryland nervously hugs you. He’s surprised to feel you hug him back. You couldn’t contain your excitement.

“…We did it,” he said, almost like he needed to remind himself.

You smiled, a real one. Not sharp or guarded. A real genuine smile. One that he hasn’t seen from you in a long time.

“Yeah, but also…,” you said. “...you did.”

His heart stuttered. You realize how you’re holding onto him, and you immediately let go. Ryland wished you didn’t though. It felt right. 

“I just realized something…,” he started, leaning forward slightly like he was about to give a lecture to a room of middle schoolers. “... an easier way to explain all of this.”

You blinked. He's going to try to teach it to you like you're a middle schooler. “Oh no...”

“If I were teaching right now,” he continued, “I would say astrophage is basically like… a microscopic solar-powered submarine.”

You blinked. “That is not what it is.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It absorbs energy like sunlight,” he said, counting on his fingers, “it stores it, and then it moves through space using that energy. That’s a submarine. Just… space submarine.”

He gives you a smile and a thumbs up as if this was a bigger revelation than your research, and you just look back with a straight face. 

“A space submarine… that is the most oversimplified explanation I’ve ever heard in my life,” you said, trying to bite back your slight annoyance.

“This is a metaphor, not a peer-reviewed paper.”

You stared at him. You feel a twinge on irritation. Not enough to get you mad, but enough to make your vein pop out of your forehead.

Then he adds, “It’s like if a plant and a battery had a really weird baby.”

You look at him for a beat. He's ridiculous. Truly and utterly ridiculous. Then you burst into a fit of laughter. You’re clutching your stomach and slamming your fist against the table. You might be delirious right now from the lack of sleep, but you just can’t believe him.

"A weird baby…” you repeated, tears collecting in your eyes from laughing so hard. "That's so stupid?"

“I don’t know how I wasn’t fired by the Board of Education,” Ryland shrugs. “I guess it worked on them.”

“You know,” he said after a moment, softer now, “I used to do that all the time. Making things easier to understand.” 

“As much as I make fun of you for being an absolute nerd, I don’t think I can fully make fun of you for being a teacher.”

Ryland is surprised, seeing a glimpse of vulnerability in you. “Wait really?”

“I think it’s cool. I bet the kids loved you. You’re weird. I think kids like that. You make learning less scary for them. There's just something about you.”

“…Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you said.

It’s probably five in the morning. You couldn’t see the sky, but your body knew. That strange, internal certainty that the night had nearly given up and the world outside was about to start moving again. 

“I think we both need rest,” you said quietly, finally leaning back from the console.

You turned toward him.

Ryland Grace looked worse than you did. Hair a mess, eyes heavy, and posture slouched like gravity had doubled overnight. But he also looked different. Lighter, somehow. Like something in him had unclenched without him realizing it.

You reach out to him before you fully think it through.

“Hey—” he started.

You took his glasses off his face.

“Don’t worry,” you said quickly, already smiling faintly. “I’m just cleaning them.” You chuckle, waving them around in front of him before taking a cloth out of your pocket to clean it off.

Before you give them back, you take a good look at Ryland. You’ve never realized how handsome he is now. He was always cute in a nerdy kind of way, but now he looks wiser and aged. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes from years of laughing despite everything. The deeper crease in his forehead that didn’t come from age alone, but from constant worry. The slight tension in his jaw.

Your chest feels warm by being so close to Ryland. You step closer, sliding his glasses back onto his face. You take your index finger and push his glasses up his nose. 

He is focused on your movements. If he looks away, he’s worried he’ll miss it. He’ll miss you. Something he didn’t want to lose again.

You leaned in slightly. Letting gravity do the work. Ryland didn’t move away. He just stares at you in awe. If they could, his glasses would fog from the heat in his face. Your chest tightened as you realized he was close enough now that you could feel his breath if you focused.

Close enough that the world outside the lab stopped existing properly.

His voice dropped. “I’m trying not to mess this up.”

“I know,” you whispered.

There was an unmistakable spark that made your stomach flipped and your thoughts briefly stopped making sense. His hand moved slightly on the table. Almost touching you.

You saw it happen like it was happening in slow motion. You slowly lean in, breath heavy. For a second, there was nothing else. The world isn’t ending. There is no mission, or lab, or past mistakes. Just the space closing between you like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Your eyes fluttered down. He hesitates for a second before closing his. Your lips were hovering over his, only a small push needed to bring you together. It felt like it was about to happen.

Like it should happen. Like it was inevitable.

Reality snapping back in. Both of you stopped instantly, breath catching at the same time. Ryland pulls away quickly.

“I think this is the first time you…”

You made a move on Ryland?

“...didn’t make fun of me for five whole minutes.” Ryland says with a small smile. You shake your head and give him a small push on the shoulder.

“Well, if you’re going to sit there smug, I am going to go to sleep.” You walk towards the door, stretching your arms.

“Hey.”

You waited at the doorway. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m apologizing for really. I’m just sorry.”

You look at him for a long moment and give him a small smile. You didn’t realize how sensitive Ryland is to your emotions since your pinky promise, and you’ve realized you need to do a better job at letting him know you’re not upset anymore.

“It’s okay, Ryland. You don't need to apologize,” you stop for a moment, looking at him sincerely, “Don’t lose sleep over it.”

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

There is no better way to celebrate a breakthrough like a “We are sending you off to die” party. It sounds grim in theory, but the camaraderie masks the underlying feeling of dread on the ship.

“Hey, Ryland.”

“Y-Yes,” he says, a little too quickly, eyes flicking to your hand as you hold it out to him.

“Come dance with me.”

That makes his brain short-circuit. You want to dance with him? 

Around you, the crew is still celebrating. The room is filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and crew members singing karaoke. The mission is far from over, but for tonight, everyone is taking a moment to celebrate as they prepare to send people off to save the world.

You feel the stare of other crew members as you grab Ryland’s hands. You don’t care. You tug him gently before he has time to overthink it.

“I—wait—” Ryland Grace starts, but he’s already on his feet, slightly off balance as he follows you.

“Wow,” you say, glancing down at his hands once you’ve got him in front of you. “You’re really sweaty.”

“I’m nervous,” he blurts out immediately. “Last time I danced was—uh—when I chaperoned Homecoming, and I definitely stepped on someone’s feet, and they yelled, and I—”

“Ryland.”

He stops.

You press your finger against his lips. “Shhh.”

His mouth stays closed. He nods once like you’ve given him very serious instructions.

“Just follow my lead,” you say.

Ryland is stiff under your touch, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to mess it up. His shoulders are tight, legs are locked, and his hands are hovering like he’s afraid of doing something wrong just by existing near you. His eyes are focused on your feet, making sure he doesn't step on your toes.

“You can put your hands on my waist. I won’t bite,” you joke, guiding his hands to your waist.

The sound of Stratt singing fills the space around you. She’s soft, melodic while singing The Sign of the Times. The song is a bit ironic. It’s like she understands the value of pretending, for a moment, that things can be normal. 

You rest your head on his chest, humming the song to yourself. Ryland finally relaxes. You’re not going anywhere, and it causes him to finally give into the moment. He gains the confidence to give you a spin, and you laugh as he twirls you over and over again. He actually doesn’t know when to stop.

You balance yourself on him, getting a bit dizzy. You look into his deep, blue eyes and laugh to see how perplexed he is in this happy moment. You lean your head close to his, getting on your toes to see him eye to eye. Your forehead is resting on his.

His hands tensed at your waist, like his body didn’t know whether to pull you closer or freeze completely. 

You closed the last bit of space between you two, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is soft and intentional. You’re spilling all of the emotions you’ve built up for him at this moment. Ryland melts. He pulls you closer, hands practically squeezing your waist. 

He pulls away just for a moment to catch his breath. Ryland is running hot, face flushed. You laugh, just happy to be in this moment with him.

“…You’re really warm,” he murmurs against your lips, like it’s an observation he didn’t mean to say out loud.

You let out a quiet laugh. “That’s usually how humans work.”

“...And you’re soft.”

“Okay, let’s get back to dancing.”

You steal another kiss from Ryland. A kiss that seals just how much you've grown to care for him.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Red strobes washed through the corridor windows. People were running. There are too many voices at once. People yelling. People crying. Somewhere outside the reinforced glass, the astrophage testing had failed. First, there was a boom of light. Then there was an explosion, smoke clouds swallowing everything nearby the site. It was too bright, too real, too final. Even through reinforced observation panels, the shockwave rippled through structures like the building itself had flinched.

You don’t move. Only the sick drop in your stomach when you realized how close the testing bay was.

One thought was frantic enough to overshadow any other thought in your head.

Ryland.

Ryland Grace

You were already running before your brain caught up.

You pushed through a cluster of officials, barely hearing them protest, barely feeling the impact of your own body moving too fast. The air still smelled faintly of burned insulation when you reached the inner corridor. 

You run outside the building. You see Ryland. A little unsteady, hair disheveled, face pale like he’d seen the same flash you had and understood it differently.  You grabbed him hard enough that he stumbled back a step, caught off guard completely. He softens, immediately wrapping his arms around your neck. He buries his nose in your hair, smelling traces of smoke buried in your scalp.

“I thought you were in it,” you said, voice breaking before you could stop it. “I saw the blast and I— I thought—”

“I’m here,” he said quickly, softer now. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

His fingers moved through your hair. He's slow and trying to ground you to reality. He was trying to convince your body before your mind could catch up.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you lied immediately.

He gave a quiet, humorless breath. “No, you’re not.”

You didn’t argue this time.

Eva Stratt’s presence felt like it arrived before she even spoke. She felt like the grim reaper in this moment, sending a dreadful message to you.

“The astrophage containment failure has escalated,” she said flatly. No emotion. Only consequence. “We have lost personnel. We are adjusting mission parameters immediately.”

Your grip on Ryland tightened without meaning to.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

It meant what you already feared.

Eva didn’t soften it.

“It means Project Hail Mary proceeds under revised crew selection.”

Silence hit like pressure.

Then Ryland’s shoulders shifted slightly just enough for you to feel it.

Confusion first. Then realization. She wants you both on the ship. She wants you and Ryland to complete the mission.

“Whatever you are asking me to do, Stratt, I am only willing to do it with my two feet on this Earth.”

"What happened to you wanting to save the world?"

"That was before..." you trail off, looking at Ryland. He's biting his lip. Unsure of what Eva is asking for.

Ryland tries his best to calm your fears, but he’s also afraid. He doesn’t know what is going to happen or what this means, but he’s just as scared. Stratt is already making her death march to the building, knowing someone would follow her.

“Hey,” Ryland said, already half-turned toward the building, like he was being pulled in two directions at once. “I’ll talk to Stratt in private. I’ll figure this out, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied automatically. You have had zero time to cope with the loss of your peers, and now you have to cope with something bigger.

He hesitated for half a beat longer than necessary, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the right word for it.

Then he started to go.

“Ryland,” you called out.

He stopped immediately.

You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding your breath until that moment.

Ryland Grace turned back to you, brows slightly raised. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth, and there it was.

Right there. On the tip of your tongue. I love you.

Your throat tightened again, and the courage that had surged up a second ago cracked under its own weight.

You swallowed it down.

“…Just be careful,” you finished instead.

He gave you a look. He was hoping you would say more. He knew there was more sitting behind your words, like he always did, but he didn’t push it.

“Always am,” Ryland Grace said, and then he was gone down the corridor.

You stood there long after his footsteps faded.

You stand there feeling deeply guilty because selfishly, you didn't want to say goodbye. You wanted to help without needing to give up your comfort or safety. If anything, working research meant a blanket of safety for you and Ryland but now it sounds like sacrifice dressed up as science. You just wanted five more minutes where nothing was about to end. This is a once in a lifetime experience, yet you couldn’t imagine being so far in a void of nothing. Being an astronaut wasn't in the job description.

You stepped outside, needing air to cool you down. There was nothing you could do inside. Nothing to fix. Nothing to calculate your way out of.

Just waiting. Just thinking too much. Just the sick, slow realization that this might be the end for you. For the end of you and Ryland. The two of you haven't spoken about that fateful night on the ship, but there's a quiet and understood affection you both have for one another. Something special that only the two of you can acknowledge.

A few hours must have passed of you just standing outside. You’re trapped in your head, nothing else concerning you. You've been in a cycle of denial and negotiating. Anything to keep you safe, but most importantly, to also keep Ryland safe. You were trying to figure out who else could take your place or Ryland's, but the team is small as is. What would happen if you refused? Then you hear it. Shouting and footsteps. You look up and see someone being chased after by dozens of personnel. Ryland…?

“What the fuck?” you shouted before your brain caught up, already moving.

He turned his head mid-run. He sees you. His face changes instantly, and he waves for you to not come over.

“No—go! Leave!” he yelled.

“What?” you shouted back, breaking into a sprint. You see Ryland get pinned to the ground. You pick up the pace, running faster than you’ve ever had in the past.

“No—!” you screamed, already pushing through the cluster of bodies on top of Ryland.

You barely made it two steps before hands grabbed you. They’re strong and commanding, pulling you away.

“Hey—let go!” you snapped, struggling immediately.

“Doctor, stand down—”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

You twisted, tried to break free, but more hands caught you. The hands are pulling you down just like they’d done to him. You feel someone heavy keeping you on the ground.

You turn your head, looking at Ryland who is also struggling on the ground. You reach out to him, trying to grab his hand. 

Ryland on the ground, fighting even while pinned. He sees your hand and tries to reach out. You are merely fingertips apart, but nothing can close the gap.

“Stop—!” he shouted, but it was already overpowered by orders being barked at him. “Hey, don’t—don’t touch her—!” 

Then something sharp pressed against your arm. It causes a surge throughout your arm.

You jerked violently. “What are you—?” 

The world begins to blur. You fought it. Harder than you should’ve been able to, but your limbs were already losing the argument with chemistry. Your blood boils. You’re angry. That is all you can feel as your body fights back in vain. Through the haze, you saw him again. Ryland. You’re still angry. That’s all you can feel. 

He had to have known.

“D-Did y-you know…” you tried to say, eyes barely staying open.

His expression shifted. He’s panicked.

“I didn’t—” he started, but you couldn’t hear the rest.

The last thing you see clearly is him still fighting to get to you. You take one last deep breath before your vision goes black.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: lol so this was originally 10k words, but i had to shorten it for my own sanity. idk i feel like this isn't my best work, so it might be edited throughout the next couple of days. lol i get really embarrassed about my work sometimes... part 2 coming soon :) feel free to dm me if you want to be tagged. so part 2 i'm lowk thinking touch starved, angst, & smut. woo hoo !!! lol okay i need to go back to studying my finals. also fun little fact, the "fake" research paper was actually something i had to do a presentation for class LOL. It was essentially drawing a connection of how atp producing cells generate energy and how that could be applied to an engine. okay, i'll stop being a nerd now. <33333- love, jaz

[scarletmika]

Fly Me To The Moon : ̗̀➛ Ryland Grace x Reader

Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader

Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.

Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 14,596 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.

11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

The Sun needed the Earth too.

[fablebarnes]

stuff like this makes me want to be in love

[goldiwrites]

it's not the same river

pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader

summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg

word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)

authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)

song inspo: river - zinadelphia

I’m somewhere in between The things that I’ve lost And the things I’ll gain from losing Either way I will leave something behind But I’m dying to do something different this time

June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania

Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks. 

The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.

Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours. 

It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums. 

Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning. 

The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door. 

He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.

You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then. 

Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States. 

You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.

Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart. 

In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.

You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show. 

Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?

“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it. 

Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.

“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that. 

You were expecting the American accent even less. 

He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win. 

You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho. 

You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome. 

“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him. 

He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.

He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”

He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile. 

He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.

He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.

You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.” 

“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile. 

“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.

You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.

He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know. 

In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.

His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”

He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats. 

He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.

You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man. 

He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.

Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”

Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time. 

“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him. 

You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.

Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.

You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him. 

You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.

That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?

It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night. 

You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.

“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.

You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands. 

You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.

He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.

“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.

You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.

“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious. 

Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands. 

“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?” 

His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion. 

“…Why?” 

“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”

He sighed at you thanking him again.

“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.” 

Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.

You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”

His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”

You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.

“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.

He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”

You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress. 

“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”

He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.” 

You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”

He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster. 

Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man. 

“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”

His response was a small nod.

You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.

“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.

“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly. 

You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.

Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days. 

He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.

“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.

You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him. 

“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”

Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face. 

“I’m glad.” 

He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.

Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.

Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.

“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.

You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”

He grunted in response, displeased. 

“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”

“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”

You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again. 

“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.

He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”

That didn’t surprise you at all.

You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”

“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.” 

You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward. 

“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”

He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”

“Friday morning.”

“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”

Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment. 

Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe. 

“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’. 

“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him. 

That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory. 

He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements. 

He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment. 

You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you. 

You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.

“What?” Bucky asked curiously.

“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork. 

“Do you not get those often?”

You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth. 

“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response. 

“You remind me of a cat.”

“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.

“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”

He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out. 

“What kind of cat would I be?”

“A black cat, for sure.”

You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.

“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly. 

“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!” 

You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.

Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye. 

You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face. 

He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.

“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.

You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.

“They’re perfect.” 

You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him. 

You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”

You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”

“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.” 

“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”

“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly. 

You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky. 

“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”

“Whatever you want.”

An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.

“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”

He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.

“I’m…gonna miss you.” 

You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.

You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.

“I’m going to miss you, too.”

You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.

“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen. 

“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.

You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously. 

Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie. 

“You really like plums.”

“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.

That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand. 

“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes. 

“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin. 

His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”

You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.

“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”

His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion. 

You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.

You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.

“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.

“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces. 

You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart. 

He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.

“…I can’t believe you’re real.” 

You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning. 

You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.

“Can I kiss you?”

He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths. 

“You okay?” You asked softly.

His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”

He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach. 

You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw. 

“Let me help you feel good.”

He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind. 

“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.

He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own. 

“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.

He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own. 

“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already. 

You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face. 

“Eager, are we?” 

You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses. 

“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.

“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.

You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.

He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity. 

He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.

“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.

With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.

He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.

“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.

“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.

Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.

He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For making me feel human.”

You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them. 

You were right 

- Bucky

A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.

 Oh, shit. 

Present day - Brooklyn, New York

The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back. 

“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!” 

“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”

She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep. 

“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.

You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.

“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.

She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own. 

“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”

She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.

“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”

“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.” 

The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.

You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.

He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even. 

You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh. 

Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.

“Mama?” 

You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.

You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.

“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.

You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”

She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.

“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”

You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”

Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie? 

You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank. 

It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.

Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.

“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.

You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.

“You said a swear word!”

You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.

“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.

“Not a chance, peanut.” 

After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other. 

Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.

But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth. 

Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.

Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.

When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.

Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button. 

And there he was.

Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.

A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.

You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.

“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…” 

You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.” 

“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”

“Mom, I’m busy—“

“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple. 

There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming. 

“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?” 

“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.

Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father. 

You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone. 

“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do. 

Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.

You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.

In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.

Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts. 

You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years. 

You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you. 

“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.

You blinked.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter. 

“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.

“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure. 

Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.

“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year. 

Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.  

“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”

Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms. 

She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell. 

Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.

Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!” 

You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.

Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.

“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him. 

“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second. 

You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?

Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.

“…Is she—“

His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.

“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.

Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside. 

Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”

You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“

“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”

“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.

The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.

“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.

Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.

Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.

You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.

You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.

“We need to talk.”

“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”

“I have my ways.”

He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.

“Look, I agree we need to talk—“

“Why did you run off?”

And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.

You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest. 

“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.

“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face. 

“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“

And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.

“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs. 

Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore. 

He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor. 

He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man. 

“Hi, I’m Bucky.”

You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off. 

“Hi, I’m Jamie!” 

The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him. 

“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”

She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.

“Are you coming to my soccer game?” 

That shocked both of you.

“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.

“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”

The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core. 

There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.

Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.

The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring. 

Bucky cleared his throat softly.

“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.

“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.” 

He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.

He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.

“She looks like my sister.”

That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.

“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”

You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.” 

He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.” 

You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.

“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”

He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.

“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.

“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”

Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.

“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”

He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”

You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle. 

“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile. 

He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.

“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”

“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.” 

You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you. 

“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.” 

“Good.”

You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.

“Where were you—“

“What does she know—“

You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”

“What does she know…about me?”

Yeah, you were expecting that.

“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”

His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice. 

“How do we tell her?”

There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue. 

“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?” 

The look he shot you was deadly. 

You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”

“I want to be there.” 

Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.

His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.

“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”

And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“What happened to you? After Bucharest?” 

He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.

“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”

You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive. 

“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.

He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk. 

“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”

Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you? 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly. 

“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”

He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.

“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”

“Noted.”

“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.

“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless. 

“Whatever you say, doll.” 

You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping. 

“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.

“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.” 

“Tomorrow, then?” 

You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.

“Fine.”

“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”

Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back. 

“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it. 

“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.

She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”

“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter. 

“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.

“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”

Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys. 

You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”

Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”

You grinned at him. “Exactly.”

Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint. 

You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.

“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“

“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.

“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.

“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.

You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.

“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.

The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.

“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.

Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”

Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.

“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.

“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.

“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?

Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully. 

He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”

Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.

He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest. 

Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.

“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.

He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”

By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”

“If I don’t have to be away for work.” 

She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited. 

You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own. 

“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins. 

You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart. 

“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.

Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.

And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.

You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.

Then you watched the realisation hit her.

“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”

And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly. 

“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”

Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”

You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours. 

The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines. 

“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.

Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.

“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”

“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.

You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.

This was not going to be easy on your heart. 

A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away. 

First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.

You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.

She called your name, looking at you expectantly.

“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.

“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.

Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”

You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“

But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”

“I’ll text you his details!”

There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.

Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.

“Hey,” you started. “You okay?” 

“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.

You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.

“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”

“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot. 

“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.

“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.

“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.

“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”

Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.

You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest.  “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”

You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him. 

“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low. 

You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.

You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?

“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.

“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.

He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.

“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”

Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.

“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it. 

“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.” 

You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you. 

You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.

You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.

There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.

“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.

“Photos of what?” 

“When you were pregnant.” 

You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.

“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”

He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone. 

“I want to see.”

“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”

“I’m not asking for those.”

You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.” 

The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. 

“Good girl.” 

Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction. 

And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used. 

The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.” 

The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it. 

“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover. 

You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping. 

“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.

“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.” 

Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.

He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”

You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.

“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper. 

“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.” 

Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.

Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.

“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.

“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.

Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.

“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.

He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”

He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.

Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.

“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”

Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.

A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey. 

“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”

He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.

“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?” 

Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force. 

“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.” 

His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.

“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time. 

He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.

“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.

Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took. 

“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.

“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.

“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.

“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.

The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He hummed, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting. 

“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.” 

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.

Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper. 

“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.” 

You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.

He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”

That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about? 

You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”

His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.

“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.” 

You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar. 

“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core. 

His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.

“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear. 

Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.

“Please,” you whispered desperately.

Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth. 

His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.

“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.

You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs. 

“Patience, doll.”

And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.

He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

“So responsive.”

He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.

“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.

He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour. 

“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.

He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck. 

“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.

He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately. 

His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.

“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.” 

Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease. 

His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.

He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”

He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.

You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.

“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in. 

His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver. 

He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.

He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher. 

“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.

He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.

He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.

He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.

“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.

“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.

He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.

“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.

You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.

His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood. 

“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.

He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body. 

“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?” 

“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.

He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.

“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob. 

He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.

“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.

He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.

He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response. 

“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?” 

You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.

He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume. 

“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.

Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.

“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”

More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.

“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.

“I know I love you, sweetheart.” 

bucky taglist: @stydiaforeverbitchezz @shewakesupwithflowersinherhair @darkgardenersoul @vicmc624 @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @mysteriousduckprincess @stesha02 @mathcat345 @kombuchaaaaa @alicetesser @captainlunaxmen @junebug307 @lovelexi717 @wickedfun9 @phosphenespixie @am-3-thyst

[elisabethwritestoo]

Heartbreak and Friendship

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 4.2k

Summary: You and Steve had been best friends for years, but when one of his old crushes came back into his life, it became impossible to keep your own feelings hidden any longer.

Warnings: (in my mind) set after s5, misunderstanding trope, best friends to lovers, angsty, but with a fluff (?) ending

Author's note: i hope you like it. if you have any requests, also lmk. divider by @uzmacchiato

Steve Harrington had a habit of making your life feel like a series of small, ordinary miracles.

A hand on your shoulder in a crowded hallway, guiding you through like you belonged beside him. The way he always saved you the last slice of pizza even when he pretended he didn’t care. The lazy sprawl across your couch that somehow turned into you two talking until two in the morning, the television hissing static long after you’d stopped watching.

You’d been best friends long enough that people didn’t even question it anymore. You were just… there. The constant. The person Steve gravitated toward the way some people gravitated toward light.

And it was easy to pretend that was enough.

Because if you didn’t pretend, if you let yourself look too closely at what you felt when Steve smiled at you, wide and warm like the whole world made sense, then you’d have to admit something you weren’t brave enough to say out loud.

That you were in love with your best friend.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. It wasn’t fireworks or grand declarations. It was quieter than that. It was the way your chest softened when he said your name. The way you knew his moods by the sound of his car door closing. The way you felt safer with him beside you than you ever had anywhere else.

It was the way you wanted to be the reason he was happy.

But wanting didn’t mean having.

And you could live with wanting, you told yourself.

You could.

Until she came back.

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind where Hawkins felt slow and sleepy and the sun looked like it was running out of patience.

Steve pulled into your driveway in his beat-up car, horn tapping twice like it always did. You hopped into the passenger seat, already smiling because you didn’t even have to ask, he was bored and you were the solution.

He handed you a warm soda from a paper bag. “Peace offering,” he said.

“For what crime?”

“For being late,” he replied, like it was obvious. “And for making you wait.”

“You’re five minutes late.”

Steve gasped dramatically. “Five minutes is a lifetime when you’re missing me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing, looking out the window again, and Steve glanced at you like your laughter was a prize he’d won.

Then he exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel like he was… nervous. “So. Uh. I ran into someone today.”

The way he said it, too casual, too carefully light, made your stomach dip.

“Okay,” you said slowly, looking at him now. “Who?”

Steve’s jaw worked, like he was deciding whether to say the name at all.

“Marcy.”

You blinked. The name landed in your head and immediately started rearranging old memories like a drawer being yanked open.

Marcy Calloway. Blonde hair always pulled into a ponytail. A laugh that used to make Steve do stupid things. A girl from before…before the Upside Down, before demo dogs and the loss of Eddie and defeating Vecna and just, all of it. A girl who belonged to the version of Steve Harrington that had been simpler.

“Marcy,” you repeated, voice careful, her name tasing weird in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, watching the road even though the car wasn’t moving. “She’s back in town. Just for a bit. Visiting family.”

“Oh,” you managed. “Okay.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were bright in that way they got when something made him nervous-excited. “We talked. Like… really talked. It was weird. Good-weird.”

You nodded like you were hearing him, like the world hadn’t just tilted slightly off its axis.

“She asked if I wanted to grab coffee,” Steve continued, trying too hard to sound like it didn’t matter. “To catch up.”

“That’s… nice,” you said. “You should go.”

Steve’s smile came fast, relieved. “Yeah? You think so?”

You forced your mouth into something that resembled a grin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Steve let out a breath, shoulders relaxing. “Cool. Cool. Yeah. So—Friday.”

Friday.

You filed the date away like it was a threat.

Steve turned the key and the engine coughed to life. “We’re still doing movie night tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically. “Yep, of course.”

Steve reached over and squeezed your knee, a quick, thoughtless gesture of affection he’d done a thousand times.

Except this time it felt like something inside you flinched.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

Steve was allowed to see someone. Steve was allowed to be happy. Steve was allowed to have a life that didn’t revolve around you.

You were just friends, best friends. 

You told yourself that over and over until it sounded like truth.

Then Friday came.

And Steve didn’t even try to hide how excited he was.

You could tell by the way he kept checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. By the way he asked you, twice, if his shirt looked okay. By the way he ran his fingers through his hair and muttered, “Jesus, I’m gonna look like an idiot.”

“You look fine,” you said, because it was the only thing you could say without shattering.

“What if it’s awkward?” he asked, glancing at you like you were the only person qualified to calm him down. “What if we’ve got nothing to talk about?”

“You always have something to talk about,” you replied. “Mostly about yourself.”

He snorted. “Wow. Rude.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Steve parked near the diner where they were meeting, then paused with his hand on the door.

“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Why would I mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning like he was searching your face for something you weren’t letting him see. “You’ve been… off.”

“I’m not off.”

Steve held your gaze for a beat too long.

Then he exhaled. “Okay. I’ll call you after.”

“Have fun,” you said.

He did.

You knew he did because he didn’t call until late.

And when he did, his voice was warm and bright and full of a kind of happiness you’d never been the cause of.

“It was good,” he said, like he couldn’t help it. “Really good. She’s… she’s still Marcy, you know? Like, the same but… not. Better.”

You leaned your forehead against your bedroom wall, phone pressed to your ear, trying to breathe around the tightness in your chest.

“That’s great, Steve,” you managed.

He hesitated. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just tired.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Well… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

When you hung up, you slid down the wall and sat on the floor until the room stopped spinning.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was pain, sharp and physical, like something was twisting inside you.

And the worst part was realizing: you didn’t know how to make it stop.

So you started off small.

You didn’t answer his calls right away.

You told him you were busy when he asked if you wanted to hang out.

You cancelled movie night once, then twice, then thrice.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Steve Harrington noticed everything about you, even when he didn’t mean to.

He showed up at your house one afternoon unannounced, knocking like he was angry at your door personally.

You opened it, heart already racing.

Steve stood on your porch with his arms crossed and a storm in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s going on?”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

“Don’t,” he snapped. Then his expression softened immediately, guilt flashing across his face like he hated being sharp with you. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it a joke.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not making a joke. I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Yes. You do.”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms slowly, not defensive. Firm.

“No, Steve. I don’t.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice lower now. “For like… two weeks.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you shot back. “I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” he repeated flatly. “You’re really gonna do that? You’re really gonna give me ‘stuff’ like I’m some idiot?”

“Why are you interrogating me?” you snapped. “People get busy. It happens.”

Steve’s eyes widened, hurt flashing sharp and fast.

“Because you’re my best friend.”

The words landed heavy between you.

You swallowed but didn’t back down.

“And I’m still here,” you said. “I didn’t disappear off the planet.”

“Yeah, you kind of did,” he shot back. “You cancel plans. You don’t call. You barely look at me when we’re in the same room.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretched tight.

Steve’s voice softened, just a little. “Did I do something?”

Your chest tightened, but you stood your ground.

“No.”

He searched your face like he was begging to find something there.

“Then what is it?” he demanded. “Because you’re acting like I did something terrible.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“But you’re treating me like I did.”

You shook your head in frustration. “You’re reading into things that aren’t there.”

Steve scoffed. “Oh come on.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This is about Marcy, isn’t it?”

Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let it show.

“What? No.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Because there’s nothing to hesitate about.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “I can see it all over you.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You pull away the second I mention her,” he shot back. “You vanish every time I’m with her. You act like you can’t even be in the same room as me anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, it means something,” he insisted. “You’re mad because I’m hanging out with her.”

You let out a sharp breath. “So what if I am uncomfortable? That doesn’t mean I’m trying to control you.”

Steve threw his hands up. “Uncomfortable? With what, me having a life?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sure feels like it,” he fired back. “It feels like you want me all to yourself.”

You stiffened.

“Like you can’t stand the idea of me being close to someone else,” he continued bitterly. “Like I belong to you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then explain it,” he demanded, stepping closer. “Because right now it feels like the second I’m happy outside of you, you shut me out.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You don’t get it,” you said sharply.

“Then make me get it!”

The words echoed between you.

Your heart hammered.

You could tell him. You could end this right now.

But fear locked your throat shut.

Instead, you straightened.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for every feeling I have,” you said firmly. “I’m allowed to have space, to not hang out with you all the time, just like you are allowed to hang out with Marcy.”

Steve stared at you like you’d slapped him.

“Space,” he repeated quietly.

“Yes,” you said. “Space.”

His eyes darkened, not angry, not exactly, more wounded than anything.

“I came here because I thought something was wrong,” he said. “Because I thought you were hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well I am,” you snapped. “So drop it.”

Silence crashed down hard.

Steve’s chest rose and fell like he was trying to keep himself under control.

“So that’s it?” he asked quietly. “You’re just gonna shut me out and pretend nothing’s wrong?”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are.”

“Steve—”

“No,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You don’t get to act like I’m crazy for noticing you pulling away.”

His voice cracked just a little.

“I care about you,” he said. “I’m trying to fix something I don’t even understand.”

You looked away.

“And you won’t even meet me halfway.”

Guilt burned in your chest, but you stayed silent.

Steve laughed softly, bitter.

“Unbelievable.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he said, voice tight. “If you’re ‘fine,’ then I guess there’s nothing to talk about.”

You didn’t answer.

Steve’s eyes searched your face one last time, like he was hoping you’d stop him.

You didn’t.

His jaw clenched.

He turned and walked off the porch.

Faster than before.

Angrier.

More confused.

You stood frozen in the doorway, chest burning, watching the person you loved most walk away without ever knowing the real reason.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because you cared too much to risk losing him.

After that, the distance wasn’t just something you tried to do.

It was something that happened.

You didn’t see Steve for days.

Then weeks.

You heard about him through the grapevine, through Dustin’s excited rambling, through Max’s casual comments, through the way Robin raised her eyebrows when your name came up like she was trying to figure you out.

“He’s been spending a lot of time with Marcy,” Robin mentioned one day, leaning against her bike outside Family Video.

You pretended not to care. “Okay?”

Robin studied you, lips pursed. “Nothing. Just… weird, is all.”

“Weird how?”

Robin shrugged. “Weird that you’re not around.”

You forced a laugh. “I have a life.”

Robin’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”

You stiffened. Robin sighed, waving a hand like she didn’t want to push.

“Look,” she said, softer. “I don’t know what’s going on, but Steve’s… he’s not okay.”

Your heart lurched.

“He’s fine,” you said automatically.

Robin scoffed. “Yeah, because Steve Harrington is known for processing emotions in a healthy way.”

You couldn’t help it…your mouth twitched, a real smile trying to surface.

Robin pointed at you like she’d caught something. “There. That. That’s the face you make when you actually feel something.”

You swallowed, smile fading.

Robin’s expression softened. “Just… talk to him, okay? Because he’s acting like he lost you.”

You looked away, throat burning.

Because he had.

In a way.

You were still there, still breathing, still existing.

But you were also… breaking. And you didn’t know how to stop.

The next time you saw Steve, it was by accident.

You were at the grocery store, focused on grabbing what you needed as fast as possible, when you heard it…

His laugh.

It wasn’t the easy, familiar sound you knew. It was brighter. Louder. Like he was trying to prove something.

You froze at the end of an aisle, heart stuttering.

Then you saw him.

Steve, leaning against a cart, smiling down at Marcy like she’d hung the sun.

Marcy touched his arm when she laughed, fingers lingering like she belonged there.

Steve didn’t pull away.

Your chest tightened so hard you thought you might actually fold in half.

It hurt.

A sharp, real ache under your ribs, like someone had lodged something heavy inside you and was twisting it slowly.

You turned before they could see you, pushing your cart away too fast.

You didn’t stop until you were outside, leaning against the brick wall, gasping for air like you’d run a mile.

You pressed a hand to your chest.

This was insane.

This was pathetic.

It was just Steve being happy.

But it felt like losing something you’d never even been brave enough to claim.

And that night, you didn’t sleep.

You kept replaying every moment.

Every laugh. Every touch. Every time Steve had looked at you like you mattered.

Every time you’d thought maybe—

Maybe.

And now he was looking at someone else.

And the pain in your chest wouldn’t go away.

So, at two in the morning, you did something you never did.

You drove.

No destination. No plan. Just movement, like maybe if you kept moving, the ache couldn’t catch you.

But you found yourself in front of Steve’s house before you even realized where you were going.

You sat in your car, staring at the dark windows.

You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t knock.

You shouldn’t drag him back into your mess.

So you didn’t.

You stayed in your car until your eyes burned and your hands shook and the sky started turning faintly gray.

Then you went home.

But Steve found you the next day.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

He knocked on your bedroom window like he used to when you were younger, like he didn’t care if it was childish or ridiculous, like he was desperate enough to try anything.

You yanked the curtains open, heart hammering once again.

Steve stood outside, hair a mess, eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept.

You stared at him through the glass.

He stared back.

Then he held up his hands, palms out, like he was surrendering.

“Can we talk?” he mouthed.

You hesitated.

Then you unlocked the window.

Steve climbed in awkwardly, landing on your floor with a soft thud. He looked around your room like it was the first time he’d been in it in months.

Maybe it was.

He straightened, swallowing hard.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

You crossed your arms, trying to protect yourself. “Hi.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “About what I said. About… all of it.”

You blinked. “What…?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me. Because I’ve been thinking about this moment, okay? A lot. And I was a jerk.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Steve stepped closer, his voice shaking now. “I thought you were… I don’t know. Jealous. Possessive. Like you didn’t want me to have anyone else.”

You flinched.

Steve’s eyes softened. “And maybe I thought that because…” He swallowed. “Because it would’ve been easier.”

Easier than what?

Steve looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together. “Because the truth is, I don’t know what I’d do if the reason you’re pulling away is something I can’t fix.”

Your throat tightened.

Steve looked up, eyes searching yours like he was trying to find you behind the walls you’d built.

“I miss you,” he said simply.

The words hit you harder than anything else.

Because you missed him too.

God, you missed him so much it felt like you were starving.

“You don’t get to just…” your voice cracked. You cleared your throat, shaking your head angrily, trying again. “You don’t get to just show up.”

“I do,” Steve said, fierce. “I do when you’re disappearing on me.”

You stared at him, tears prickling.

Steve’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then away like it scared him.

He swallowed. “You looked at me like I was… like I was everything, sometimes.”

Your breath caught.

Steve’s voice went softer, almost haunted. “Not like Robin. Not like Dustin. Not like… anyone.”

You froze.

Steve stepped closer, slow, like he was approaching something fragile.

“And I keep thinking about it,” he whispered. “All the times you were there. All the times you stayed even when I didn’t deserve it. All the times you looked at me like you were holding something back.”

Your hands trembled.

Steve’s eyes shone. “And I don’t know if I was stupid or selfish or both, but I…” He broke off, jaw tight. “I didn’t want to see it.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Steve took another step. Now he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“Marcy makes me feel… normal,” he said quietly. “Like I can pretend none of the scary stuff happened. Like I’m just some guy who peaked in high school and still worries about his hair.”

A shaky laugh left him, then faded.

“But you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You make me feel seen.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.

Steve’s face crumpled, like your tears physically hurt him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, desperate. “I swear to god I didn’t.”

You shook your head, crying harder.

“It’s not…” you tried, but the words stuck.

Steve reached out slowly, fingers hovering near your cheek like he was asking permission.

You didn’t move away.

He brushed your tears away with his thumb, so gentle it made your chest ache all over again.

And then you finally cracked.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

Steve froze. “What?”

“It hurts,” you repeated, voice shaking. “To see you… like that.”

Steve stared at you, breath catching.

“You being happy with someone else,” you admitted, words spilling out now that the dam had broken. “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t stand there and pretend it’s fine because it feels like I’m watching you walk away from me.”

Steve’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

You let out a broken laugh. “Because what was I supposed to say, Steve? ‘Hi, I’ve been in love with you since I found you in the movie theater after the fucking Russians tortured the shit out of you and it’s ruining my life’?”

Silence.

Steve didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at you like the world had shifted under his feet.

Then his face twisted with something raw.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to make it weird.”

A sound left Steve, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes, confused.

Steve looked at you like he was seeing everything for the first time.

Like every moment you’d ever shared was rewriting itself in his mind.

“Those looks,” he said softly. “The way you… the way you touched my arm and then pulled away. The way you always stayed close. The way you got quiet when Nancy was around. The way you looked like you were trying not to fall apart when I talked about… anyone.”

He swallowed hard.

“I thought you just cared,” he whispered.

You laughed bitterly. “I do care, a little too much sometimes.”

“I know,” Steve said, voice thick. “I know.”

He stepped even closer until there was barely space between you.

“And I’m an idiot,” he murmured. “Because you’ve been loving me right in front of my face and I…” His voice broke. “I didn’t realize I could have that, that I could have you...”

Your heart pounded.

Steve lifted his hands, palms cupping your face like you were something precious.

“Can I—” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath caught.

All the years of wanting condensed into one moment.

You nodded.

Steve kissed you like he’d been holding his breath his whole life.

It wasn’t gentle at first. It was urgent, shaking, like he needed to prove something to both of you. Like he needed to erase every second of distance.

You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him back like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

Steve’s hands slid from your face to your waist, anchoring you.

He broke the kiss for half a second, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, tears still falling. “Just…just don’t let me lose you.”

Steve kissed you again, slower this time, softer, like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing.

His lips moved against yours with reverence and hunger all at once, and it felt like the world finally snapped into the shape it was always meant to be.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

“You were never going to lose me,” he whispered.

You let out a shaky breath. “But you were happy with her.”

Steve’s face tightened. “I was trying to be.”

That confession hit you like a wave.

Steve brushed his thumb along your cheek again, gaze unwavering.

“I thought happiness was supposed to look like… moving on,” he murmured. “Like being normal. Like picking someone safe.”

He swallowed.

“But every time I came home, every time it got quiet, all I wanted was you.”

Your throat tightened.

Steve’s voice dropped, raw and honest. “I’ve been in love with you too. I just didn’t know that’s what it was.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Steve gave a small, broken smile. “Kinda pathetic, right?”

You laughed through your tears and kissed him again, because you didn’t know what else to do with the feeling exploding inside you.

Steve kissed you back like he was starving.

And when he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, hands holding you like he couldn’t risk letting go.

“We’re gonna talk,” he said, voice hoarse. “We’re gonna do this right. I’m gonna talk to Marcy. I’m not gonna…” He swallowed. “I’m not gonna hurt anyone, okay? But I’m not gonna lie either.”

You nodded, still trembling.

Steve kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth…little, reverent touches that made your whole body feel like it was humming.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your skin. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back.

Steve pulled you into his arms, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to stitch the two of you back together, the press of his lips against your forehead soothing you.

And for the first time in weeks, the pain in your chest eased.

Not because it had never been there.

But because this time…finally, you weren’t carrying it alone.

[buckytakethewheel]

the hand plants, the heart reaps

Pairing: Landscaper!Bucky Barnes x Home Owner!Female Reader Summary: You never planned to return to the quiet countryside, let alone inherit your late grandmother’s weathered cottage and overgrown garden. Stressed and city-worn, you hire local landscaper Bucky Barnes to tame the chaos in order to honor her memory. But what begins as a simple restoration blooms into shared stories of loss, second chances and a path to starting over. Word count: 15.5k Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort; grief & mourning; death of a family member (grandmother); mentions of reader being burnt out; cottage core; strangers to lovers; unrequited feelings (briefly, if you squint, not really but kinda); slow burn; she falls first/he falls harder; lemonade as a love language (I’m serious); smut; oral sex (f receiving); p in v; unprotected sex; comeplay; fingering; happy ending Notes: welcome to April, the month of the most incredible, funny, groundbreaking, earthshattering collab you've seen in recent times! In all seriousness, I could not be more excited to start off Bucky's Dreamhouse Collab at @stantastic-association with my baby landscaper!Bucky 😊 this fic kicked my ass (i haven't written over 10k words in?? how long??) but i am so happy to finally be able to share it with you 💕finally, a big thank you to @miraclediviner who was our guiding light for this collab!

Blue light from your laptop bleeds into the darkness of your apartment, reflecting off the plastic lid of a container of cold Thai food that has been sitting there since… well, you aren’t actually sure. It’s 1 AM on a Tuesday—actually, Wednesday— and the city outside your windows lives in the middle of sirens and subway vibrations that rattle the bones of the building. For the past three hours, you have been staring at a spreadsheet until the cells began blurring into gray bars, eyes aching with a fatigue that not even sleep could touch.

You’re not tired today, you’re not tired of your job. Rather, you are worn out. Like the never-ending noises from the city have settled inside you, too, but instead of getting used to them, every single cell in you has started rejecting them like foreign objects. That description has been in your brain for weeks, now; close to a medical diagnosis you haven’t quite admitted to yet, denial before acceptance.

Your phone buzzes in the middle of another spiraling of staring at a screen that is not going to change unless you press meaningless keys. Whatever moment you were going through, though, didn’t quite prepare you for what follows.

Seeing your mother’s name on the small screen at this hour doesn’t bring a sense of alarm. It instead brings a hollow tightness to your chest, the kind of heavy stillness that usually precedes a car crash. And when you pick up the phone, come the news, even though they don’t quite feel like that when they sound through the tiny speaker. It’s a physical weight, a heavy stone dropped into a pool, sending ripples that touch every single branch of your current life.

Your grandmother is gone.

The woman who used to smell like peppermint and potting soil, whose voice was the only thing that had ever truly made the world feel quiet. You had spent countless summers with her, back in the countryside, hands in the dirt as she taught you the right way to plant a rose, how to prune a tree so it could grow stronger. Suddenly, the spreadsheet still bright on your computer has shifted from a boring task to a full-on insult. How could the numbers and columns still be there, rigid and demanding, when the person who taught you how to breathe through a heatwave on a July afternoon is simply… gone?

Are you supposed to simply go back to your life as you think of her kitchen, of the way the sunlight always seemed to pool on the linoleum in a buttery square where her cat would always sleep? Or as you are swarmed with the memory of her hands, mapped with veins like the very rivers she lived near, strong enough to haul buckets of compost and yet still gentle enough to braid your hair?

Still on the phone, your mother tells you she has left behind the weathered cottage and the garden to your name. In your mind’s eye, you could already see it surrendering to the weeds way before her heart stopped beating. No one ever cared for it the way she did, even though it had been in your family for generations. Your grandmother had been sick for a while, now, and you’re sure no one else had taken the time to care for the one thing she always did. It was yours, now.

You spend the rest of that Wednesday night in a state of suspended animation. There’s no crying, at least not yet, but you move through your apartment like a ghost, packing a back with a mechanical efficiency you’re sure would scare your mother, folding clothes you haven’t worn in years. The decision to leave doesn’t come from a sense of duty, of being present for your mother or the clinical logistics of a funeral that always feel too heavy for people mourning. It is simply survival instinct, one that hits you so sharp and sudden it almost knocks the breath out of you. Looking around your cramped apartment, filled with ergonomic furniture you don’t really like and unfinished documents, you realized tonight you were running on empty. There was no more fuel to give the city. Your grandmother’s passing was the only trigger you needed to leave it behind. You needed to go back to the only place that still holds the scent of something real, even if that reality is currently buried under layers of grief.

And by dawn, your suitcase is thrown into the trunk of your car and you are leaving the city behind.

The drive is a blur of highway static and caffeine-induced insomnia until the asphalt finally gives way to the gray ribbons of the backroads. The further you get from the skyline, from the tall buildings that framed your every day for years now, the more the silence starts to ring in your ears, echoing the emptiness in your chest. Silence used to be nice. Whenever you visited your grandmother, left the busy days behind for maybe a week or two, the silence was comforting. A heated blanket, a balm that helped you heal.

But now, as you finally pull into the gravel drive of the cottage, silence is no longer the peaceful sanctuary you had promised yourself. It’s heavy. The house looks smaller than you remember, tired, as if without her spirit to hold it up, the walls are finally starting to give in to gravity.

When you stop your car and step out, you don’t go inside immediately. Instead, you walk around the side of the house, drawn to the back where the heart of her life used to beat.

And just like the silence you had craved, the peace you had always felt here crumbles, too, the moment you lay your eyes on the yard. The garden isn’t overgrown; you think you prefer calling it a green monster. It’s aggressive, a sprawling graveyard of things your grandmother used to love. Waist-high weeds have completely swallowed the lavender path, and the wild blackberry thorns have woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The trellis, where her prized roses used to climb in disciplined rows, is now buckling under the weight of strangling vines that look like they’re trying to pull the cottage back into the earth. An old fountain is overrun.

Standing on the bottom step of the back porch, the scale of the neglect is paralyzing. Leaves you to wonder how long had been since your grandmother had been physically able to care for her own things. How long she had kept away from the flowers and plants that had always breathed happiness into her. Just like your own mind, her space, now yours, is tangled and messy, far too gone for one person to ever hope to fix. You look at your own hands, too soft and lacking callouses, and realize you don’t even know where to start. How are you supposed to honor her memory? When you don’t know the difference between tools, the right time to plant the seeds? Guilt hits you, then, with the kind of edge that drags a cold sweat down your spine. In her absence, the wild had claimed her legacy while you were busy in the city filling spreadsheets that mattered to no one. You want to make this house a home once more. But how does one do that with an empty heart?

The first two days are spent in a state of mourning that feels exactly like static, gray and thick. You stay inside, unable to look out the windows at the chaos, and move through the cottage like a diver underwater, every motion resisted by the weight of silence.

Tea goes cold before you remember to sip it. You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.

For the last two nights, you’ve slept in the guest bed. Your old room feels too much like a museum of a person you outgrew and no longer recognize, and her room feels like hallowed ground you are nowhere near holy enough to tread upon.

By next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen, the buttery square of sunlight hitting the linoleum exactly as you remember it, except there isn’t a cat any longer. Hands begin to aimlessly open drawers, finding yourself needing a distraction, or trying to look for something, anything. Matches for a candle. A reason to stay despite finding this place so different from the one you’d once called your second home once. And you find it, tucked between a ball of twine and a stack of expired coupons, right in the middle of the junk drawer: grandma’s old address book with a faded floral cover that still smells faintly of the rose-scented hand cream she used every night. The edges of the pages are frayed, paper slightly yellowed. A small business card falls to the floor halfway through flicking through the pages.

Barnes Landscaping & Restoration

Something in your heart flips. Not because you recognize the name, but because you immediately see her familiar handwriting in it. Another piece of her left behind that now you get to keep.

“Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth.”

A sharp lump forms in your throat. This small note, mindless, written by your grandmother at a time she needed to keep a reminder, is the first thing that managed to pierce the numbness since the phone call announcing her passing. You can almost hear her voice saying it, the appreciative tone she used for people who worked with their backs and not just their mouths. And even though the grief cannot be fixed by a landscaper, you know now that there’s a flicker of hope of fixing everything else around here. You aren’t a gardener, just a person used to staring at gray bars on a screen. But an extra pair of professional hands surely will be perfect to help you face the thorns outside the house.

After you pick up the phone on the wall and dial the number, there’s two rings and then the line clicks open.

“Barnes,” the voice on the other side says. You freeze for half a second, like now you’re unsure what you’re even supposed to ask for.

“Hi,” you start, voice cracking slightly from days of disuse. You realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve come here days ago. “I’m… I’m calling about the property on the old creek road. It’s my grandmother’s, Caroline… was. Sorry. She’s passed and I’ve just inherited the place and—” You look out the window at the waist-high weeds and strangling vines. “I think the garden has gone to war and I don’t have a way of winning that fight.”

There is a long pause on the other end. You hear the faint sound of a truck engine idling.

“Caroline was a very sweet woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, voice softening a fraction. “She spoke about you a lot. Said you were lost in the city.”

That stings a little. Mostly because it’s true.

“I’m not in the city anymore. This is my home now,” you whisper.

Another silence.

“If you’d like, I can come over this afternoon. Take a look at the garden, you can tell me what you’d like to do with it. First consultation is free for Caroline’s granddaughter.”

The afternoon sun is thick and syrupy, casting long shadows across the linoleum, when the silence of the old creak road is finally broken. You stay tucked behind the lace curtains of the kitchen window, watching heavy tires roll over unkempt gravel. A beat-up, dark blue truck pulls into view, a workhorse of a vehicle, mottled with patches of primer and the red clay of the country. The engine cuts out, and when the door creaks open, he steps out.

Barnes.

He doesn’t look like any type of contractor you’ve ever hired in the city. There’s no clipboard, no neon safety vest. He stands by the door of his truck for a long beat, hands sliding into the pockets of his dirt-stained denim, eyes surveying the “green monster” you were apparently too terrified of. From your vantage point, you see how his yellow plaid shirt, faded from too many washes and too much sun, first buttons open to reveal a white top underneath, stretches taut across a pair of shoulders that look like they were built for the sole purpose of carrying the heaviest of weights. But that’s not where your eyes linger.

Instead, they stay glued to his left arm. You don’t mean to stare. Not really. But the silver metal shines when the sunlight hits it and holds your gaze even if you try to look away. Spread across fingers, forearm, bicep, until it disappears under the short sleeve of his shirt. While watching him, you find no attempt on his side to hide that arm.

Barnes lets out a heavy sigh. Not a sigh of annoyance, or at least you don’t recognize it as such. He looks at the tangle of weeds and the buckling trellis not as nuisance, but as an old friend who has lost their way. There’s no rush to get the job done, no immediate knock on the door to get your attention. He is simply there, rounding the front of his truck as he looks around for details that surely escape you. Barnes looks like he belongs to the dirt, like the mud on his boots is a permanent part of his skin. He adjusts the brim of his cap, a movement that causes the fabric of his shirt to pull against the muscles of his back. There’s a quiet power in him, a “man of muscle” persona that’s just utilitarian, like he is a tool designed for this specific job. You can’t imagine him anywhere but here, amidst the messy chaos of your late grandma’s garden.

He touches a dry stalk, eyes some dead plants. The words from the address book return: he listens to the earth.

The door creaks behind you as you finally step out onto the porch, sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven boards, which have been worn down by years of sun and wind. You wrap your arms around yourself, though the day isn’t cold, just more of a habit that you’ve developed to shield yourself from the vastness of the yard that feels like it’s swallowing the cottage whole.

Barnes turns at the sound of you, and you then notice how he’s taller up close, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the yellow plaid look borrowed from a smaller man. You don’t look at his metal arm again, and he doesn’t try to hide it or tuck it behind his body. It’s right there, part of him, gleaming faintly.

“Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap as a gesture all too long lost by men who called themselves gentlemen. The action reveals a sweep of dark hair damp at the temples from the heat, and without obstruction, you find it easier to see his eyes now, blue, color of ocean water. There’s no attempt to offer a handshake, and he doesn’t say anything more.

You offer your name back like it’s a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Barnes.”

“No need for the formalities. Haven’t been a Mister of much,” he corrects quietly. “I’m James. Most folks call me Bucky.”

His gaze drifts back to the yard, lingering on the strangled trellis. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Been a while since I was out here. Last time… must’ve been early summer. Told me the roses were coming in strong, wanted me to come trim the climbers before they got away from her. But I used to be here all the time. Helped her with some drainage plannin’, built the trellis for her.”

There’s a pause, and you see him narrow his eyes at a patch of what might once have been… well, anything, now lost under a sea of bindweed. “Should’ve checked when she went quiet. Figured she was just busy with her cannin’ or had some family visitin’. Didn’t feel right to push.”

You recognize the weight in the words. Guilt. A stranger who wasn’t a stranger to your grandmother, feeling the heaviness of not having visited her more often. It’s particular, how grief has a way of finding everyone who loved the same person and handing each of them their own particular version of it.

“She was good people. Always had coffee waitin’, strong enough to wake the dead. Talked about her grandaughter, well, you, a lot. Always said you were the prettiest girl in the big city. ‘suppose she wasn’t wrong.”

That lands too close to the bone while the numbness in your chest holds firm, a gray fog that keeps any sharper feelings at bay. Another time, in the city, you would have found Mister Barnes, James, Bucky, an incredibly handsome man. Maybe you would have said something warmer to him. You’re impressed, distantly, by the solid build, the quiet competence that radiates without needing to announce itself. But the grief sits too heavy, a stone lodged between your ribs. Flirting feels like a language from another life, one spoken under different air. Here, it doesn’t occur to you.

Bucky seems to interpret the silence on your end as discomfort. He clears his throat and gestures toward the almost collapsing trellis. “She loved those roses. So we’ll build them back up. Cut back what’s chokin’ ‘em, give the roots some air. They’re tougher than they look.”

We.

You don’t know what to do with that word. It does something to the wall of numbness you’ve been operating behind, finds a hairline crack and sits there. Something about the way he says it, not a sales pitch, not an empty promise to bill you later. This isn’t just a job for him. It’s a mission, a way to set right something that had slipped away while he wasn’t watching.

You nod, the motion feeling distant. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s a lot. And I’m not her, I barely know anything about this.”

He nods, once. Accepts that.

“It's a big job," Bucky says, back to practical. “Months, probably, before it looks like anythin’.” He glances at you sideways. "Depends what you want to do with the place."

You look at the cottage behind you, at the lace curtains still visible through the kitchen window.

“I want it to feel like her again,” you say. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel like it has a reason to still be standing.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment. Then he says: “That's a good enough reason to start.”

The sound of a trunk horn wakes you up before the alarm goes off.

Your body registers it first of all, pulling you up from the unreliable sleep you’ve been managing since you arrived, and for one disoriented second, suspended in the gray space between dreaming and waking, your mind can barely place it itself. Then the floral wallpaper swims into focus, then the smell of old wood.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:12. Outside, the truck engine cuts, a door swings open and closed, and then silence again. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening in to the silence.

Bucky didn’t say he’d come this early. He didn’t say much at all, in full honesty. But you can already recognize the sounds of someone beginning to work in the garden that is now yours.

There is something deeply strange about it, a man like him moving through the wreckage of your grief at 7 in the morning while you are still horizontal and unwashed, yet the strangeness has an undertone to it that you can’t quite name. Maybe the particular relief of knowing that a problem is being faced even when you are not yet capable of facing it yourself.

By the time you manage to get up and get downstairs, you have pulled your hair back and traded yesterday’s clothes for something cleaner, which feels like the upper limit of what you can reasonably ask of yourself before 8 AM. The kitchen is exactly as you left it when you enter it to fill the kettle and set it on the burner before standing at the window.

Bucky is already deep into it.

He has positioned himself in front of the trellis, the worst of it, the structure that had looked to you like a lost cause from the moment you first saw it. Strangling vines have grown over it in layers, and he is working from the top down with a pair of long-handled shears, cutting in sections, pulling the severed lengths away and piling them to the side. The patience with which he does it makes it look like a delicate surgery.

You watch him work the way you watched him last time from this same window, with the glass serving the necessary distance for someone who is not yet ready to be in the middle of things. He reaches up to cut a particularly stubborn length of vine and the motion pulls his shirt taut across his back. You notice, again, the funny implausibility of his size relative to the delicacy of what he is doing. Hands, one flesh, one metal, moving through the overgrowth with the precision of someone looking for something they don’t want to damage in the finding.

The kettle whistles.

You make two cups of coffee on autopilot, as if the memory has already been embedded into you.

The back door opens just as you finish pouring the two cups, and Bucky walks over, registers you, then the cups, but he remains impassive.

“Mornin’. Didn’t expect you up this early,” he says. Doesn’t apologize for arriving at 7 AM, you notice. He’s just a man who assumed starting before the heat peaked was a given.

“I heard the horn.” With careful steps, you walk towards him and offer him a mug. “Grandma always had coffee waiting. Would feel wrong not to do the same.”

He takes the mug you extend with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and you notice then the state of them. The knuckles. The deep lines of the palm, the hardened skin at the base of each finger, the kind of callouses that take years to build, sustained by the repeated act of choosing hard work.

“Thank you,” is all he gives you. Without being told, you realize that this isn’t the kind of man who fills silences out of politeness. That you can stand here and drink your coffee and not be expected to perform conversation, and that this is, somehow, the most considerate thing he could offer you right now. So you do just that. Stand there. Drink your coffee.

Eventually, Bucky finishes his coffee and then he’s back out the door, and back to work. You follow him this time, trailing behind him as you look at vines he’s begun working with. Up close, the damage is more visible than it was from the window. The vines have threaded themselves through every joint, every crossbar, working their way into the structure the way roots look for water by branching out and filling every small gap. But the trellis itself, the bone of it all, is still standing. Barely, but there, in a very unexpected way.

“You built this, right?” And even though it’s a question it sounds more like a statement because you remember what he told you already.

“Few years back,” he crouches to free a length of vine from the base, pulling steadily, working it loose rather than snapping it. “Your grandma wanted something that could hold the climbers through winter. Most prefab wouldn’t cut it.” Bucky glances up at the structure appraisingly, and you recognize the look of someone looking at something they’ve made a long time ago and are no longer sure what to think of it now. “Needs a few joints repaired, but the frame’s sound.”

Through the morning, he works and you watch, still keeping to the edge of things, mug gradually emptying before you fill it back. In the meantime, Bucky has uncovered a significant section of the trellis frame, and it is in this newly exposed stretch that he stops, crouches low, and puts the shears down.

What he’s looking at is a rose cane; or rather, what remains of one. It is gray-brown and leafless and looks, to an untrained eye like yours, like everything else in this garden, something that has long given up. But Bucky is looking at it with a particular kind of focus, one that makes you wonder if he’s reading something written in a language you definitely don’t speak, his metal fingers hovering just above the bark without quite touching.

“Is it…” Dead? That word cannot even slip past your lips.

“Dormant,” he corrects hastily. “There’s a difference.”

Then, his fingers pinch a small section of the outer bark away from the cane and he shows you the inside, which is very unmistakably green.

Alive.

“Oh.”

He stands back up, retrieves his shears and keeps working. You stay where you are a little longer, looking at the exposed cane with it secret green interior.

“She had a catalogue. Like mail-order flowers or somethin’. Used to argue about it,” Bucky says after a while, from slightly above and to your left, his attention still on the vine he’s cutting. He doesn’t feel like he’s making conversation, more like he’s just thinking out loud. “There was this one climber she’d ordered, I forget the name, she was convinced it would come back every year without any help. I told her it wouldn’t survive the first frost without protection. Stubborn thing, planted it anyway, said she’d take her chances.”

“Did it survive?”

Scanning the remaining vines with a slow eye, Bucky points to the largest dormant canes, one that is thicker than the others at the base.

“Third year runnin’.”

He doesn’t say it smiling. But the corner of his mouth does something, a small upward shift, before he ducks his chin slightly like he is trying not to make a thing of it; then goes back to cutting.

You stand there for another moment, before going back inside to refill the kettle, because the alternative is to stand there, in the middle of his work, like you belong there, and you’re not quite ready to believe that yet.

Making him tea is an accident, the first time.

You hadn’t planned it. You are in the kitchen, making a cup for yourself, the way you have been every afternoon since you arrived, and your hand simply reaches for a second mug. Muscle memory, maybe, or the particular guilt of drinking something warm while a man is pulling thorns out of the ground thirty feet away. You bring it out without overthinking it, set it on the porch railing and go back inside before he has to acknowledge it.

Bucky leaves the mug empty on the railing when he leaves.

The second time is less accidental.

A lavender path runs along the south side of the garden and is entirely invisible under a season’s worth of bindweed and creeping grass. Bucky has moved on to it after working on the trellis for a while, and he approaches it with the same care he approached the roses.

You have been watching from the porch for most of the morning, cup of tea gone cold in your hands, when he stops and looks back over his shoulders at you.

“You could help with this part,” he says, a statement of fact he’s choosing to share. You look down at your hands, then back at him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know. Doesn’t matter for this, you’re just pulling.”

So you go in.

He hands you a pair of gloves without comment, the thick gardening kind, slightly too large, and you understand when you pull the first weed that this is why; the bindweed has thorns worked into it, a little too vicious, finding skin without any warning. You work at the edge of the path while he takes the denser middle section, and for a long stretch of time the only sounds are the pull and tear of vegetation.

The quiet between you has changed since the first day. It has lost the quality of two strangers being careful around each other, and it’s something simpler now. Still as quiet, but more comfortable now, like you’ve both established, without many words, that you trust each other enough to be silent together. You find that you can think in it, without the static that has followed you since the news broke.

“Is this one?” You hold up a stem you’re not sure about, something with small dark leaves that doesn’t quiet look like the rest of the weeds, but you also haven’t seen before.

Bucky glances over from where he’s kneeling. “Clover. Leave it.”

“…Why?”

“Pollinators like it. And it’s not hurtin’ anythin’.”

You put it back down carefully, tamping the soil around the base the way you’ve watched him do it, pressing with two fingers. There’s no comment from him on the imitation but you have the sense, even without looking his way, that he notices it. That’s the thing about Bucky, you’ve come to realize; he notices most things without making you feel watched.

Noticing without watching is a quality you have been trying put words to since the first day, when he looked at the rose cane the way most people look at something they love that has been damaged. There is a particular kind of attention he gives to things that is completely different from the attention you grew up being taught to pay. In the city, attention was a performance. In meetings, you looked at whoever was speaking to show them you were present, notes taken to demonstrate engagement. But here, Bucky’s attention is a different thing entirely. It is simply where his interest is. No performance, no proof. He looks at a plant and you believe that looking is the entire point of what he is doing.

And for the first time since his arrival, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have that quality of attention turned on you fully. Not the sideways glances you’ve caught, but the whole thing. If he’d find the flaws in your build, or if he’d look for the green under the bark.

Then you pull another weed, because this is not the time.

You are both working toward the center of the path from opposite ends when your hands converge on the same section, and you find the first live lavender stem. Bucky sees it first, a small cluster of gray-green stems, flattened under the weight of everything that has grown over them, but intact. He stops your hand and points.

“There.”

You lean closer, seeing the almost unrecognizable lavender, pressed flat and pale from the lack of light, but the leaves are still soft when you touch them, still releasing a faint dry fragrance that hits you all too softly. Then you hear him make a sound, like something has just occurred to him.

You glance over.

He is still looking at the ground, at the lavender next to you, an expression on his face like he’s actively deciding whether or not to let out whatever thought has come to mind.

Then, without looking up, without any preamble whatsoever:

"Why can't the flower ride his bike?"

You blink twice. Bucky’s jaw is set, expression aggressively neutral, like he has not just said what he said.

“… What?”

“… It’s just somethin’ that came to mind. An old joke I told your grandmother once.”

A pause hangs, your face doesn’t move except for your slightly furrowed brows.

“Okay. Why can’t the flower ride his bike?”

“Lost his petals.”

Bucky says it completely straight, the same tone he uses to tell you about drainage ingredients and soil composition and which weeds are worth keeping.

The laugh comes from somewhere so far down that it immediately surprises you on the way out. Not a small involuntary thing, but a bigger, louder laugh, one that takes over your whole chest and makes your eyes water before you’ve caught up to it. There’s no dignity to the sound that comes out of you, that escapes before grief has any chance to intervene. You press the back of your wrist to your mouth and it makes no difference at all.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s looking at you like he’s fighting very hard not smile, and losing that battle.

“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” you manage, when you can speak again.

“Yeah. But you laughed. Was about time.”

The smile is still on your face when it happens.

It arrives quietly, the way the worst things do. One moment you are laughing, the sound of it still warm in your chest, and then something catches, a foot finding a loose board in the dark, and the warmth quickly dissipates.

Because the laughter had felt good. Physically good, the first thing in weeks that has cut cleanly through the haze, and the goodness of it is exactly what undoes you. The thought arrives fully formed and merciless: she will never hear you laugh again. Will never know you were here, in her garden, laughing at a terrible joke told by a man she liked very much.

The tears come before you can stop them.

You turn away from him immediately, a reflex, one hand coming up to cover your face. Tears that had been waiting, pressurized, behind the numbness for days, weeks, and are finally seeping through a moment of weakness. You try to breathe through it and can’t quite manage, and now you’re crying without much composure, without careful management you’ve been applying over your grief like a bandage of the wrong size.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

“You don’t have to be.”

You don’t answer. You keep your hand over your face because looking at anything feels impossible right now.

“It’s not right,” you get out, eventually. “That I can laugh when she’s— I shouldn’t be laughing yet, it’s too soon, it means I’ve already started—”

“No.”

Bucky settles into stillness beside you, not touching, just present.

“Doesn’t work like that. Laughin’ doesn’t mean you’re done grievin’, or that you’re lettin’ go of anythin’. Just means you’re still here.”

You try to breathe.

“She would have wanted you to laugh. Grief will sometimes be loud, and then quiet, and then loud again. That’s okay.”

The tears are still coming but something in your chest has eased, just slightly. Finally, you lower your hand, and the garden comes back into focus. Bucky is giving you the courtesy of not watching you reassemble yourself, staring at something else which is, you think, exactly what your grandmother meant when she wrote that he listens to the earth. You’re part of it, too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your shirt and exhale slowly.

“I’ve been holding that in for a while,” you say.

“I can tell.” Another pause. “You know your grandma had no patience for held-in things. Would’ve had you cryin’ into a cup of coffee on the first mornin’.” The corner of his mouth gives up the fight entirely, shows a real smile, there and then gone just as quickly. “You want to keep goin' or call it for today?”

“Let's keep going,” you say.

He nods, once. Puts his gloves back on and you do the same.

From then on, every afternoon, somewhere around the point when the sun peaks and the garden becomes briefly inhospitable, Bucky takes a break he doesn’t announce and appears at the edge of the porch. You have started timing the kettle to it, which you admit only to yourself and no one else. You sit on the steps, he leans against the railing, and the conversation comes in the same way everything does with him: unhurried, arriving when it arrives.

He tells you things about himself. Careful, not because he doesn’t want to share them, but because you can tell he’s not sure whether you want to hear them. (You do, you come to find out.) Then tells you things about the garden and about your grandmother in the same tone, as if they are the same subject. That she once spent an entire afternoon arguing with him about the correct way to stake a climbing rose, and he let her win, and she knew he let her win and never brought it up again.

“She said something about you,” you tell him eventually. “In the address book, next to your number. I don’t know if you’d want to know.”

Bucky just looks at you.

‘Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth,' you tell him. Exactly as she wrote it.

He looks away, out at the garden. Pulls the brim of his cap down a fraction, which you have figured is exactly what he does when something lands somewhere tender. There’s a long enough silence that you start to worry you’ve misstepped.

But then, quiet: “That’s good to know.”

That’s all.

The worrying starts a month in, and it announces itself in the most ordinary way.

You are inside the house when you hear it, a single sharp sound from somewhere in the garden, metal against stone, followed by a silence that has a different quality than the usual working silence.

When you move to the back door, what you find is Bucky standing very still beside the railing with his left hand pressed flat against his right forearm, metal protecting the flesh.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He says it so quickly and flatly that it’s very obviously a lie.

“Bucky.”

He looks at you then, a brief evaluating look, and something about whatever he finds in your expression makes him relent. He lifts his metal hand to show you: a long shallow scratch along the inside of his forearm, from a piece of broken border edging he had been repositioning. Doesn’t look deep from where you’re standing, but the way he’d been holding it suggested it had stung considerably more than nothing.

“I have a first aid kit inside,” you say."

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask,” You say it the same way he says most things. A fact, not an argument. “Come inside.”

He does, and sits at the kitchen table carefully, as a man who has learned to take up the right amount of space and no more, while you find the first aid kit in the cupboard where your grandmother always kept it, between the spare candles and the batteries.

The scratch is genuinely minor. You clean it without ceremony and he watches the process with patience, and you are aware, more than you have been at any point working alongside him in the garden, of how close you are. The kitchen is small. His flesh arm is resting on the table and you are sitting in front of him, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that does something very specific to the planes of his face. It highlights the blue in his eyes, too.

You focus on the first aid kit instead.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but there’s no mention that he wants you to stop. Maybe he just feels required to offer you the exit.

“She’d have done it,” you say simply.

His eyes move to the window. “You’re not her.”

A small thing. It doesn’t need to be more than it is. But he finishes it in a way that makes it harder to simplify it: “I like that about you.”

You press a small strip of gauze into place with your thumb, smoothing the tape at the edges. There is no logical reason to take this long finishing a minor scratch. You both seem to know that, but neither of you moves away.

Your eyes travel, briefly and without meaning to, to where his metal arm rests next to his body. The afternoon light catches the articulated joints, the way it sits completely still the way flesh and bone rarely does. Your eyes drift away before it becomes a thing, but he sees it.

“You can look,” Bucky says. Not an invitation exactly. He’s just handing you a door you didn’t know you were standing in front of. “Most people do. Just usually they try harder to pretend they don’t.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop, because you were, a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been one of the only people in a long while who just… let it be there. First day I came out, you looked and moved on. Treated it like it was part of a person instead of the whole story of one.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay quiet and let him have the floor.

“Most people either stare and can’t stop, or they work so hard at not lookin’ that it becomes its own kind of starin’. Both make a man feel like a curiosity. You just… handed me coffee.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “People don’t always do the right thing.”

Another silence, but it’s more comfortable now. There’s no need to fill it, you’ve both learned how to live inside it, but you continue anyway. A breach in his persona that you intend to explore, if he’ll let you.

“How long have you had it?” you ask, and you say it to his arm, because starting there feels like less an inconvenience than meeting his eyes.

“Fifteen years, give or take.”

The number lands heavier than you expect. Fifteen years is long enough to become the shape of a person. Long enough that you cannot picture the version of him that preceded it, and you suspect, that maybe he can’t always either.

“Work accident,” he adds, not because you asked. Just because the words are sitting there and he’s decided to pick them up. “Land clearin’ job, upstate. Big contract, the kind you don’t turn down when you’re twenty-five and tryin’ to build somethin’ from nothin’. There was an equipment failure. It was fast. Everythin’ else after was slow, though.”

You don’t say sorry, because something tells you he has a particular and well-earned exhaustion with that phrase. Instead, you ask: “What was the hardest part? After.”

He considers it for a bit.

“Knowin’ what my hands were supposed to do and not being able to trust them to do it anymore.” Bucky glances down at his right hand, the lines in the palm, the built callouses. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. This kind of work, specifically. It’s the one thing I knew how to be. For a while I genuinely didn’t know who I was without it. Or if there was a version of me that existed separate from it.”

“But there was,” you finish for him.

“Took some convincin’. And a lot of broken things. Broke more fence posts learnin’ to calibrate the grip on that side than I care to admit. Had to relearn the pressure for everythin’. Soil density, stone, root systems. The sensitivity is different, temperature reads different. But some things are easier now. The metal doesn’t tire, doesn’t cramp in the cold.” He makes a face then, without self-pity, but still a bit funny. “Other… things are still being figured out, ‘til this day.”

“Fifteen years in and still figuring it out?”

“Most things worth doin’ take longer than that.”

You sit with that for a moment.

“I used to think that people would always see it first and everythin’ else second. That it would just be the thing that preceded me into every room,” he says, arriving at something he doesn’t often take out into the world. “But I have found that some people make it easy to forget it ever felt like a problem.”

Although he doesn’t look directly at you when he says it, his eyes now on his metal arm, you know he means you, even through the subtext.

You smooth the edge of the bandage one more time, a gesture with no remaining practical purpose, and then you fold your hands in your lap.

“For what it’s worth… from where I’m standing, it’s a good arm.”

He blinks. It's the closest to caught off guard you've ever seen him.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The arm. It’s good. Found the green inside the rose cane, pulled the lavender out without breaking it. It’s done something good. Just thought someone should say it.”

“… Thank you.”

And he means every syllable.

When he leaves that afternoon and you stand at the kitchen window watching the truck back out over the gravel, you notice something funny that takes you a moment to identify, unfamiliar after weeks of weight.

You are already thinking about tomorrow.

Not with dread. Not with the gray, flat, nothing that has colored every day since you arrived. It’s hopeful. You want tomorrow to come because that means you’ll see him again.

It’s a Thursday morning when Bucky announces he’ll start working on the fountain at the center of the garden. You’d looked at it weeks ago, and it was left on standby to be dealt with eventually. That eventually is today, which is how you both end up here, on your knees in the dirt, staring at the vines that have overtaken it.

“Pull toward you,” Bucky says (for the third time) because you keep pulling sideaways and the vine system underneath is apparently connected in a way that means you’re undoing his work every time you do. “The root runs that direction. You’re fighting it.”

You scoff. “I know I’m fighting it, I’m trying to remove it.”

“You remove it by not fighting it.”

“… Very zen for someone covered in mud,” you shoot back, even though technically he’s not covered in mud. But there’s a streak of it along his jaw where he’d wiped his face with the back of his wrist without thinking, and his shirt has long given up on any pretense of cleanliness. He looks at you, patience of a woman who has decided not to rise to it, and then reaches across and repositions your hands on the vine, both of his hands, flesh and metal, bracketing yours briefly.

“There, now pull.”

You pull, and the vine comes away from the stone in one satisfying length, roots and all.

“Oh.”

The fountain is old. Limestone, you think, or something like it, pale gray and carved simply, a wide basin sitting on a short column. Someone, maybe your grandmother, maybe your grandmother with Bucky’s help, had planted climbing things around its base and they had done exactly what climbing things do when left without guidance: they engulfed it entirely.

Clearing it takes the better part of the morning.

The heat is real today, thick, settling into the back of your neck and staying. You’ve both abandoned the idea of breaks, working through the mess in sections, passing the shears back and forth without needing to ask. You’re working closer together than you have been before; when he reaches past you to get a root system threading the far side of the basin, his metal arm crosses your line of sight close enough that you could close your hand around it if you moved a few inches to the left.

“Hand me the trowel?”

Find it, pass it over, and he takes it with his right hand, the left braced flat against the side of the basin to keep his balance while he works at the base and you watch the metal fingers spread against the stone for a moment before you make yourself look at something else.

And by noon, the fountain is mostly exposed.

You both sit back on your heels and look at it. The limestone is dark with old moisture in places, and there’s green algae mapped across the north face where the water must have pooled and sat. The pipe inlet at the base of the column is corroded but present.

“Think it still works?” you ask.

“Possibly. I imagine the line was shut off some time ago. If it hasn’t cracked in the cold and the pump is still… Where’s the external water shutoff?”

Which is how you end up in the small utility space beside the back door, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in a space that was clearly not designed for more than one person, while Bucky shines his phone torch at the copper pipework running along the wall and explains what you’re looking at and what he intends to do with it.

You are not listening to him as carefully as you usually do.

This is new, and you’re aware of it as a thing that is new. In the early weeks, Bucky’s presence had been a comfort primarily because it was a constant and because it was directed outward, at the garden, at the definable and fixable concrete. You could absorb the company without it requiring anything of you. Somewhere in the middle weeks, it became something you looked forward to specifically, the two cups of coffee and the particular silence that had grown familiar.

But this, right now, is something else again.

It’s the awareness of him as him, in a utility cupboard, explaining the gate valve, and something in you has oriented toward the way he moves and talks to you. Helplessly and without drama, just the natural consequence of conditions.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’d thought it applied only to your garden.

“—so if you turn this one first, counterclockwise, and then the secondary valve gives, you’ll know the line is intact—”

“Bucky.”

“—and if it doesn’t, then we’re lookin’ at—”

“Bucky.”

He stops, looks at you, which in this space means looking at you closely.

“Sorry,” you say. “I missed the last part. Which one first?”

A brief pause, and then: “This one.” He takes your hand, your right and his right, and guides your fingers to the valve. “Counterclockwise. Slow.”

There’s a shudder in the pipework when you turn it, a gargle and the sound of water moving through old joints, and then: nothing catastrophic.

“Secondary,” Bucky continues, and you feel him behind your shoulder, leaning in to watch.

You turn the second valve, and the pipe hisses.

“Give it a minute.”

You give it a minute.

When you both walk back out to the garden, the fountain is running.

The water comes up through the basin inlet in a steady, narrow column, spills over itself and begins to fill the basin slowly, moving over the algae and the old stone. The sound of it is small and even and has been absent from this garden for long enough that it sounds almost strange to your ears.

Both of you dirty, both of you tired, you stand beside each other watching it, heat still pressing down from above.

“It works,” you say.

“It works,” he agrees.

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

You think about your grandmother's hands on this stone, over decades, the same hands that braided your hair and hauled compost and pressed the seeds into the earth. You think about Bucky standing at the edge of her overgrown garden on the first day.

Still here. That’s what he’d said when you’d been crying on the lavender path. Laughing doesn't mean you're done grieving. It means you're still here.

You are still here.

And you, here, don’t make a decision, exactly. Or if you do, it isn’t the kind you feel yourself making. It’s more like you just stop holding something.

Whatever small distance remains between you and Bucky as you watch the fountain is quickly closed when you shift toward him and kiss him.

It’s all too brief. Soft. His cheek is warm from the sun when you touch it, and he smells like turned earth, but nothing really compares to how his lips taste against yours. To how he kisses you back, for a full second, and you swear you can feel his body leaning in, and maybe you’ve got the power of sight because even with closed eyes, you can feel his metal hand hovering and reaching for your waist.

Except he doesn’t. He goes completely still and then steps back.

Bucky’s not unkind in the way he does it, but he does it nonetheless. One step that reestablishes a distance. Very briefly, he looks like a man who has just pressed his hand to a bruise he’d forgotten about.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s warmth in your face when you look at him now, but not from the heat. “No, I’m sorry, that was…”

Was… what?

“This isn’t a good idea.”

This is the part where you say something, a distant corner of your mind observes. But the embarrassment has arrived, sudden, and you’re caught between it and the question of what he had done in that one still second before he moved away. Because it had not been nothing. You are certain, with the certainty of someone who has spent the last weeks learning how to read a careful person, that the way he kissed you back, even for a split moment, had not been nothing.

“Okay.”

It’s the only word small enough not to make it worse.

Days later, you make lemonade for the first time. You don’t examine the decision too closely. It’s hot, genuinely hot, the first real heat of the season pressing down on the cottage and the garden like a hand, and lemonade makes sense in a way that has nothing to do with anything else. You bought lemons a few days ago after finding a recipe with your grandmother’s handwriting tucked inside a cookbook. You follow it exactly, including the ungodly amounts of sugar mentioned at the end.

When you carry the pitcher and two glasses out to the porch, Bucky is working at the far end of the garden on the vegetable patch and he sees you from a distance. Straightens up. Looks at you. Walks across the garden toward the porch.

There’s something different about watching him move toward you versus watching him work, something you register without deciding to. He takes the glass you pour and drinks most of it standing up, deeply thirsty, then looks at you with mild surprise.

“Tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”

“Found the recipe in the cookbook.”

You pour him another glass when he hands you his empty one, a silent request for more. Then he sits on the porch steps instead of leaning on the railing, which he hasn't done before, and you sit beside him at a reasonable distance.

This isn’t so different from the first day you stood side by side looking at the green monster. Of course, the garden is changed now, less of a green monster and more of a slight green inconvenience, nowhere near finished, but visibly different. The trellis is cleared and the roses are staked and the lavender path is at least recognizable. There is structure reappearing where before there was only chaos. Clear evidence of work. Evidence that things can be found again if one is willing to look.

You sit on the porch steps and drink too-sweet lemonade that tastes like every summer you spent here, and beside you Bucky is quiet in the way he is always quiet, which is to say completely and without apology, and it makes you think about the lavender pressing itself flat in the dark for years and still releasing fragrance when someone touched it.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’re on the porch when a storm announces itself with the first roll of thunder somewhere past the treeline. Crouched by the vegetable patch, Bucky hears it too, and you see him pause his work and tilt his head back slightly, reading the lines of the sky.

The first drops are fat and isolated, hitting the porch boards, and then between one breath and the next, the sky opens entirely.

Bucky runs toward the porch steps in a few strides, and you both stand under the narrow overhang and watch the garden disappear into gray curtains of rain. The tin roof above you turns the downpour into something enormous, a sound that swallows everything else, and the smell of wet earth hits almost overwhelmingly.

“That came fast,” you almost yell over the rain.

“Saw it coming from the ridge about an hour ago. Didn’t think it’d move this quick.”

Wind picks up and drives the rain sideways under the overhang in a fine spray that finds your arms and your face, and Bucky shifts in front of you, blocking some of it.

“Come inside, there’s no point standing out here.”

The kitchen is dim with the storm light, and the sound of water on the roof fills the cottage from wall to wall. With careful hands, you put the kettle on, because that’s what you do, and Bucky leans against the doorframe that separates the kitchen from the hallway, carrying some self-containment of a man in someone else’s house, even after months.

You’ve noticed that he does this, chooses doorframes and porch railings and the edge of things, rather than the middle. Somehow, that makes you impatient today.

“You can sit down. You’ve been here every day for months.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to wear out the chair.”

In an act that almost feels like rebellion, he doesn’t move, and you turn back to the kettle. Rain is relentless against the roof, and the kitchen feels smaller than it usually does, storm drawing in the walls somehow.

After the water has boiled, you set his mug on the table and sit, before Bucky crosses to the table, pulls out a chair and sits with the kind of particular quietness he always does since the other week’s incident. He’s always too careful around you, now, since that kiss. Like you’re an explosive device he’s terrified of setting off.

He drinks his tea. You sit down across from him and drink your own.

This should be comfortable. They used to be, your silences, for long enough that you’d stopped noticing them as silences. But this one has something in it, something that has been building in the open field of your garden. Things changed that day at the fountain; nothing broke, not fully, but something bent, and now both of you have been carefully working around it, pretending it doesn’t change the entire geometry of your relationship.

“Roses are gonna need checkin’ after this,” he says eventually, trying to loosen up the air just a fraction. Another time, you would have appreciated the gesture, but right now it makes something unsettling burn in your throat. “Heavy rain on new stakes can—”

“Can we not?”

A pause. Bucky looks genuinely confused.

“Not what?”

“Talk about the garden. For like ten minutes. Can we just sit here and not make it about the garden?”

A brief recalibration moves across his face. “All right.”

“Look, I need to say something,” you start, and you hadn’t planned to start saying anything at all, but the storm and weeks of careful distance have apparently reached some sort of threshold. “About the fact that you come here every morning and we work together, and talk about my grandmother, and your arm, and roses, and yet… you still sit across the table from me like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to be in the room or not.”

His jaw does the small ticking thing while he chooses his next words very carefully.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to be…” He stops, then starts again. “There’s a line.”

“What line?”

Bucky exhales, slow. “You hired me to do a job. You were grieving’, no, you are grievin’. There’s a power in that, in me bein’ here every day while you’re in the middle of somethin’ that hard, and I have no interest in bein’ the kind of man who takes advantage of a situation because he—”

“Bucky, I kissed you.”

There it is, words laid on the table along with any dignity you might have left. Bucky looks at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, stripped of its usual careful management. Whatever he’s feeling, however, he’s trying hard to not let it show.

“I know.”

“And you stepped back.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not asking for an explanation.” (You are, a little.) “I just… you said it wasn’t a good idea, but every day you come and you drink my tea and talk to me and notice everything while not saying anything and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with you, with the fact that you didn’t want that.”

Rain is at its peak now, the downpour making the world outside the window entirely abstract and the kitchen feels like the only room left on earth.

Bucky has both hands around his mug, flesh and metal, and he’s looking at them rather than at you.

“Look… it’s not that I didn’t want to. That wasn’t the problem.”

“Then I don’t think I understand what the problem is.”

His expression does something complicated that you don’t find the vocabulary for. It isn’t closed, by any means, and that’s the thing that stays with you afterward, turning it over in the sleepless stretch of the night. It isn’t the face of a man who doesn’t feel anything. It’s the face of a man who feels something but has decided, for reasons you don’t have access to yet, that the feeling isn’t safe to act on.

The storm moves on eventually, and Bucky goes back outside as soon as the rain eases, checking the rose stakes just as he said he would.

Nothing, technically, changes in the following days. Nothing you can give a name to, anyway.

Bucky still comes at seven. The truck sounds the same on the gravel, the door swings open and closed with its own strange creak. Coffee gets made sometimes, other times tea (never again the lemonade). Work gets done.

But something shifts anyway.

He talks less. There’s no way to read it as a punishment, because it isn’t one, or as sulking. It’s not that. Afternoons on the porch steps, which had become part of the day you oriented toward without admitting it, still happen, but they’re shorter, and the conversation stays closer to a surface level. You talk about the garden and what needs to be done next week.

There’s nothing else that stretches into deeper roots, like the time he told you about how he lost his arm. Never again does he ask anything personal about you. Never mentions your grandmother again. Whatever personal territory he had slowly opened over weeks closed again as a quiet act of privacy.

It hits harder than you had expected it to.

Because he is scrupulous about the distance, about leaving every day at the same time, leaving no room for hope of a longer evening. There’s no more pause at the truck door before getting in, a small delay that wasn’t forgetfulness. He just leaves, now, and you stand on your porch watching him go.

And then comes an ordinary day when something breaks open.

It’s a regular Friday. You have been inside most of the morning, working through the last of your grandmother’s paperwork at the kitchen table, the administrative aftermath of a life that keeps arriving in envelopes even months after the fact.

You bring Bucky coffee after lunch, and when you come around the side of the cottage you find him crouched at the base of the climbing rose, admiring something fascinating: it’s blooming.

Pale red buds cracked open at the tips, three or four of them along the highest cane, reaching toward the afternoon light. You stand there with the mug in your hands, looking at the roses while something rises in your chest. This is the beginning of something. A second chance.

Bucky rises to his height next to you and you hand him his coffee without looking away from the roses. The quiet distance that has been maintained for weeks is gone, dissolved in the warmth of this moment, because there is no architecture of caution that holds up against the first bloom of something you’ve rebuilt together.

When you finally turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And that’s really all it takes, comically. That is the entire mechanism of it, managed silence and dormancy coming apart at the seams with one look too full of things he has been keeping behind professionalism and boundaries.

This time, Bucky’s the one who closes the distance between the two of you.

His mouth finds yours without hurry, without the frantic quality of something held back too long. He moves with intention, giving you every opportunity to see it coming, and his hand comes up to your face, warm, rough-palmed, cupping your jaw too quickly like he has thought about this a hundred times already.

You stop thinking, because what else is there to think but the touch of his lips on yours?

The paperwork on the kitchen table and the Wednesday night phone call that tore your life apart all recede to somewhere very far away, and what remains is only this. The smell of earth and roses, the solid pressure of him under your fingertips when your hands steady themselves on his chest.

He kisses you the same way he tends to things, with attention that isn’t performance, letting the kiss exist completely in itself without rushing toward anything else. Flesh thumb moves once along your cheekbone, tongue presses against the entrance of your mouth and allows itself in because you let him, and his metal arm snakes around your waist and brings you closer because you let him.

Your fingers curl into the worn fabric of his shirt while time does something strange. Loses its forward momentum and simply rests, hanging, until you decide to make it move again.

There’s nothing to say to improve the silence when he pulls back only a few inches, forehead dropping to yours. Morning birds are suddenly very loud, and the fountain is running, and the roses are blooming right there, and his breath is slow and warm against your mouth, and…

Tasting the way your mind runs ahead of your thumping heart, Bucky squeezes your hip gently, bringing you back to him. You're thinking about your grandmother's handwriting on the back of the business card.

He listens to the earth.

He knows how to listen to you, too.

“I tried,” he says, very quietly. Rough at the edges, like he’s been struggling to keep the words down. “I want you to know that. I tried real hard.”

“I know,” you say against his mouth. Deep in your gut, you know what he means. Tried to stay away.

“Kept tellin’ myself that it wasn’t right. That you were grievin’, that you’d come here to heal somethin’ and I was just the man hired to fix your garden, it wasn’t my place to—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, fingers tightening around his shirt and leaning that much closer again that you’re almost kissing when you speak. “Come inside with me.”

Hesitation is gone when he follows you inside, through the back door and into the dim warmth of the cottage. Walking together through the hallway, Bucky closes the distance and doesn’t let go of you the whole time, while heavy steps sound on the floor and you walk him with a very specific location in mind.

He kisses you differently when you get there. Outside, by the roses, it was a start. Now, walking past the door of your bedroom, his right hand finds your face again, with the same instinct, but he exhales against your mouth and kisses you harder. Desperate, a man who pushes his lips against yours like he has never wanted to kiss anyone else in his entire life. Kisses your mouth and the soft place at the corner of it, and the line of your jaw when he pulls back, then your temple, then back to your lips again because stopping seems impossible.

Your hands find his shoulders, the dark hair at his nape, and every point of contact registers with a vividness that makes the last months feel like an absurdity. Like you had both kept yourselves from drinking water on the premise that you weren’t sure you deserved to be thirsty.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and draws you toward him, keeping you standing between his legs as he stares up at you. His right hand moves with certainty when he reaches for one of your wrists and brings it to your lips, kissing the skin. Blue eyes watch his own fingers move across your skin before they close, feeling you warm and real and present, and he keeps having to relearn this fact from the beginning every few seconds, because a part of him has not yet fully accepted that you are here and that you are letting him do this.

His left arm, however, stays where it is.

At his side, against the bed. And of course you notice it, so you reach for his left hand anyway while you move to sit on his lap, straddling him. Half of him freezes; his right hand moves over your collarbone, dips under your shirt to trace your shoulders. His left side, in the meantime, feels like it’s been dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” You turn the metal hand over in both of yours, the articulated joints and cool weight of it, and you kiss it slowly, dragging your lips over every ridge, mapping every inch of the metal. Under your touch, Bucky almost crumbles, breathing unsteady, and you swear you almost feel him shaking.

“…Fifteen years. I haven’t… I never trusted it enough. The calibration for—” He’s looking for the word, but can’t seem to locate it in any comfortable dictionary while your lips trace his hand like it’s sacred. “This. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with this hand when it comes to this.”

“You found the green inside the rose cane,” you remind him again, just like the last time you talked about his arm. “Pulled the lavender out without breaking it.” Both your hands bring his metal palm flat against your face, warm skin against cool metal, and you watch his blue eyes build up a storm. You hold very still so he can feel that you are not afraid, that there’s nothing in you rejecting any of him. “You already know how.”

Metal fingers move then, slowly, tracing the hinge of your jaw, and he watches them, or watches you, reading the feedback, adjusting. You barely move at all, except for a shiver that runs through your spine when the metal touches the back of your neck, but the fingers quickly curling in his hair to pull him closer are enough indication that this shiver has nothing to do with fear. Fifteen years, and some things still aren’t figured out. You feel more than inclined to help him.

Both his arms move to wrap around you and he pulls you close, pressing his mouth to your hair before he lays you down.

His right hand moves through your hair, across your ribs through your shirt, learning you with the patience he gives everything, and his metal hand follows (more carefully, but follows nonetheless). The cool metal traces the same path a heartbeat later, fingertips gliding like he’s afraid the warmth of your skin might burn him if he presses too hard.

It’s strange to be on your back on the bed that used to be yours as a child (you were never brave enough to take over your grandmother’s bedroom, but you did manage to move out of the guest bedroom), the quilt soft and familiar beneath you, while Bucky is above you. But the strangeness doesn’t make you falter, not even when his flesh hand slips under the hem of your shirt and spreads, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach.

He finds the bottom of your shirt and lifts it, inch by inch, and when the fabric clears your head, he sets it aside carefully before returning both hands to you. Flesh and metal cradling your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if the shape of you is a miracle he never expected to hold.

His voice says things while he worships you, words that he has been carrying too long in his chest. That he had felt it early, earlier than made sense, that he’d genuinely tried to stay away, that he believed he was doing the right thing because you were in the middle of grieving.

“I kept thinkin’ that if I just kept my head down long enough it’d go away. That I could go home and sleep it off like a cold,” he says, his mouth at your temple. Then leans down and presses his mouth to the center of your chest, right over your heart.

He kisses lower, open-mouthed, while his hands keep moving, always touching. The right hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, easing the fabric down with a care that makes your breath catch. The metal hand helps, fingertips hooking the other side, sliding the material away as though he’s afraid even the brush of denim might mark you. When you’re bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking. Both hands rest on your thighs and he strokes upward in perfect unison, reverent drags of fingers that leave trails of heat and coolness in their wake.

“You’re so beautiful. I never let myself believe I’d get to touch you like this.”

Open mouth follows the path his hands have already started, kissing the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip of your hip, while his fingers never stop. They trace over the hollow of your throat, then come down over your sternum, finding your breasts and pushing the fabric of your bra aside. His flesh hand cups one breast with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing over the peak until you arch into him, sighing his name. It hardens under his touch and he looks at you smiling, like he’s proud of his achievement, or maybe just in awe that his rough hands still have enough soft touch in them to make you feel good.

Either way, you barely notice when he settles between your legs, still not rushing there either. He kisses the inside of your thigh first, both hands moving to cradle your hips and spreading you open, then higher, until his nose is tickling the space between your thigh and your panties, where a wet patch has formed. Metal fingers curl around the soft fabric and push it down your legs in a gentle motion, and then without warning, without fireworks, his mouth finds you, warm and delicate.

“Bucky…” You sing his name in a soft melody, legs closing around his head instinctively, but his metal hand curls around your thigh and pushes it open again, not forcefully, but with enough firmness to keep you in place. His tongue speaks a new language into the wetness of your cunt, licking every whisper of your wetness, a stripe, then smaller hits, then focusing on your clit until you are almost begging for mercy.

You thread your fingers into his dark hair and pull, and mercy is not an option when he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. Tug, pull, push, legs shaking around his head as he throws both your legs over his shoulders and goes to town as if staying alive depended on it.

‘Bucky’, you call again, needier this time, a dying whine on your lips, and he closes his eyes as if savoring the sound, but never relenting.

Even when your hips start to buck and your fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, Bucky stays right where he is, a devoted lover, too focused on your pleasure. The flat of his tongue drags up the center of you in a long stripe, then circles your clit with patient pressure until something starts to burn behind your eyelids: not stars, maybe an all-out supernova.

“Bucky, oh my god,” your voice cracks in the middle and he answers by sliding his metal fingers into one of your hands, pulling it from his hair and instead lacing your fingers together against the mattress. In eating you out he never takes more than you can give, as if he knows exactly what the limit of your pleasure is, but he toes it with every lick until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft, warm, until you can almost swear your slick is now a mix of your wetness and his own drool.

You come hard, sudden and overwhelming, like you haven’t in a while, in maybe too long, with his name on your mouth sounding more like a pathetic plea. It’s been a minute since your voice sounded like this for anyone. It’s been a minute since you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything at all. Bucky doesn’t pull away until you’re trembling and soft and breathless, and even then he only replaces the warmth of your cunt with other skin for his mouth to touch as he kisses up your body with slick-covered lips.

 “Still with me?” he whispers against your stomach, kissing the sweat away.

You nod, heart thundering in your chest. “That was… you’re… God. Bucky.”

A chuckle slips past his lips, which is just as surprising to you as anything else happening today, because when have you ever heard this man this carefree in all the months you’ve spent together?

“I’m not God. But it’s good to know I still got what it takes to please my woman.”

That makes you pause, only a little, and you move the one hand still in his hair to press over his heart.

“Is that what I am now? Your woman?”

Bucky looks up from your stomach, eyes finding yours in the dim afternoon light, blue and steady.

“If you want to. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” His right hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “A friendship. A warm bed. Somethin’ in between. I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.”

“And what’s your preference?”

“You,” he says, too simply. “All of you. In my arm, next time I go to town to get some supplies. So I can take you to see a movie, or out for dinner, or both if you want. In my bed, so I can pull from you every night the same faces you just did.”

That makes you chuckle, and you realize you are still more out of breath than you thought.

“I like your preference,” you whisper to him. “I think it's mine, too.”

Bucky Barnes, a man on the edge of his own composure, finally pushes himself up and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are clumsy, the tremor of want making a simple task all too difficult. Through the haze of your recent pleasure, you reach up, covering his hands with yours.

“Let me.”

You undo them one by one, and as the fabric falls away, the breadth of him is almost overwhelming. Years of hard work have carved muscle into his frame, but there are scars, too, old ones, pale and faded, mapping stories across his skin. There’s a line where the flesh meets metal on his left shoulder, almost screaming at you, but you don’t react, don’t even flinch. Instead, your fingers trace the edge of it gently, the same way you touch any other part of him, and you lean up to kiss the scarred skin. Bucky is attempting to kick his boots off when you do, and you feel him stagger right there, as if it’s too unexpected, too soon despite it being on his body for fifteen years now.

You wait for the anger, for him to ask you to stop. Instead he exhales slowly, sheds his pants and boxers and lies down over you, mattress dipping under your combined weight. His body against yours is a revelation; strong and thick, radiating heat that rivals the summer sun.

You open your arms and he comes to you, settling between your legs with a care that very few men have ever shown you. Between your bodies, you feel the hard length of him, pressing not all subtly between your folds, not yet pushing in, but resting there. Blue eyes meet yours again, his brows furrowed in what seems to be a man deeply lost in thought. One of your hands reaches up, strokes the spread of his cheek.

“You are incredible. So beautiful,” he whispers against your temple, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of your hair.

“You’ve said,” you reply, letting humor make the moment feel less heavy. Bucky grips your thighs a little harder.

“Don’t mock an old man laying his heart out to you,” he says back, the same amount of lighthearted fun in his tone, but you know he means it, deep down.

Before you have a chance to reply, he leans forward and kisses you deeply as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He doesn’t push in right away, instead just rocks gently while your mouths work together, sliding through your slick folds and coating himself. You moan against him and he swallows it in a breath, and that’s when he finally presses forward, inch by careful inch. Soft praises are whispered against your lips when he pulls back, and he moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, but your body still struggles to keep up, given how sensitive you still are.

Bucky moves with soulful patience, metal hand buried in the pillow next to your head and flesh hand gripping your hip, and every thrust feels like a question that is answered with the way you wrap your legs tighter around his waist every time, feet digging into the small of his back.

“You’re okay?” he gasps, searching your eyes for any trace of discomfort. Is the metal too cold, is he too heavy?

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I’m okay, Bucky, keep going.”

The thrusts start slow, metal arm braced beside you, fresh hand cradling the back of your head with his fingers threaded through your hair. He angles his hips just right, grinding against that stop deep inside you that sets sparks lighting up behind your eyes. You meet him thrust for thrust, hands roaming where they can reach, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, his shoulders, holding on to his biceps and he kisses your neck, your collarbone, mouth open and wet.

The pace stays unhurried, passionate in its restraint. Every slide of his cock drags deliciously, building heat low in your belly, and soon enough you can feel another orgasm begin to coil, slower this time. But Bucky’s control is fraying, obvious in the way his breaths turn ragged, in the slight stutter of his hips. It’s been too long for him, and you’re too warm, too wet, too many years of self-imposed winter, and the sound of your voice calling out his name is a catalyst he can’t fight.

His teeth graze your shoulder, eyes blown wide.

“I can’t… fuck—” he chokes out. “I’m gonna—”

He realizes he’s at a point of no return before he’s ready to be. With a frustrated groan, he braces himself with his metal hand and pulls out, the friction of the exit making you cry out in protest. Hot stripes of cum spill across your stomach in thick pulses, painting your skin as he weakly strokes himself through it with a shaky hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent gasp.

When the last spasm of his body fades he slumps forward, landing on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, that was… I swear I can last longer, just… has been a while…,” he rasps, breath still coming in harsh pants. “I didn’t even—I wanted to ask you where… where you wanted it and I—”

“Inside,” you say, breathless but slightly deadpan.

“… What?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s sure he’s misheard you through the gaze of his own orgasm.

“If you had asked, I would have told you to come inside me.”

Bucky exhales, though there’s barely oxygen left in his lungs after you’ve punched it out of him with those words.

“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?” he breathes against your mouth, and it would sound like half a laugh if he wasn’t almost breaking apart.

That’s when you feel him moving again, right hand slipping between your bodies and tracing feather-light patterns over the sticky mess on your stomach before gathering it on his fingers. Two thick fingers are now shiny with it, and he brings them down between your legs without hesitation, rubbing them over your swollen clit in one slow circle. Immediately, your hips jerk, a sharp gasp punching out of you.

Bucky doesn’t tease, just pushes those two fingers inside you in one smooth stroke, feeding his own release back into your cunt. The wet sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room, mixing your arousal with his release, his fingers stretching you open around them as they curl and search for that same spot his cock had hit not too long ago.

“Bucky,” you whimper, thighs trembling around his wrist.

His eyes are locked on where his fingers disappear inside you, dragging his cum deeper with every thrust of his fingers. “Promise I’ll fill you up proper next time. Just take my fingers for now.”

A third finger is added to the others, stretching you fuller, and his thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the curl of his fingers. Pressure builds fast, too fast, burning hot in your belly. Every time your slick drools from inside you, he coats his fingers in it and fucks it right back inside you, making it messier.

It hits you not long after like a storm crashing over your garden, all too overwhelming and sudden, pulling you under. Your cunt clamps down around his fingers and you come with a loud cry and Bucky doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through every spasm, drawing it out while he murmurs soft praise against your neck until you’re oversensitive and still clenching around him like your body refuses to let him go.

You don’t know this yet, but tonight you’ll fall asleep in his arms, and it’ll only be the first of many nights.

A year later

You and Bucky have finished the garden. Well, sure, Bucky has told you enough times that gardens are never truly done because living things require continued attention and presence, the willingness to show up before the heat peaks and stay past the point of easy. But it at least looks like itself again, the place it was always trying to be underneath all the strangling vines.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you are standing in front of the fountain with your second cup of tea of the day when Bucky comes around to meet you, cap on backward, shirt damp from the exertion of honest work.

“Finished your tea without me,” he says by way of greeting.

"I made you a cup. It's on the porch."

Bucky doesn’t move toward it. Instead, his hands slide firmly around your waist and with a sudden huff of effort, he hoists you clean off the ground. He doesn’t just lift you, he sweeps you into a wide twirl and the garden blurs into a smear of lavender purple and rose red.

“Bucky!” you gasp, laughing as your feet dangle and your head is thrown back with the afternoon sun dancing through the trees. Eventually he sets you down again, then steals you a breathtaking kiss.

“Had to get you out of your mind. You had that look.”

You raise an eyebrow, still feeling a bit dizzy. “What look?”

"The one where you're thinkin' something and decidin' whether to say it."

You huff in fake disapproval before you start making your way back to your porch, Bucky following right behind.

“I don't have a look,” you say just as you sit on the first few steps, watching the garden ahead of you.

“You have about twelve looks.” He comes to sit beside you, close enough that his shoulder presses against yours. “I’ve memorized all of them. That’s number four.”

“Bucky, you did not catalogue my looks.”

“You got the happy look, mad look, thinkin’ about your grandmother look, somethin’s on your mind look—”

“You’re making those up.”

“—stubborn look, which looks exactly the same as your grandmother’s stubborn look, for the record—”

“Absolutely not—”

“—lemonade look, which you think I don’t notice but you always make lemonade when you wanna ask me somethin’ you think I’ll say no to, I’ve verified this over twelve months of data—”

You laugh, an undignified full-chest sound, something that still surprises you because you can’t quite believe, all this time later, that it comes this easily when you’re around him. How little it costs you to just be happy when he’s with you.

“Anyway, number four. What’s on your mind.”

A Wednesday night in a city apartment, spreadsheets blurring into gray bars. A phone call that broke the world open. A business card in a phonebook. Two cups of coffee made without intention. Dormant, dead, the green inside the rose cane. A man who showed up and didn’t stop showing up. How life will look like five years from now. Ten. Eighteen.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start.

“You’ve been thinkin’ since about six this morning, based on when you stopped bein’ asleep next to me and started starin’ at the ceiling.” His right hand finds yours on the step between you and covers it. “Take your time.”

“The garden looks good,” you say.

A pause. He knows you well enough to let you take the long way round.

“It does,” he agrees.

"It feels like her."

He is quiet for a moment, that particular quality of quiet that you know now is not absence but presence, the whole of his attention given without requiring you to perform for it. Then he offers you an out; he continues for you.

“Everything’s growin’ fast,” he says, eyes scanning the spread of the garden before settling back on your face. “We’re gonna need a bigger fence. Probably more hands to help by next season.”

That makes you smile, and you lean in until your head is resting against his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. But we’ve already taken care of the extra set of hands. They’re just… attached to a body currently about the size of a lemon.”

His gaze softens impossibly at that. His metal hand reaches out, rests flat and protective against your stomach, a motion he has repeated every day since the news was confirmed by a doctor appointment.

“A lemon? Did you see that on your app?”

“Yep,” you say, chuckling. “Was thinking about the nursery this morning. When we should start building it.”

The two of you stay like that on the porch steps while the afternoon moves around you and the garden your grandmother had loved and left you lives on with you.

Slowly, things have gone back to normal, roses blooming, lavender coloring the path.

Things that are worth having will sometimes take longer to come. But they arrive, anyway, so long as you tend them and give them water and time to grow.

Bucky Barnes taglist

@astronautlawliet @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @starspangledspanks @yexbarnes

All fics taglist

@barnes-babydoll @buckybarnes82 @epiphanyrogers @gremlin-girly @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @jbbarnesn @metal-armed-muse @miraclediviner @nigelology @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @stanmarvelous @sunday-bug @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes

[fablebarnes]

pure gold

[love-lilacs]

come find me again - bucky barnes x reader

pairing: prince!bucky x princess!reader

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). semi-public sex (we fuckin' on a private beach yo), fingering, fairytale accurate depictions of clothing and kingdoms, use of a fictional kingdom name and a fuck ton of new york neighborhoods as other kingdoms, death of a parent, daddy issues. reader has hair that can be wrapped around a hand. probably some spelling and grammar issues but we die like men. vaguely little mermaid inspired.

word count: 14.5k

summary: you are the youngest daughter of seven sisters and a single brother with an affinity for exploring and a love for prince bucky of brooklynn, a kingdom your father inexplicably hates. after saving bucky's life, you can't help but want to find him again.

cate talks: massive thank you to @blowingbarnes for the inspiration and being one of the sweetest people on this website. part two will be up asap! enjoy :)

part two

The coronation of Prince Peter of Queens might be the most fun you’ve had in your life until this very moment. King Stark had truly spared no expense for his adopted son’s rise to the throne. Wine flowed freely, jovial music sounded through the elaborately decorated ballroom, and everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood.

Well, everyone except for your father and sisters. The former remained alongside the wall, speaking exclusively to Lord Walker of Washington and offering only a few curt words to whomever summoned the courage to approach them. Three of your older sisters had attended alongside you and your brother, but they all sat rigidly at their table conversing lowly among themselves. Lillian, Andromeda, and Fawn had all chosen steel blue dresses, representative of your Kingdom’s color. One the other hand, you stuck out magnificently in a dress of deep cerulean. You felt rather like a butterfly flitting around the ballroom with a new friend, a young woman from Sokovia, Lady Wanda, who was easily able to point out everyone in the room and provide little anecdotes. 

It was when the two of you huddled behind the champagne tower, giggling as you watched Prince Peter fumble over his words with a lady from Midtown that a new man caught your eye.

He was older than you, perhaps around the age of your eldest sister, Lillian, but he wore it well. His face was clean shaven with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, dark brown hair perfectly styled away from his face, but oh, his eyes. 

Blue, bright blue and captivating, inviting you to drown in them even from your distance. They were as close to the ocean as you remembered from your childhood. “Who’s that?” You breathed, grabbing Wanda’s arm with your free hand. Champagne spilled over the edge of your coupe at the jerking movement, but you didn’t notice, utterly enamored by the handsome stranger. She follows your gaze, smiling knowingly when she realizes who you’re referring to. “That is Prince Barnes of Brooklynn. Bucky to his friends. Heir to the throne. The man next to him-” She gestured to the blonde man standing next to Bucky, “is his best friend, Sir Steven Rogers.”

“Brooklynn,” you repeat, heart sinking only slightly, “too bad my father hates them.”

“He’s quite popular,” Wanda comments, “I’m beginning my training as a lady-in-waiting to his mother next month. I hear he’s constantly fending off eligible young women.”

“I can see why,” you observe, stepping back into view of the crowd with Wanda. Two young children have begun to circle his and Sir Rogers’ legs in a game of hide and seek. Laughing, Bucky leans down to catch the girl by her waist and tickle her sides. She screams in laughter, pushing him away to dart back into the crowd. The little boy follows her, but not before Bucky reaches down to ruffle his hair. 

Your heart betrays your mind, putting aside all ideas of the chasm between the two of you created by your father’s pride. Prince Bucky is perfect. 

“And now,” King Stark announces, quieting the ballroom without much effort, “a traditional waltz.” The ballroom erupts with hums of excitement, women and men scrambling for partners, You bounce on your toes. While your sisters had declined to learn the dance, you had begged your governess to teach you privately once lessons were done for the day. After years and years, you would finally be able to show off and prove you didn’t belong in your sister’s shadows. 

All you needed was the perfect someone to ask you. 

As if out of a dream, Prince Bucky and Sir Rogers were approaching you and Wanda, seemingly unnoticing of the many women trying to catch their eyes. 

“Wanda,” a smiling Sir Rogers greeted first. He bowed at the two of you, Bucky dipping his head as the two of you curtsied. “It’s good to see you again.”

“The two of you as well,” Wanda turns, presenting you and saying your name. “Princess of Clare-Auberge.”

Both men bow at you, Steve’s smiling never wavering as he directs the question to you. “Pardon me, Princess, might I request the honor of escorting Lady Wanda to the dance floor?” 

Nodding eagerly at Wanda, you motion for her to take his outstretched hand. Steve leads Wanda away, leaving you and Bucky alone, much to your delight. He clears his throat, smiling kindly at you and offering his own hand. “Since my friend has disposed of your company, I feel if would be rude of me not to ask the beautiful princess to accompany me for the waltz.” 

A pity dance from the man you’d suddenly developed a crush on wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but since it was Bucky and your window was closing, you nod and accept his hand. There are hundreds of eyes on the two of you as you take your place on the dancefloor. Your gloved hand is held delicately in his, the other settling on your waist. You can feel the heat of his skin through the smooth fabric. When the music begins its bright start, Bucky leads you around the room effortlessly, your skirts swirling and creating an intimate bubble around the two of you. Step for step, you match his movements, eyes locked on his. 

“You dance wonderfully,” Bucky says, voice low enough so that only you can catch it.  

“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing in his hold and closing your eyes for a moment to let the music wash over you. His eyes roam over your face, catching the glint of the ballroom lights in your hair. “This is perfect.” 

“Perfect?” 

“My sisters don’t dance,” you explain, eyes opening again. “We don’t have many balls at home, especially not like this. Tonight is perfectly wonderful. A fairytale.”

Bucky spins you, surprising you at how much you disliked momentarily having his hand off of your body. When it returns to its spot, his thumb brushes the lowest button of your dress. He doesn’t respond to you, only smiling politely as he begins another sequence of turns. You’re content to revel in the magic of the moment, unaware of the world around you. As the music comes to a slow stop, Bucky’s grip loosens on you, his hands dropping back to his sides as he bows deeply. Your low curtsey is just as formal, blood thrumming against your skin with anticipation that he might ask for another song in your company.

“Thank you for the dance, Princess.” Is all he says before walking away. 

The fantasy ends like a popped bubble, your heart sinking as you’re left standing alone. Resuming your position along the wall, you can’t bring yourself to care too much. You got your dance with a handsome prince. A prince you can only hope to see again.

That’s more than most get. More than you had ever gotten. 

Wanda doesn’t return to join you again, her red hair standing out on the dance floor as she’s claimed for another song. It ends and another begins, still she does not return. An hour passes; the glass of bubbles in your hand grows warm. You’re afforded a few spare glances and polite nods from passing guests, but no more invitations to dance. 

You may as well be invisible.

Fed up and with sore feet, you discard your glass on an empty table and head for the now deserted Grand Hall. The guards pay you no mind as you collapse on the stairs, dress fanning around you like a flower. You draw your knees up to your chest, resting your chin in your hands as you pout. 

“...can’t imagine why they would come.” A chirping voice echoes from a next to the staircase, just out of your sightline. A door closes loudly, a step of footsteps following. “Of course, the King and his heir must come, but his daughters-”

“The eldest is just so plain!” Another voice exclaims, shiny black hair coming slightly into view. Duchess Daphne, you deduce from her accent. “Rather boring dresses too. They all are, really. Seven daughters and not one bit of style.”

The first voice snickers meanly, an ice blonde bun appearing over the railing. Another Duchess, this one being Marina of Coney. “Can you imagine marrying into that family? It’s a shame too, that heir isn’t all terrible looking.”

Hot shame douses your body as you dig your nails into your palm. A rebuttal sits heavy on your tongue, threatening to escape into the open. 

“At least the youngest got to have her fun dancing with Prince Barnes. She’s got some taste, I suppose, and dances quite well. It’s a shame no one else will bother with her.” 

The muffled giggles grow into a raucous fit of laughter as the doors to the ballroom open and close again, entirely unnoticing of your presence. The footman who closes the door behind them offers you a sympathetic look, one you desperately ignore.

Tomorrow you will go back to Clare-Auberge with one golden memory. 

Bucky was kind to you. Bucky danced with you. That was perfect.

And your father’s wrath be damned, you would see him again.  

Your room was quiet: the perfect escape from the Lady’s Room where your sisters would be catching up on their studies, instrumental practice, and whatever else they pleased. 

Grinning to yourself, you flipping through the journal where you had carefully documented pathways to Brooklynn, Queens, and visits to the little villages throughout the kingdoms. Nothing more than a day’s travel, which you had carefully primed your father to allow with permission to stay at Willowstream as needed, the old country estate that was rarely used.

Today would be your furthest and most daring adventure yet, a trip to the Brooklynn village nearest your border and their capital. A book waited for you in the village bookshop, supposedly one of the most well stocked in the world. 

The library in your castle was plenty beautiful, but not as thorough as you would have liked; you had finished every book by your fourteenth birthday, and repeated requests for more books went ignored. Being the youngest of eight with a widower for a father meant that your birthdays didn’t go beyond a few odds and ends. Which, to be entirely honest, you didn’t entirely mind. It afforded you less attention than your sisters and could slip beyond the castle walls without much fanfare. It left you the opportunity to see the world around you, especially Brooklynn, a the neighboring kingdom your father held an irrational hatred for and preferred to ignore the existence of. You, on the other hand, enjoyed your travels to their villages, daydreaming on your walks that Prince Bucky would come along and declare his love for you, sweeping you atop his horse and bringing you to his palace. 

The glint of an old invitation caught your eye, tucked carefully in your wooden box of treasures and trinkets. Prince Peter’s coronation, now two years ago, echoed like it was only yesterday. The waltz. Bucky. The Duchesses laughing at you and your sisters. You couldn’t remember the last serious suitor that had visited for any one of you. You shook your head at the bittersweet memory. Your dance with Bucky would always be a treasured moment. No one could take that away from you. 

Selfishly, you kept your ear out for news about him in the villages. He was still single, that much you knew. Well liked, too, a rarity for entire villages to have positive opinions about a royal family. 

Further into the box was your collection of odds and ends collected from years of exploring. A ribbon from a shop by Willowstream, a small hand-painted vase from the frist time you ventured into Brooklynn, a vibrant red pressed wildflower from a small farm that hosted you for lunch when you found yourself lost. Pebbles smooth as glass that sparkled in the light, painted postcards, a wooden pen carved of walnut. Seashells from your mother, the last remainder of your childhood trips to the ocean.

Your collection wasn’t flashy, but it meant everything to you. It was a reminder of your freedom. The things other princesses weren’t allowed to do. If your father truly knew what you were doing and had a say, you wouldn’t for much longer. 

A call of your name from the hallway sent you shoving the box back into your closet before Ariadne, your sister closest in age, walked in without knocking.

“Are you seriously studying those maps again?” She scoffs, crossing her arms and leaning against your desk. “Father won’t be pleased if he discovers you’ve been out exploring again.”

Mentally noting not to confide in Ariadne about exactly what you were doing when disappearing for hours again, you grab your walking boots to tug them on your feet.

“I’m not exactly exploring,” you countered, “I’m going to Greenwich for a book.”

Ariadne picks up a china statue of a dancing couple, lazily studying it with the air of someone who could not bring herself to care. 

“We have a library here.”

Standing up and brushing invisible dirt from your skirt, you swerve past her. “And I’ve already finished those books.”

Ariadne follows you into the hallway, unwilling to let you go without a fight. “There’s a storm coming tonight!” She calls after you. 

You wave her off dismissively, rounding a corner away from her.

“I’ll be back before it comes.”

Ariadne calls your name one more time, stubborn exasperation leaking into her tone. She knows she can’t stop you. 

But truly, no one could. 

“There’s no chance in hell I make it back home.” You said aloud to nobody, lifting your skirt and picking over an exposed tree root. The sky glowered in response, thunder rumbling ominously from the dark gray clouds just visible through the tree tops. “I suppose I should stop at Willowstream.” You muse, referring to the royal cottage at the edge of the woods. It was a two hour walk from the palace and was typically only used for a few weekends throughout the year, too early at present for the late summer soirees. Though, the caretakers should be there, ready to greet you as they prepared the home. You pick up your pace as the sun fully disappears, a few drops of rain cooling your warm skin. Reaching the beginnings of the proper pathway, a cheerful mew greets you. Carrot trots up cheerfully alongside you, seemingly unbothered by the incoming tempest. Carrot lived in the meadow behind Willowstream, a common fixture in the gardens and around the house. He began to trot slightly ahead of you, leading the way to the magnificent front doors. You knocked on the heavy door, receiving no answer, and dug in the small planter beside the door to retrieve the spare key. 

No sooner had you opened the heavy wooden doors did the heavens open up. Rain battered the roof relentlessly, sheeting so heavily that you couldn’t see more than a few feet outside the window. Carrot seemed to pay no mind to the noise, simply hopping atop the sitting room windowsill (an action that never would have passed if your family had been there) and watched the pathway, tail flicking mindlessly.

Looking around, you found the furniture uncovered and freshly cleaned, wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. At least you had dry wood, you supposed, smugly stacking wood in the hearth and striking a match. This was one of those “useless servant-skills” your father had stuck his nose up at and here you were, fending for yourself. 

The rain kept coming, hours passing with hardly a reprieve from the crashing thunder, lightning flickering through the curtains every few minutes. You had pulled a book from the library, some romance novel, and read by the fire as the sun set. Carrot now laid contentedly on his back in front of the fire, purring away. 

A movement through the window caught your attention.

A shadowy figure was making their way up your pathway.

You gasped, dropping your book and darting behind the curtain. Carrot startled, opening one eye before settling down again. 

“Some guard cat.” You scoffed to yourself, twisting your skirt around your hand and looking back through the rain soaked window. 

Heart racing, you squinted into the darkness, watching the figure stagger two more steps before stumbling and collapsing. Before you could truly grasp what you were doing or the consequences of you actions, you had pulled your cloak back over your shoulders and taken the candle out into the inky night. 

Mud squished under your shoes, barely audible through the rain as you fell to your knees. The candle sputtered in protest, hardly withstanding the raindrops and wind but stubbornly refused to go out. You brought your candle to the face of the figure and nearly dropped it in your surprise.

It was the Prince of Brooklynn. Prince Bucky. The prince you had been hopelessly in love with for two years now, and here he was, collapsed in your front yard.

His breaths came shallowly, cheek pressed to the grass. Reaching down, you touched his shoulder, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest as he strained to lift his head. You jerked your hand back as though burned. He pressed his hand to the ground, trying to push himself up. Carefully, you touched his shoulder again, lowering your lips to his ear. 

“Let me help you.” You murmured, hoping he could hear you. “You have to stand.”

Stumbling under his weight, you heft him up, his arm slung over your shoulders. His head hangs listlessly, eyes heavy lidded as he limps alongside you as you bring him towards the dry cottage. 

When you finally get him inside, you lay him down on the sofa. Collapsing on the floor next to him, you let the crackling fire warm you from the outside in, heaving from the walk. Bucky’s breathing has evened out in the warmth, his chest rising and falling slowly. His eyes are still closed, skin ghastly pale and sickly. 

You look around, taking stock of the situation and realizing three very important things.

You’re alone. 

WIth a man. 

A man who is the Prince of Brooklynn and looks to be knocking on death’s door.

Bucky groans again, writhing against the soaked sleeves of his heavy coat. You carefully stand, reaching for his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, peeling the soaked fabric from his skin, “but you need to get warm.”

You hang his coat by the fire, looking back at him. His boots are soaked too, taking much more effort to wrestle off. His socks quickly follow, joining the coat by the fire. You capture your lower lip in between you teeth.

It’s not as though Willowstream is well-equipped at the moment, even for you but especially not for someone this ill. Especially not the Prince of Brooklyn.

At least you’ve got food; some bread, eggs, and berries you picked up in the village, and the wine cellar is sure to be stocked with leftover whiskey from last summer. If you go to the kitchen, you should be able to cook up some food for the two of you, and a little bit of hot whiskey might help Bucky.

You let your gaze fall back to him, passed out on the couch. He’s even more handsome than you remember, even covered in mud and sopping wet. Your heart thuds in your chest, the fluttering sensation in your stomach returning full force as you brushed some of his dripping hair from his face. 

You’re hesitant to leave him in this condition, but it’s  necessary to get water, food, a rag, and dry clothes.

You move as quickly as you can, turning on the stove and heating the food while you run to get some of your brother’s old clothes. Tearing a strip of fabric from one of the shirts, your heart sinks a little before you find your voice again. 

“I’m going to clean you up now.” You tell Bucky, pressing the wet fabric to his dirty forehead, cleaning his skin. His eyelids flutter, revealing his familiar blue eyes, foggy with sickness. You curl a hand around his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. “How do you feel?” You ask tentatively. 

Bucky leans into your hand, nuzzling towards you like a kitten. “Like death incarnated,” he rasps. “Where are we? Who are you?”

The urge to tell him everything claws up your spine, bubbling through your throat. It settles on the tip of your tongue, a fantasy settling in your head, the way you’ve always dreamed of. 

Your father would never allow it. You would be ruined from simply being alone with him. 

He probably doesn’t even remember.

So you settle for a simplified answer.

“You’re in Willowstream- a house owned by the Royal Family of of Clare-Auberge.” 

His head is still hazy, but he follows your every word. “And who does that make you?’

You take your hand back, instead offering a plate of eggs and bread. “You need to eat.” You respond, ignoring his question.

Bucky levers himself into a sitting position, the blanket you'd placed on top of him falling from his chest and pooling at his waist. You try to ignore the way the thin white linen of his shirt clings obscenely to his chest, still wet from the rain.

He takes the plate slowly, and you swallow as you avert your eyes from his built figure. “It’s not poisoned,” you supply helpfully, sitting back down on the floor. Bucky lets out a quiet noise sounding something like a laugh before taking a bite.

 The two of you eat in silence, the fire crackling behind you. Once he’s finished, Bucky sags back against the cushions, a new sheen of sweat settling on his forehead. He shudders, tugging the blanket higher on his torso. 

“Are you alright?” You ask, voice rising slightly. You stand, leaning over him and placing a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up. You must have a fever.” 

“Not that shocking.” Bucky coughs, a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice. “I did get caught in the storm.”

“Hold on,” you turn abruptly, dashing back to the hallway where you’d stashed the whiskey. When you come back, Bucky’s gone paler, eyes drooping again. You pour some into a glass, holding it out to him. 

“My father always said a bit of whiskey helps his throat.” You offer, holding it out.

“Thank you.”

“What were you doing out here anyways?” You ask him tentatively, sitting back down and wrapping your arms around your knees. 

Bucky sips slowly, throat bobbing with the action. A drop slips from the corner of his lips, your eyes following it as it makes a path down his neck and disappears into the collar of his shirt. 

“Separated from my hunting party.” Bucky says simply. “Was trying to follow the path back to the main road to Brooklynn, but once the storm hit, I was hopelessly lost.” He looks you over, and perhaps its your imagination, but his blue eyes soften. ”And you? Do you live here?”

“Couldn’t make it home before the rain started.” You say simply.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t your house?”

You realize your mistake quickly, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re implying.” You say defensively, “I simply live elsewhere. The owners are kind enough to let me visit when I’d like.”

“The Royal Family of Clare-Auberge, you mean?”

Fuck. Fuck. You did say that, didn’t you? 

It’s dangerous enough that Bucky is here, considering your father’s hatred for the Kingdom of Brooklynn, more so if he were to find him here, alone, with his youngest daughter. 

Bucky wouldn’t make it out alive.

“They’re a very generous family.” You stammer, “I’ve known the princesses since I was young.” Not a lie, technically. 

To your relief, Bucky smiles teasingly, “I won’t tell them even if you’re lying.”

“No?” 

“The King of Clare-Auberge isn’t exactly fond of the people of Brooklynn.” He looks back down at his glass, taking another long sip. “Though I don’t know why.”

You trace your nail along the seam of your skirt. “I don’t either. I’ve always wanted to visit Brooklynn.”

Bucky watches you intently, waiting for you to go on. 

“I once read in a book that Brooklynn’s waters are the clearest blue in the world. That the palace puts most cathedrals and castles to shame. The people are the kindest of all. I’ve only been fortunate enough to visit one of the small villages on the outskirts and oh,” You sigh dreamily, remembering fondly, “I got the most beautiful vase from a potter. I’ve collected so many little things from my explorations.” You pause, looking over at Bucky, expecting him to interrupt you or change the subject, but he looks at you as though you’re the most interesting person in the world. 

Your cheeks warm, hoping if he notices, he blames it on the roaring fire. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” 

He shakes his head, that small smile curling on his lips. “I like listening to you.” 

You laugh, “Then you’d be the first. My sisters say no one wants to hear me ramble and my father-” You stop, heart sinking, “he doesn’t understand my interests.”

“I understand.” Bucky says, to your surprise. “I don’t think I talk very much, but I when I do, no one ever hears me.”

“I hear you.” You murmur, not realizing that you had moved to sit next to him on the sofa, and worse, that he’d moved closer to listen to you. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Is the water that blue?”

Bucky smiles, leaning closer to you conspiratorily. “More so. I think the townspeople seem to overlook it because they see it everyday. I once read in a book: it’s the simple things in life that are the most-”

“extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them.” You finish, “I love that book.” 

“Exactly.” Bucky says. His face is separated from yours by mere inches, sharing each other’s breaths. You should pull away. Should let him rest. Pretend like this hasn’t happened because how will you ever be able to forget him now?

Bucky’s hungry gaze rakes over your face, dropping unashamedly to your lips. You hear him set down the cup of liquor and his fingers intertwine with yours. He looks at you like you’re water and he’s been drowning in the desert. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” He rasps, rasing his other hand to trace down your cheek. Your foreheads press together, now sharing shallow breaths. 

“I-”

You don’t finish before he’s kissing you softly, just a brush of his lips along yours. You don’t hesitate, heart kickstarting as you move your lips against his. It’s simple. It’s heavenly. It’s as though this is what you’ve been meant for your entire life. Kissing Prince Bucky. You let out a soft sound into his mouth, a noise he swallows greedily. It seems to embolden him to tilt your head, gently biting your lower lip. The action goes straight to your core, your dress suddenly feeling far too hot and constricting. 

“Bucky.” You sigh dreamily as you separate for air. Your chests heave. 

He presses a kiss to your cheekbone, then again to your jaw. “What is your name?”

Your blood runs cold, snapping you back to reality reminding you that you really should pull away from him. “It’s best you don’t know.” 

The words don’t stop him from making a trail down your neck and back up to the corner of your mouth. “And if I wanted to see you again? How am I to find you?” 

A lump rises in your throat. “You don’t.” 

Bucky pulls back from you, concern coloring his face. “Of course I do. I want to know everything about you. I want to meet your family, speak to your sisters, pet your damned cat. I want to show you the ocean-”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” You say weakly, tears welling in your eyes. 

“Why wouldn’t I-” Bucky’s voice rises, dissolving into a fit of coughs before he can finish his sentence. He falls back against the pillow, body shaking with fever. 

You’re leaning over him again in an instant, hair surrounding the two of you like a curtain. Concern creases your forehead, which he must be able to discern considering he doesn’t push the subject again despite looking like he very much wants to.

“You need rest.” You whisper, tears stinging. “Please.”

“But where will you-”

“I’ll be here.” You fake a reassuring smile, hoping he doesn’t see through it. “On the chair.”

“You should take the couch, it’s more comfortable and I-”

“I will do no such thing.” Your voice is firm, willing it not to waver. “You are ill. Rest now, as your body is begging you to do.”

Bucky looks as though he wants to argue more but instead reaches into his pocket. He pulls a gold locket out, the firelight catching the glint of Brooklynn’s coat of arms. “Take this,” he gasps, “as my thanks. You can add it to your collection.”

“Bucky, I can’t-”

“You will,” he insists firmly, taking your wrist and pressing the locket into your palm. “A part of me should stay with you until I can see you again.” His gaze is serious, creases in his forehead indicating he does not want to argue, but will if you press the subject. Your fingers close tentatively around it. “Promise me you’ll see me again.” 

“Okay.” You whisper, watching his eyes close again. “I will.”

It doesn’t take much longer for him to drift off, sinking into a much-needed slumber. The fire is grows quieter but still burns with the intensity needed to heat the room as you curl up on the floor by sofa. The chair was never going to be comfortable. At least here you can stretch out. 

And, you think grimly, it will allow you to leave tomorrow before he wakes. 

At half past four, the rain finally stops. Bucky’s fever looks to be gone, and you’re wide awake, gathering your belongings to return to your palace. 

With one last look around the room, your eyes fall on the locket, still sitting on the side table where you had discarded it, fully intending to leave it with Bucky.

You flip it open, faced with a small portrait of a younger Bucky, likely painted when he came of age. The back is engraved with his initials. J.B.B. 

Traitorous heart thudding, you look back to Bucky, still fast asleep. 

Before you can change your mind, you shove the locket into your pocket and duck out into the morning light. 

Deliver to the Brooklyn Hunting Lodge:

To those concerned:

Prince Bucky is resting at Willowstream in Clare-Auberge. His fever broke at approximately 4:30 this morning. The main doors are unlocked. Please use the utmost discretion in his retrieval, as the Royal Family is unaware of his presence.

Delivered to Sir Steven Rogers at 7:00.

“You’re late.” Andromeda called, catching you sneaking by the open door of the Lady’s Room. She hardly looked up from her star chart, plotting another point on a constellation. 

“You’re annoying.” You shot back, stepping backwards into the doorway and leaning against the frame. “How do you know I didn’t return late and leave early.” 

“Becuase your skirts are six inches deep in mud.” Lillian sighs, setting down her embroidery and fixing you with her best eldest sister stare. “Go change before Father sees.” You grunt in response, resigned to your fate and walking to your room. 

“I told her it would storm.” Ariadne says pointedly to your sisters, loudly enough that she knows you can hear it from down the hallway. “But she just had to have that book.”

Angry tears prick your eyes as they laugh at you; their silly baby sister too lost in her own world to ever pay attention to reality. 

“Good to see you all too,” you mutter petulantly, “what did you bring back? We were all so worried!” 

Kicking the door shut behind you only creates a mud stain on the wood and an unsatisfying slam. You shed your boots first, then the damp dress. Dry clothes, you realized, were a luxury you missed. It was a miracle you hadn’t caught a cold either. 

You didn’t bother to put on an elaborate new dress, moving with haste to put away the few items from your journey before your father or siblings could see. The book went atop your desk, wrapped in a dust jacket from an old book on ancient history, the two small paint pots from town in your box, and a silver fork wrapped in a ribbon into your vanity. Relaxing your shoulders, you surveyed your room, content at the state of things as you prepared your soiled dress for the laundry.

A soft thunk echoed on the hardwood floor as you picked up your skirt, Bucky’s locket thudding to the floor. Scooping it up quickly, you dart your eyes around the room as though someone was hiding and ready to scream at your betrayal. 

Bucky’s smiling face peered up at you as you opened the locket, the very lips you’d kissed not sixteen hours ago calling you back to him like a siren song. You shut the locket with a soft click, heart fluttering at the memory as you tucked it into your pocket.

You lasted a week before your father discovered you had not made it home on the night of the storm. 

Belle had made an off-handed comment about your trip, sending your father into a rage. He screamed, ranting and raving and sending a servant to search your room. You sat, frozen and exposed in the throne room as your treasure box was brought before you in the throne room. His face grew redder as he picked through item after item, shattering your pebbles, ripping the ribbon and snapping the walnut pen in two.

You stood still, tears streaming down your face as you watched him pick apart your prized possessions and destroy them.

“Daughter you have become far too difficult to control!”

“It’s just a few things I’ve collected! Please-”

“You could get killed, wandering about! You can’t keep doing as you please, not returning and acting foolishly!”

“But Daddy, the storm! How could I have-”

“If you hadn’t left the palace walls, you wouldn’t have gotten caught in the storm at all!” 

“I just wanted to visit the library and greet the people! The woods-”

“-are far too close to the barbarian people of Brooklynn!”

You jutted your jaw out, snapping before you could contain yourself. “They aren’t barbarians!” 

It was as though you had threatened his life. The guards shifted uncomfortably by the door and averting their eyes, pretending as through they weren’t listening. The air grew thinner and colder as your father’s disposition hardened into something you had never seen before. His face went red with anger. “And how,” He gritted through clenched teeth, “would you know such a thing, dear daughter?”

Unwilling to back down, you squared your shoulders, tears still hot on your cheeks as your collection laid in tatters around you. “I’ve visited their villages nearest our borders and spoken to others at balls.” 

It seemed wisest to omit your saving of Prince Bucky, you internally decided. Deep down, you wanted to keep that precious memory to yourself; all your own. 

“No more balls!” Your father declared, “no more leaving and this foolish ‘exploring’ nonsense!” 

“You can’t keep me trapped here!” You cried, waving your arms around wildly. 

“The hell I can’t! I am your King!”

The world tilted, your father heaving in the center of the now frozen room surrounded by his youngest daughter’s prized possessions, destroyed at his own hand. Rain pattered quietly against the window. No one breathed. Fresh tears welled in your eyes as you looked at your brother and sisters, who jerked their heads back behind the corner from which they had been eavesdropping. 

You opened your mouth. Then closed it, swallowing your hurt. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” A sob caught in your throat, “I thought you were my father.” You sink into a deep curtsy, keeping your eyes on the floor. “Am I excused?”

You don’t wait for an answer, pressing your hand to your mouth as you exit. Passing your siblings, you refuse to look as any of them, quickening your steps to get back to your room.

Tatiana says your name, Belle tries to apologize, and Lillian tries to catch your arm saying something about it all being for the best. 

“Just leave me alone!” You cried, snatching your arm away and dashing down the long hallway, skirt swishing angrily at your ankles. When you finally make it inside the privacy of your own room, the dam breaks, sobs wracking your body as you collapse atop your bed. 

It just wasn’t fair. Whatever ridiculous grudge your father held, it could no longer be valid. You couldn’t be a nun, living in Clare-Auberge forever. Raising your head from your crossed arms, you dig the small locket from your pocket and gaze at the Brooklynn coat of arms. You run your finger over the small initials, thinking of your promise to Bucky. You clench your fist around it, knuckles turning white.

A knock sounds at your door, startling you. You shove the locket under your pillow, willing the door not to open.

Fawn, your middle sister, said your name. “I know you’re hurt.” She says, voice soothing in that annoying older sister way that implies you’re being dramatic, “but… this will pass. It’s for the best.” You don’t respond, staring at the doorknob and silently willing it to burst into flames. She inhales shakily. “We convinced father to let you skip dinner tonight. One of your lady’s maids will bring you a plate.” Fawn tries your doorknob, sighing when she realized it was locked. “Just… send for me if you need anything. I won’t judge you.” 

You scoff under your breath as her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

She didn’t understand you.

None of them did.

Except Bucky.

The way he looked at you, spoke to you, even in his fever addled brain. 

It was all you had ever wanted. 

If only you could…

Maybe he would.

How would you know if you didn’t try?

You looked around your lonely, empty room, suddenly faced with the bitter reality that your father truly wanted to keep you here until he found someone to marry you off to. 

Someone to quiet his tempest of a daughter. 

What was here for you anymore?

Nothing. Your family, but what did they know about you?

You watched the candle on your nightstand flicker as the room grew darker and the wax ran down. It sputtered helplessly, reaching the end of its life as dinner was brought to you. The candle was promptly replaced as your maid as if you wanted assistance for bed. 

You shook your head as you bit into a roll, the bread tasting like ash in your mouth, sending her home early. 

It was midnight when you began to move, knowing most servants would be gone and the night guards would be in the middle of a rotation. 

No one used the servants corridors this late at night. It was even easier to blend in with your hair in a tight, simple bun, wrapped in a simple, inside-out cloak you had been given from your aunt. 

No one would look at you and think “princess.” Not with the ripped bag and simple stained dress you wore when gardening. 

Luckily, you didn’t pass anyone as you snuck to the basement, heart pounding at every scuff of your shoes or drop of a rock. You crept out the door of the laundry room into the inky night, knowing not a single soul would be watching the back gate for a woman leaving the palace, least of all one of the princesses. 

When you finally got to the worn wooden trail you knew best, you lit your lantern, confident that no one would see the light. With every step towards Brooklyn, you felt lighter. Freeer. By the time the sun rose and your departure had been discovered, you would be long gone.

Dawn was starting to rise when you crossed the river into Brooklynn, walking for another hour before the sun began to creep over the horizon. Coming across a clearing, you allowed yourself to collapse on the mossy ground. Exhaustion permeated your bones. By your own estimate, you were only a few hours walk from Brooklynn’s capital, where the palace was. You felt perfectly safe - and hidden - from the main trail to sleep. 

Using your cloak as a blanket and resting your arms under your head, you let your eyes close and sleep overtake you. 

“It’s a girl.” 

“A girl? Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, why would a- Oh.”

Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of voices, jerking up into a sitting position as the memory of the day before flooded your mind. You met the wide eyes of two men, feeling your heart drop through your stomach. 

The sky blue eyes of Prince Bucky stared right back at you. 

Bucky, who was looking at you, awestruck. You waited for him to fall to his knees, declare that he knew you, remembered you, and thank you for saving his life.

He did not. 

“Are you alright, miss-?” The blonde one asks. Steve, you recall, the one who danced with Wanda at the coronation ball. His brows are knit together in concern as he studies you. 

“Yes!” You blurt, adjusting your dress and looking around for your small bag. You hoped you didn’t have a crease on your face from the sleeve of your dress and that your hair didn’t look exactly like you’d slept on the forest floor. 

Bucky held out his hand, which you gladly took, stumbling to your feet.

“What’s your name?”

No sense in lying, you supposed. Especially since you had seemingly tripped right where you wanted to be. So you told them, carefully meeting Bucky’s eyes as if he would declare that you were a princess of Clare-Auberge and march you right back into your father’s arms. He didn’t say anything, eyes narrowed quizzically as though you were a rather difficult puzzle.

“Pleased to meet you.” Steve nods, bowing. You curtsy lightly in response. “Steve Rogers. This is Prince James-”

“Bucky.” Bucky interrupted, “have we met before?”

Half-heartedly, you raise one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sure you meet lots of young maidens.” You counter. Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn’t challenge you on the subject. 

“What are you doing, sleeping in the woods?” Steve asks, leaning against his rifle. His eyes scutanize you. You’re clearly not a commoner, based on your dress, but a member of the nobility would never find themselves in such a situation. 

“I… I was travelling. To Brooklynn. I’ve gotten lost, I suppose.” It’s not technically a lie, but it isn’t the truth either. 

“She must be part of the group that returns north each May.” Steve muses. 

“We can’t leave her here.” Bucky responds, speaking to Steve, rather than you. “She’ll have nowhere to go.” 

Steve nods, “We can send word that we’ve found one of their own. And until arrangements can be made for her to return home-”

“She can stay at the palace.” Bucky decides firmly, taking Steve by surprise. 

Part of you wants to protest; to declare that you couldn’t possibly impose on their hospitality. On the other hand, you don’t have anywhere to go. You’d left without a plan, all hope that you’d even be able to see Bucky again. Here he is, presenting his company to you on a silver platter. 

You’d be a fool not to accept it. 

“I-”

“We assure you, nothing improper will occur.” Steve promises, “Our Lady Justice, Natasha, is most protective.”

“Thank you.” Is all you can manage, “really, I did not expect this sort of kindless towards a traveler.” 

Bucky's eyes remain fixed on you. "It is an honor to serve my people." Still, the words sound rehearsed, as if he is in a trance. His gaze remains on you as you're lead towards the road, two horses waiting patiently for their riders. 

"Are you alright on horseback?" Steve asks, "we did not expect a passenger or we'd have used a different mode transportation." He sounds sheepish, as though one could have predicted a damsel in distress. 

You nod, looking over the two horses. One, a small palomino and the other, a sturdy black mare. 

"You'll have to ride with me. Steve's is much smaller.”A flush rises up his neck. "Steve's horse." Bucky emphasizes.

You hide your smile behind your hand, following Bucky to the black horse. He helps you atop the animal, then follows. He sits behind you, chest pressed to your back as he grabs the reins. Bucky's beefy arms encircle you, ensuring you couldn’t fall, even if you tried. You’re very aware of your skirts riding above your shin, suddenly very glad you chose your taller boots, lest you expose yourself to all of Boooklynn.

"Alright?" Bucky husks into your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Fine," you manage, trying to hold yourself away from the addicting warmth of his body. He smells like he did at Willowstream- pine and sandalwood. "Thank you.” 

The ride is silent until you approach the more populated parts of town. It’s not freezing by any means, but between the wind and cloudy skies, you begin to shiver. Bucky remains solid and warm at your back, but your cheeks are wind bitten and sting.

“Are you cold?” Bucky murmurs, sending another non-cold related shiver through your body.

“A bit,” you manage, tucking your chin into your chest. “But I’ll be alright.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, tightening his grip on the reins, an action that brings his thick arms tighter around you and urges his horse faster.

The village outside of the palace is beautiful, passing comforting homes lining the street and a market with brightly colored flowers and fruit for sale. People wave and bow as Bucky and Steve ride through, as though the sight is as comforting as it is normal.

“Beautiful.” You murmur, awed. “They love you.”

His gruff response is oddly bashful. “I do my best.” The pathway goes by a large garden, filled with an amalgamation of flowers of nearly every color you could imagine.

“The Centennial Garden.” Bucky supplies. “A gift from my parents when Brooklyn had its hundredth anniversary.”

“It’s wonderful. I heard it overlooks the ocean with cliffs lined in roses. I’ve always wanted to see—”

Bucky’s laugh is warm against your back. A glimmer of hope lights in your heart. “You can see it.”

You feel yourself perk up at the promise of exploration. “Really? Oh, that would be so lovely.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, smile evident in his voice as he slows his horse to a walk, approaching the palace gates.

Brooklynn’s palace is as imposing as the kingdom, with tall white marble walls and a dark terracotta roof. It glimmers in the noon sun, allowing you to imagine the gold glow it must be cast in at sunset.

Bucky dismounts his horse first, helping you down with one hand on your waist and another enclosing your own. Once on steady ground again, he studies your face, his gaze boring into you.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

Heavy boots come down the courtyard stairs, a sharp feminine voice saving you from answering. 

“Barnes! Rogers! You’re late. What did I tell you about—” A woman with short red hair stops in front of you, arms crossed over her chest. “Who is this?”

You swallow, clasping your hands behind your back and averting your eyes.

“Don’t tell me you-” 

“No.” Bucky says firmly, defensively. “She’s from the group heading north. They must have gotten separated. She’s going to stay here until we can reunite them.” He introduces you, “This is Natasha.” 

Natasha scrutinizes you. “Clearly, she needs a bath.” You flush at her loud proclamation of your hygiene, despite knowing it is likely more than true. “And a change of clothes. I’ll have Wanda look after her.” She takes your arm, leading you inside. Both of you look back at Bucky and Steve as Natasha gets in one more scold for them. “And you two need to actually look over those proposals! I’m not fending Stark off again for you.”

Wanda sent everyone out of the room for your bath, helping you undress and get into the hot water before pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Explain.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.” You beg after recounting your story, and omitting your saving of him at Willowstream. “I want to tell him, I do. I wish I could.” You sigh, leaning backwards into the tub. Soapy warm water splashed carelessly, waving over the sides and wetting the floor. 

“Tell me why you can’t again?” Wanda asked, sitting by the edge and pouring a tad more soap into the water. 

“If my father finds out I’m here, he’ll kill me. Then Bucky. Then declare war.” You shudder, “No, it’s much safer for me to pretend like we’ve never met. If he likes me, then maybe with time my father won’t-”

“Perhaps he won’t take exhaustive revenge measures?” 

You nod, exhaling so aggressively it sends a waft of bubbles flying from its mountainous pile. 

“Well, you’ll have to move quickly.”  Wanda stands to exit, calling over her shoulder from the doorframe, “he’s been pining after a girl who saved him. One with an “angelic look” in her eyes.”

The door closes loudly behind her, another sigh escaping your lips. Quite a hole, you’d dug yourself, by not telling anyone about your saving of Bucky. You couldn’t tell anyone, you decided. He could know when the time was right. When he truly wanted you, not the vision who had saved his life. You didn’t want to be his obligation; you wanted to be his desire. 

However long it would take.

Stepping into their dining room, you feel incredibly out of place. Brooklyn’s dining room was far brighter than yours at home, full of light, color, and laughter. A place where people are actually meant to be with each other and know each other. “Go on, dear.” An older maid encourages as she walks by, “you look lovely.”

At once, four pairs of eyes snap to you. A flush settles across your chest as the men are seemingly dumbstruck by your appearance. You manage a smile, eyes falling to Bucky as he looks awestruck simply from your entrance. 

“Wow.” He gapes. “You look… you are beautiful.”

You duck your head in an effort to hide your blush, taking miserably, hair falling over your cheeks. Wanda had picked you a pink gown, one with an off-the-shoulder neckline, long sleeves, and a voluminous skirt you’d normally declare too fancy for dinner. Natasha’s lips tug into a smug smile, giving an approving nod. Sam and Steve exchange a knowing look before turning back to Bucky, who has still not moved. Steve snorts, “Y’wanna get her chair, Buck?”

It’s as though someone kicked behind his knees, the speed with which he steps towards you, motioning towards what is presumably your seat. It’s an oddly informal act, for a crown prince to pull out your chair, but based on the reaction of his friends, such an action is not only normal, but expected.

Dinner is served with little aplomb, conversation lively and flowing, much more different than your own home. The boys bicker, Natasha cuts in drily, and you watch in awe. 

“Where are you from?” Steve asks, turning the conversation to you. “You only said you were with the northbound group.”

You swallow, silently thankful you spent your time preparing a story.

“Clare-Auberge.” There’s no point in lying, “In the capital, not far from the castle.”

“Your kingdom is rather elusive.” Sam comments, “I’m not sure we’ve ever hosted the king. He has many daughters, if I recall.”

“Seven.” You nod, “and a single son.”

Steve turns to Bucky. “They were at Peter’s coronation, in Queens. King John stood sullenly, only speaking to Lord Walker.”

You shift uncomfortably. You have fond memories from that night, if only from your single dance with Bucky. He clearly doesn’t even remember that dance. You would never forget Duchess Marina and Delphine whispering about how plain and boring your sisters were.

“And your father? What does he do for work?”

Your soup is rapidly going cold from how long you’ve been ignoring it. “Good God, Wilson, will you let the girl eat? And stop quizzing her about her family and kingdom.” You duck your head, silently making a note to thank Natasha later.

Bucky clears his throat after a moment. “And have you been to Brooklynn before?”

You shake your head. “Only to the villages along the border, when we pass through. But I’ve heard wonderful things… about the garden and the glass blowers in town.”

“And the ocean? Our artists are simply unable to do it justice. I’ve been told that it is impossible to accurately depict it; only those who recognise the beauty in the simplicity of life are able to truly appreciate it.”

Silence falls over the table, Sam suddenly looking very interested in his dinner and Steve exhaling sharply through his nose at his friend. A soft thud echoes under the table, Natasha kicking his shin as she hisses “Bucky.” 

A shiver runs down your spine. He’s quoting you. Dejection settles in your stomach as you resist the urge to burst into tears. Bucky holds your gaze, unspeaking and unaffected by his friends clear disdain for his behavior. 

“I am quite fond of the ocean,” you admit, “I have wanted to see Brooklynn’s waters for some time. I did not think anyone else much shared the same desire.”

That was the largest truth you had dared to share with the group. Bucky still held your gaze as his eyes softened ever so slightly. 

“Sounds like you should give her a tour of the kingdom tomorrow.” Steve proposed, mischief glinting in his eyes. 

Bucky shrugged, still not looking away from you, studying you as though seeing you in a new light. “If she would like to-”

You resisted the urge to squirm or flush under his stare. “I don’t wish to impose any more than-”

“Please.” Bucky interrupts, a hint of a plead entering his tone. His cheeks tinge pink at his outburst, evening out his tone. “It would be my pleasure.”

A glimmer of hope flickers in your chest, holding his gaze as a tiny smile graces your lips. “Then yes. I would like that very much.”

It was much too dark to see the waves from your balcony, to your utter disappointment. There was a new moon, meaning the only light came from what spilled from the castle and the gas lamps in the garden. Your balcony overlooked a small courtyard in the garden, likely where parties would be held. It was all so lovely and full of life. So different than your home in a wonderful inexplicable way. 

“-just don’t understand it, Steve.” Bucky’s voice drifted through the balcony’s open french doors. “How could a woman have access to a home like that and disappear before sunrise?”

“I’m not entirely sure you weren’t hallucinating your ‘angel.’” Steve voice counters, the two men coming into your view. Heart pounding, you turned to press your back to the door and duck down like a child despite the fact that neither had seen you. 

Bucky’s laugh came clear and good natured. “Trust me, Steve. She’s real. And I’m going to find her.” 

The two are quiet for a moment before Bucky speaks again. “But that girl…” 

Steve says your name, clarifying exactly who Bucky is referring to. 

“Yeah,” Bucky hums, sitting down on a stone bench and gazing up at the sky. The gas lamps from the garden cast shadows onto his face eerily similar to that of the fire at Willowstream. “She’s beautiful. Educated. She seems familiar, somehow. Like I’ve met her before.” 

“You don’t meet many girls from Clare-Auberge. Minus the angel.” Steve laughs, “Still, I don’t think she’s her.”

“It feels like…” Bucky sighs, dropping his head down, a stand of his hair falling out of the neat hairstyle and onto his forehead. “It feels like I’m betraying her, by trying with someone else. God forbid, what if I do fall in love with someone else, marry them, and she shows up the very next day?” 

Steve sits next to his friend, clapping him on the back. “You deal with that if it happens. Because, Buck, much better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood. Warm, bright, and real.” Steve gestures up towards your room. Bucky follows his hand, watching your silhouette move about behind the sheer curtains, a feeling of hope warming his heart. 

The Kingdom of Brooklyn is a kaleidoscope of color, even more so than you saw yesterday now that the sun has come out. Bucky follows you as you delightedly dart from stall to stall, pointing out statues and buildings on the street. His subjects greet him with a bow or curtsey, making polite conversation until you look like you want to say something, at which point he turns his focus to you. 

“What is this?!” You exclaim, holding up a dark purple fruit, “it’s so pretty!” 

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, picking one up himself. “You’ve never had a plum before?” You shake your head, mumbling the word under your breath in awe, turning the fruit in your hand to examine the violet color. “They’re good. Really good. Sweet.” 

You grin, looking up at him to find him already watching you in wonder. The icy blue of his eyes has melted into something warmer, like the color of the sky after a storm. Bucky looks to the merchant who has been watching the two of you amusedly the entire time and holds out a couple of silver coins. “Four plums, please. For the lady.”

You grin, grabbing another fruit and placing it into a basket. 

“Not that one,” Bucky interjects, “it’s not ripe yet. Here-” He picks up another one, slightly darker in color. “You want it to be a little soft when you press on it.” Bucky takes your hands, placing them over the plum underneath his. His palms are calloused as he squeezes the fruit, the slightest bit of give under the fruit’s skin. Your eyes meet his, caught in the moment as the world fades around you. “And,” He continues, voice low, “it should smell sweet.” He raises the fruit to your nose, allowing you to inhale the sweet scent without looking away. “So when you bite it,” He lets go of the fruit, motioning for you to taste it, “it will be sweet. Juicy.” 

Teeth breaking the plum’s skin, you let out a soft moan as the sweet juice flows over your tongue. “My God,” you hum, taking another bite. “this is heavenly.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, transfixed by your reaction. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at your lips, transfixed by the shiny juice coating them. Knees weak, you exhale shakily, fruit suddenly hanging forgotten by your side. Carefully, like you’re made of glass, he raises his hand, carefully wiping the juice away from your chin. His touch is sure, eyebrows knit together in concentration. You don’t move away from him, breaths coming in shallow puffs as your eyelashes flutter. For one microscopic second, his gaze drops to your lips. 

A loud clatter from the street has the two of you startling apart like children. Bucky scratches the back of his neck as you raise the fruit to your lips to try to hide the flush spreading across your skin. “I’m glad you like it.”

Dancing, you would quickly learn, was very popular in Brooklynn. What was reserved exclusively for balls in Clare-Auberge was commonplace here. A band played in the square, upbeat music that beckoned people of all ages and from all walks of life to gather in the street and move to the music. Hands clasped at your waist, you watched in awe of the couples whirling by you. Men were eyeing you, silently working up the courage to ask you to dance. You remained blissfully unaware as a burning feeling of jealousy came over Bucky, who found himself sending sharp glares to anyone who started towards you. They all averted their eyes, slinking away from the future monarch. 

“Would you-” Bucky clears his throat, figuring he couldn’t scare off everyone who wanted to dance with you if he didn’t have the courage to do something about it. You turn to him, hope crossing your face. “Will you dance with me?”

The beam that settles on your face could power Brooklyn for a year, Bucky thinks. The entirety of his world seems brighter, as though he’s been living in the shade for years. When he takes your hand in his, encasing yours in his much larger one, it feels natural, like you were made to fit against him. Bucky leads you through mid-tempo dance, whirling you around the square in time with the tune. You stumble once, subtly enough that only he notices you watching your feet warily before he murmurs “eyes on me,” and holds your waist tighter. 

“The people in Clare-Auberge don’t dance like this,” You sigh happily, shoulders relaxing, “everyone is so happy here!”

Bucky hums in agreement, but truthfully, he hadn’t noticed his people at all today. He was entirely focused on you and your disposition. The kingdom was happy, that he knew, but he only cared for yours in that moment. He spun you again, reveling in the way the sun caught the strands of your hair. Pulling you back towards him, he was perhaps too distracted, because your heel caught the toe of his boot. You would have fallen on your rear if not for his quick reflexes, wrapping his arm back around your waist and pulling you up into his broad chest. His reassuring smile made your breath catch, clutching the fabric of his shirt as your faces paused mere inches from each other. A devilish look overtook his face, bringing both hands to your hips and lifting you off the ground. Your own hands dropped to his shoulders as he whirled you in a circle, laughing as he spun you. When your feet hit the ground again, he didn’t change your position, admiring your breathless giggles. Bucky relishes the feeling of your fingers grasping the back of his neck in a way that was far too intimate for two people of your rank. But to either of you, the eyes of anyone watching didn’t matter; encased in your own bubble, the world couldn’t touch you. 

Bucky decided to take the long way to the gardens. If anyone asked, he would claim that it was because he remembered you saying you wanted to see the cliffs and show you the wildflowers. In truth, it was because he wanted to savor every possible second with you. Angel be damned, this was a warm-blooded real woman who seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. A beautiful woman, at that. How could that possibly compare to a fever addled memory?

He wasn’t sure what came over him when he caught you watching him drive the team with burning curiosity, but if there was one thing his mother had always called him, it was impulsive. 

So he did what any young man would do in the presence of a woman he liked; he offered you the reins. Bucky barely had time to react before you shoved your armful of purchases into his as you grabbed the reins and flicked them.

The horses took off into a brisk run, carriage bouncing along the road. 

“Whoa!” Bucky yelled, nearly falling forward into the footwell. You only laughed, the sound music to his ears as you remained steady in your seat. “You tryin’ to get us killed, doll?”

“Of course not!” You call back, voice carrying jovially over the rush of the wind. Your face goes slightly warm, registering his term of endearment. “I just like to go fast.” A gentle tug of the reins has the horses slowing to their trot. Bucky’s laugh is warm and clear, tucking his hands behind his head. 

“I do too.”

He finds himself watching you drive the rest of the way, enjoying the way you focus on the task. You seem delighted to do it, as though it isn’t a chore most dread. There’s a tiny crease between your eyebrows. He longs to press his thumb there, just to see it even out. He would top it with a kiss too, tasting your skin. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, unconsciously his tongue darts to wet his lips. Your action sends nearly all of his blood south to his groin, refusing to let himself linger on your chest. Subtly, he shifts in his seat, adjusting the now pulsing erection. 

The gates to the gardens are closed when you approach, but open after one look front he guard there, who offers the two of you a smile and a wave as you pass.

“The gardens close to the public at four everyday,” Bucky explains, guiding the carriage to a stop in front of a small pond. Colorful blooms surround you, lining the pathway and small gazebo. “But I get 24-hour access.”

You nod knowingly as he steps down, offering his hand to you. “Royalty privileges.”

The dirt crunches under your feet as you step down, letting go of his hand to shield your eyes and look up at him. 

“A rough deal,” Bucky hums faceiously, “a hard life I lead, between the large castle and extravagant dinners.”

“However do you manage?” You smile teasingly, hand brushing his as you look around. “The entire kingdom must hang onto your every word.”

Heart pounding, Bucky takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as though its normal. “Who knows? I do what I must.” 

He leads you towards a weeping willow tree, its leaving swaying gently in the soft breeze. You sit down rather unceremoniously, leaning against the trunk and inhaling the scent of greenery and fresh air. Bucky stays standing, watching you relax. 

“You would have to tear me from here,” You hum with your eyes closed, “none of my family likes to be outside like I do. If only I had a book, this would be perfect.” You open your eyes, looking up at Bucky. “You’re so lucky to have Steve and Sam. Natasha too. It’s so evident they care about you.”

Bucky frowns, sinking down next to you, shoulder brushing yours. “What about your sisters? Surely they care for you.”

You pick a pale blue wildflower by your knee, tracing your finger over the delicate petals. “I’m sure they do. Somehow.” You bring the bloom to your nose, drinking in its sweet scent. “My eldest sister’s favorite thing to do is embroider. Inside. Another studies arithmetic as though it’s going to disappear from the world tomorrow. The middle sister plays the flute- well, we all play instruments, but she excessively plays the flute. Truthfully,” you look at Bucky, “I don’t think any of my sisters know what I like, and if they do, they don’t understand. They don’t understand me.” 

Bucky plucks the flower from your lap, twirling it between his fingers. “What do you like?” He asks, not out of a necessity, but from a genuine interest in knowing. He quite likes it when you talk, he’s discovered, content to listen and absorb your voice like the sun.

“Reading,” You say definitively, “Exploring. People. Being outdoors. I love the ocean; when I was a child-” You shift, turning to face Bucky, finding him watching you intently. “When I was a child, we would come to Brooklynn every summer for two weeks. I looked forward to it all year. My mother loved the ocean too. We would hunt for seashells for hours and hours, until our skin was burned and my father begged us to come inside. When I was four-” You trail, exhaling sharply as a shadow crosses your face. “My mother fell ill on our travels. The doctors couldn’t make it in time; I think there was a storm. She died three days later.” 

The memory sits in your chest, clear as day. Tatiana singing softly in your ear as you cried, rocking you in time to Fawn playing the flute comfortingly outside the door to your mother’s sick room. Ariadne standing over you and your sisters, whispering with Belle about how unfair it was that you all weren’t allowed to see your mother, reduced to waiting outside her room. Will, sitting on the opposite side of the hallway, stacking wooden blocks as tall as he could before they toppled over, eyes glazed over. Lillian came out of the room, silently saying something to Andromeda and shaking her head, joining the seven of you on the floor. “I haven’t been to Brooklynn since. Haven’t seen the ocean. But I know in my soul, it will be as though I never left.” You look back down. “I don’t know how much I remember anymore.”

Bucky takes your hand and squeezes, “then let’s go.” 

You furrow your eyebrows, “Go?”

“To the ocean.” 

Bucky thinks he’d trade his entire kingdom away just to see your face light up like this once more. 

“Really? You mean it?” Your voice is daring, hopeful, as though he would take it away at any moment and announce he was playing a cruel joke on you. 

Bucky helps you to your feet, brushing some hair from your face and and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Entirely.” 

Bucky picks one of his private beaches that’s only a few minutes drive from the gardens. It has soft waves and a rocky cove that shields it from view of the public. Dolphins can be seen around sunset and colorful fish circle jovially in some tide pools. 

Your eyes are wide with excitement from the second he stops the carriage, scrambling down and grabbing his wrist as you run to the water. Stumbling over the sand, the last of your hair falls down from the half-up hairstyle Wanda had done this morning before you left. Hair flies freely in the wind, tangling hopelessly. Laughter tears from your chest as you run, looking back at Bucky who can’t contain his smile either. Suddenly, you stop only feet from the water, stumbling as your face drops. 

“What’s wrong?”

Releasing his wrist, you wring your hands nervously, “what if it’s not what I want it to be?”

“It will be.”

“How are you so sure?”

Bucky studies you, searching your face as though he’s found something. He’s sure because he can’t remember the last time he was this excited to spend time with someone. The last time he got to see joy and hope on someone’s face because he was doing something they wanted to do, not the other way around. Because he’s watched you talk about the ocean, seen the way your eyes linger on the paintings in the castle and the coast as you drove by. He feels the tugging in his heart, felt the longing of closer.

“Only someone worried that they would love something so much would be afraid to do it.” He offers instead. 

This, you realize, is love. You love him. Deep true love, not the kind you thought you knew. Love is to be truly seen. He sees you. To be afraid and jump anyways. 

It’s too soon, you think. Far too soon to say it out loud, much less consciously think it, but you know it, mind racing all the same. Your eyes beg him, asking for a quiet recognition of ‘you know me.’

“So,” Bucky prompts, motioning to the water, “are we going in?”

Pressing your lips together, you suppress a smile as you nod, kicking away your impractical. His boots follow your shoes, waiting neatly next to yours and you step into the water.

Oh. Oh.

You hike your skirt to your knees, wading deeper and laughing in disbelief. Fuck propriety and fuck rules and fuck whatever made you wait this long to feel this. Bucky comes to stand next to you, his own pants rolled up as he catalogs your reaction. “Well?”

You laugh like you can’t believe it, wiggling your toes in the sand beneath your feet. “You were right,” you exclaim, “I do love it.” 

Bucky can’t resist smirking, a smug pride settling in his chest with the knowledge that he made you this happy. Still, he is overcome with something boyishly mischievous and sticky. If you ever asked, he would say that’s why he leaned down to scoop up a handful of water and flick it at your arm. 

Most women he’s met would gasp in disbelief and storm away, forcing him to grovel for forgiveness, but your response is far more daring and something no one would ever dare to consider doing to a crown prince. 

Clenching your skirts tighter in your fist, you kick a wave of water at him, sending enough at him to soak his lower front in cool ocean water. You pause for a second, a mischievous glint in your eyes before you turn and take off. Water splashes wildly around you, shrieked laughter echoing down the beach. “Hey!” Bucky shouts, giving chase, “get back here!”

With your skirts soaked from the waist down and the water slowing you down, Bucky’s long legs catch you easily, reaching down to splash at your back again before wrapping his arms around your waist. Your back is pulled into his chest, laughter fading as you turn into him, steading yourself with a hand on his chest, above his pounding heart.

“Got you,” he husks. He leans closer, your breath catching as his nose brushes yours.

The moment is interrupted by the crashing of an errant wave against you, knocking you to your ass, water soaking the rest of your dress. Bucky fared better than you, boulder that he is, looking down at you in horror.

“Shit,” he curses, holding out a hand. “Are you alright-”

Wrapping your hand around his, you dig your feet into the sand and give a sharp tug, pulling his unsuspecting form down, arms caging around your head to catch himself. 

This is far more charged than your former position. His body is warm despite being soaking wet, his lower half pressed to yours with no urgency to move away as he leans down. Or you lean up. There’s no clear answer and you’re not inclined to find one as your lips meet. 

The kiss is more charged than it was at Willowstream. More desperate than that one, lips moving with urgency to say what words can’t. All pressure and no gentleness. You move with him, pressing deeper and gasping when Bucky’s tongue prods your lower lip, slipping into your mouth greedily. His hand traces down your body, digging his fingers into your thigh and hitching it over his hip. Canting your hips up, you can feel his length pressing against you through his pants. Your hand grasps his neck, whimpering his name as he moves to your neck, pressing one, two, three wet kisses to the sick of your neck. He groans low and guttural as you grind yourself up into him. 

Your hair is now soaked with salty seawater, the waves crashing around your body as Bucky grabs at your dress, fumbling for whatever ties and buttons he can reach. The fabric is heavy, clinging to your body like a second skin. You don’t bother trying to pull your arms from the sleeves, letting it hang open. His own shirt is easily pulled away from him and tossed further up the beach, your skirt following carelessly. Hot skin presses to your chemise as he tugs at your slip. The outline of your body is clear through the fabric, now sheer from the water. Tugging easily at the fabric, it rips, reduced to nothing but a pile of rags. A groan tears from his throat as his hands roam your soft flesh, searching for the best places to hold onto but never stopping in one place for long, greedy to discover more. 

Bucky groans into your mouth as your fingers trace the ridges of his abs, physically shuddering when you run them along his waistband. Your own wandering hands embolden his tongue to slide fervently against yours as he palms at your breast. If your nipples weren’t hard before, they could cut glass now, stiff peaks poking against his warm palm. You arch into his touch, silently asking for more pressure, more him. Bucky’s fingers wrap around your right nipple, pinching and rolling the bud to pull soft moans of his name from your mouth.

“You feel so good.” He murmurs, voice muffled against your collarbone. You can only gasp in response, digging your nails into his bicep.  

His hand traces down your stomach, hovering right above your slit. His middle finger drags through your slick, gathering it at your clit and circling. “Can I-” He whispered, raising his head slightly, as though he couldn’t possibly bear to be further than a few inches from you. 

You nod, reaching down to his length. You palm him as he strokes you, eliciting quiet moans from each other.

Looking up at him, your eyes meet his hooded blue ones, suddenly shy despite the fact that his throbbing erection was in your hand, no one could possibly see you, and his want seemed to outweigh your own. “I’ve never done this before. I-I don’t know how.”

Bucky’s eyes stayed on you as he pulled his hand from between your legs, running along your thigh to hold your hip in place. He settles back on his knees, acting as a breaker for the waves and leaving you utterly exposed to his gaze. You shudder as his fingers return to graze your clit, a high pitched gasp tearing from your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs, unable to tear his eyes from your face, cataloging every twitch and reaction of your body. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”

He inserts a single finger, curling it against your walls. The movement causes your back to arch into him, eliciting a cry of his name from your lips. “Buck-y oh-!” His thumb targets your clit, circling and stimulating the little bud with the experienced precision of someone who derives their pleasure from their partner. The action sends tingling waves of pleasure through your body, unconsciously arching into his touch. He plays your body like an instrument, pulling pleasure from you like he would drown without it. Bucky catalogues your reactions, pushing another finger in and grunting at the way you tighten around him again, clenching and canting your hips to meet his movements. 

“You’re doing so good, doll. So perfect, just for me.” 

“J-Just for ah- you!” You echo, eyes bleary as you try to lift your head to see him. The sight before you is magnificent; Bucky buried knuckle deep in your cunt, meaty thighs holding your legs apart to allow him to work. An arrogant smirk plays on his shiny, swollen lips, so incredibly pleased with his abilities. 

A knot in your lower belly forms with every twitch of his fingers, but as soon as it arrives, Bucky pulls his hand away, quickly undoing his pants. 

“Why- why did you stop?” You cry, propping yourself onto your elbows. Tears of frustration well in your eyes as your pussy flutters around nothing, begging for more.

Bucky leans back over you, coaxing you down onto your back and draping himself over you like a blanket. His sweet kiss is nothing like the obscenity between your legs as his hard cock presses against your weeping folds. 

“I’m sorry, darling, but I’m selfish. I want to feel you around me when I make you come for the first time.” 

Eyes wide and mouth slack, you watch as with one swift movement, he pulls himself out, fisting himself and fully running the tip through your folds. Any frustration you could have had in the prior moment about the retraction of his touch is resolved, a hot pressure pushing at your weeping hole.

“It’s- it’s big.” You gasp as the tip breaches you, looking down to be met with the obscene sight of where your bodies meet. Bucky leans down to press a featherlight kiss to your lips. “Bucky, please!”

“We’ll make it fit,” he whispers against your lips, pushing further in. “Just let me in, sweetheart.”

You throw your head back, the sand from the beach scratching abrasively against your scalp, but you don’t care. Bucky is all-consuming, slowly claiming your body as his own with every inch of himself he pushes into you. The feeling was so strange, your body unaccustomed to the feeling, but you couldn’t help but want more. The sensation overwhelmed Bucky, resisting the urge to push inside you in one fell swoop with every mewl and clench of your body around him. 

“Bucky, please!” You cry, unsure what exactly you’re asking for but begging all the same. A hand tangles itself into his damp hair again, tugging at the locks and eliciting a groan from him. He rocks his hips again, pressing deeper until your hips are flush to his. You freeze against him, his chest heaving against yours with barely contained restraint. The tip of his cock pressing against your womb, your pussy stuffed full with him. The gentlest shift of his hips recast the intrusion entirely in pleasure. The consuming stretch of your body singing Bucky’s name as though it could not fathom ever existing without it. A loud moan tore from your lips, echoing around the deserted beach. 

Bucky didn’t move, savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. He brought his hand to your face, tugging your lip down with his thumb. “You’re so perfect,” He gritted, “like you were made for me- fuck. So tight.”

You let out an airy sigh, closing your lips around his thumb and sucking the tip into his mouth. With your eyes maintaining eye contact with him, Bucky felt the last of his restraint disappear, pulling his length from your cunt and slamming back in one smooth thrust. He built his rhythm easily, each press of his cock into your warm heat sent a shock of pleasure through your body, the coil in your stomach growing again. 

“You’re doing so perfect for me.” Bucky moaned, waves crashing around the two of you. You felt yourself struggling for control as your peak grew. Your eyes struggled to stay open, vision blurring as Bucky moved above you. “Fucking Chirst, you’re so wet.”

Bucky kept his rhythm, hips bucking against you with clinical precision. You try desperately to maintain a shred of dignity as your clit throbs in time with his movements. Sensing your need, he slides his fingers between the two of you to carefully rub patterns on your swollen clit. Dignity fully gone, you cry out his name, thanking him in high pitched gasps. 

“That’s right,” he coos, pecking your lips sweetly in an action entirely in opposition what is happening below your waist, “let me hear it. Let me know how much you like me filling you like this.”

“You- I- ah! I’m going to- mphh!” Another moan is muffled against his lips with a hot kiss, tongues tangling with each other’s. Even the waves cannot cover the sound of his skin slapping against yours, wet plaps that should make you blush, but don’t. 

What does make your blood run hot is the squelch of your wetness with every push inside you. 

“I- Bucky- I can’t oh!” Your release crashes over you like the waves of the ocean, unrelenting and consuming. The fluttering of your walls around him shatters the remainders of Bucky’s restraint, chasing his own pleasure with sloppy thrusts. 

“Sweetheart, I’m close. You’re going to take it, okay? You can- ah- I know you can.” You nodded hurriedly, wrapping your leg around his waist to keep him close to you and encouraging him to fill you. His hand palms aggressively at one breast, nipping and biting at the other while he pushes into you with a fervor unlike before.

His own release came with a grunt of your name and a roar of ecstasy ripping from his throat as though it could not be contained. You felt his release fill you, marking you as his like never before. He owned you, from the inside out. He throbbed within you, kissing languidly at your neck as though he never wanted to let you go. 

“I know you,” he whispers, so quietly you can barely hear him, “I don’t know how, but I know you.”

You don’t respond, unable to summon a response through your gooey, pleasure drunk brain. You aren’t even sure if you heard him right, but he knows.

Inside you, his tip kept spurting warmth against your cervix, pumping you so full that you felt the excess of his seed overflowing out of your tired cunt.

Neither of you move or say anything for a long moment, sharing breaths. Bucky softens inside you, slowly pulling himself out with a ‘pop!’ and a whimper from your lips at the sudden ache of emptiness. He sits up and freezes, looking over you with something akin to horror. 

There is something about you so familiar, so comforting, the back of his mind whispers. The eyes of his angel peirce his brain, blood running cold. 

“I-” You begin, still starry-eyed in your post-orgasmic haze, but Bucky stops you.

“We should get back.” 

He helps you to your feet, tucking himself away with precision and avoiding eye contact. Bucky refastens the buttons of your dress and replaces your skirt with tactical precision, as though you’re an essay that needs editing. His touches are fleeting, all warmth and tenderness gone. Silently, he leads you back up the beach and picks up your shoes, carrying them to the carriage. Something cold and rotten settles in your stomach, feeling as though ice has begun to run through your veins. 

When he begins to guide the horses back towards the main road to the palace, you feel tears prick your eyes. 

“Did I-”

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, but doesn’t look over at you either. “No. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.”

You want to scream, for the first time feeling like leaving Clare-Auberge was a mistake, that the man you’d dreamed of for years wasn’t what you had imagined. 

“Okay,” you say thickly, barely a whisper. Turning to look at the cliffs, a cloudy sunset over them, Bucky doesn’t notice you swiping furiously at the one tear you’ve allowed to fall. 

[yearningforsolitude]

And They Were Roommates!

summary — an unexpected layoff forces you to move in with a random man you meet on the internet—who just so happens to be ryland grace. a blind date forces the two of you to finally acknowledge your true feelings for one another—and just how deeply they run.

pairing — ryland grace x f!roommate!reader

content — fluff, slight angst, smut (mdni), oral f!receiving, subby!ryland, dirty talk, they (try to) ignore their feelings for each other, confessions of feelings, reader works at a library, ryland works at grover cleveland middle school

word count — 8.3k (it just kept growing!! my longest fic ever)

a/n — i want to preface this by saying that this is my first time writing for ryland and i have not yet fully read the book so if any of my writing for ryland seems out of character, i apologize! if there are any mistakes, please let me know & i hope you enjoy the fic! feedback is always appreciated <3

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A year ago, you never would have imagined needing to live with a roommate just to get by at nearly thirty years old, but life had other plans.

A layoff from your corporate job and taking a new position at the local library with a drastic pay cut had changed that, which is how you found yourself becoming roommates with Ryland Grace.

It was by chance, choosing your roommate. An online search that yielded only two results.

The first—a man in his fifties who was, exclusively, looking for women in their twenties to share an apartment with. That one was easy to ignore, which left you with only a single other result that you had no hope for after reading the description of your first choice.

To your surprise, the description of your second option for a roommate was exponentially better.

Male, thirties, no pets, open to males or females. I occupy one bedroom in a two bedroom apartment and am looking for someone to occupy the other. You will have your own room, but a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. My occupation is a middle school science teacher, so my schedule is set. I would prefer someone with a similar work schedule, but am open to other options as well. Rent and utilities will be split equally. If you are interested, my contact information is listed.

A year later, you can’t help but be grateful for giving your second option a chance.

If you hadn't, you never would have met Ryland Grace.

You and Ryland had clicked almost instantly. He was kind and accommodating, even taking a whole entire Saturday to help you move all of your boxes and furniture in when you made the big move. The two of you also built your new dresser together that first weekend, which is the first big test of any relationship, platonic or romantic. It didn't end in arguing about who was right and wrong, instead the time was spent laughing together and getting to know how each others brains ticked. Admittedly, though, it did take the two of you entirely too long to build that dresser.

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm of living together. It helped that your schedules were similar, giving you more time to spend together after your workdays to get to know one another past just the surface level details. You had expected your roommate to be someone you were cordial with, spoke to in passing, but never went out of your way to get to know on a deeper level, but with Ryland it was different.

You found yourself looking forward to coming home and being able to debrief about your days together, which quickly became a habit. Ryland always speaking of the students in his classroom and you, always the kids that came into the library. Sometimes they overlapped, his students coming into the library after school to work on projects. You had heard stories about their fantastic science teacher, which you later learned was Mr. Grace. On one occasion, you let it slip that you knew Mr. Grace, which didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but you later realized was a mistake.

Ryland came home the very next day with a story about the huge rumor that had dropped that day about Mr. Grace’s secret girlfriend who worked at the library. The two of you spent the rest of the evening laughing about it, and it turned into one of your favorite inside jokes that you shared.

You did find yourself becoming attracted to the scientist-turned-science-teacher, but that was something you would never confess to, at least not to Ryland. It was too nice of a living situation to risk things turning sour, so you bit your feelings back and swallowed them down the best that you could. There had been hints of reciprocal feelings, small gestures and comments that never went any further—nothing physical or concrete to really go off of.

Which is why you found yourself hooked up on a blind date—someone a friend had said you might like. You didn’t have high hopes, but you still agreed.

You just hadn’t told Ryland yet.

You make your way towards the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, but still stifling a yawn against the back of your hand as you cross the threshold into the kitchen.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you snooze your alarms again?” The familiar cheery voice of Ryland greets you. He has his back turned towards you, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He's already dressed, wearing his knitted fox cardigan that you love, and had, admittedly, stolen a few times to wear to work. You received lots of compliments on it, too. It also was more ammunition to feed the secret girlfriend rumor at school.

“It’s not even seven yet, Ry.” You argue, pulling the chair out from the kitchen table and taking a seat. You did snooze your alarm, but you wouldn't dare to tell him that. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right this early in the morning.

“You’re usually showering by six, I didn’t hear the faucet turn on until quarter after six this morning.” He states matter-of-factly, finally turning to face you. He’s holding two cups of coffee, you notice one of the mugs as his—a mug you bought him for his birthday that says I make horrible science puns, but only periodically.

The other is yours—a mug he bought you for Christmas that’s speckled with stars, and in the center it says you’re the star of this story. He places the mug in front of you without a word before bringing his own mug to his lips and taking a large sip of his coffee, drowning almost half the mug in one go. You're positive it's probably already his second cup this morning.

“Wow, Ry, that’s a bit creepy, don't ya think? I think I might need a new roommate who hasn’t memorized my shower schedule.” You tease with a smile, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the hot porcelain warm your palms. Truthfully, you liked that he had memorized your schedule. Knowing that you take up space not only in his apartment, but in his mind too makes your stomach flip with what you can only describe as butterflies.

“C’mon, after a year of living together I know your routine and our rhythms. You’re trying to paint me unfairly as some freak and I do not appreciate that, thank you very much. Especially this early in the morning.” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he laughs, watching as you take a sip of your coffee. You hold it in your mouth, the sweetness of the creamer mixed with the bitterness of the coffee coating your tongue deliciously before you swallow with a content sigh.

He has your coffee preferences down, too. He used to tease you about how much creamer you consumed, saying that you liked the sugary taste more than the coffee itself, which while it was definitely true, you always argued that that just wasn't the case.

Though, recently, you’ve noticed that there's always an extra unopened container of your favorite creamer sitting in the fridge, waiting specifically for you. He doesn't acknowledge this new habit, doesn't hold it over your head. It's just Ryland being Ryland, doing something for you and expecting absolutely nothing in return. Just one of the many reasons why you've found yourself holding a certain fondness for him—a crush? That sounds utterly ridiculous for your age, so you'll stick with fondness.

“Good?” He raises his eyebrow expectantly, his glasses have slipped down his nose, so he's staring at you over the lenses rather than through them, waiting for your response.

“Perfect.” You answer, placing the mug back down, a soft clink rings out as it hits the table. He smiles and nods, already knowing what your response would be.

"It's Friday, so you're off at four today, right?" He asks casually, bringing his mug back to his lips and finishing off his coffee before turning and placing the empty cup in the sink basin.

"That would be correct." You nod even though he can't see you. "You know, you're really not helping those freak accusations we talked about. First my shower schedule and now my work schedule? It just keeps piling up." Your voice is light, your smile shining through the words.

"Can't a guy just have a good memory?" He teases, spinning back around to face you. That slanted smile you've grown attached to is plastered on his lips.

"Maybe." You return with a shrug of your shoulders, smile still on your face. Everything pauses as the two of you just look at one another, taking each other in. The moment is soft and fleeting, but it still makes your heart clench. Before you know it, he's pushing himself away from the counter and coming to pass you, reaching his hand up and ruffling your hair as he passes by.

"Hey!" You protest, swatting your hand at him and missing, which earns you a childish laugh from him as he carries himself to the living room, entirely too pleased with himself.

The conversation lulls as the two of you go about your morning, existing side by side, but not exactly together. His presence is always near, but never overbearing. It’s nice, comfortable even. You finish your coffee off before standing and making your way to the sink to set your empty mug beside his in the basin. His footsteps sound in the hallway, old floorboards groaning under his weight as he makes his way back to the kitchen where you still are, grabbing your lunch from the fridge to pack it away.

When he reaches the kitchen, he has his bike helmet in his hand and his backpack on his back, signifying that he’s getting ready to leave. “Did you want to get food from that new Thai place tonight? I’ve heard good things this week in the break room about it. I can grab it on my ride home if you do.” He offers, pausing by the table as you zip up your lunchbox. Your movements still as you take in his words.

Your date is tonight.

You know you're not doing anything wrong by going on a date, but your stomach still flips with a weird sense of guilt for Ryland and the fact that you haven't told him yet.

“Actually, I won’t be home tonight,” you start, and you can see the confusion wash over his features in real time. “I have a date tonight.”

Your heart just dropped to your stomach.

You're sure of it.

It takes a few seconds, but he responds. “A date?” He echoes the word, voice slightly frayed at the edges. He tilts his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably as he waits for your response.

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously, picking at the zipper of your lunchbox. “A blind date. One of my friends set it up, it’s silly really.” Your cheeks start to warm as you finish your sentence. That guilt that started in your stomach is working its way up to your chest, and it's moving rapidly.

Ryland recovers swiftly, nodding his head and giving you a small smile, but you're not really sure it reaches his eyes.

Are you making things up? Seeing things that aren't there?

You have to be.

“It’s not silly. Is he picking you up?” He questions, but you think you know what he’s really asking. Am I going to meet him?

“No,” you shake your head quickly, “I’m taking the bus. Meeting him at the restaurant. I didn’t want him to know where I live just yet. I know my friend knows him, but I just didn't really think that was a good idea. You never know." You know you were rambling, but you just couldn't stop yourself. It's something you do when you're nervous—a trait you've found out you share with Ryland.

“Yeah, you never know really. That’s smart. Definitely very smart. I'm proud of you. Well—uh, I’ve got to head out. I'm going to be late if I don’t get going now. I’ll see you after work? Will I see you? Before your date?” He's rambling too, the both of you just word-vomiting all over the place from nerves. It could be funny if these weren't the circumstances.

“Yeah, I’ll be here. I’ll see you before I leave. I hope you have a good day.” He's walking past you and to the door as you speak, planning his exit as quickly as he can. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and turns his head over his shoulder to look at you once more.

“Yeah, you too. Sounds good. I'll see you tonight.” Then he’s out the door, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your shared kitchen with the feeling that you're doing something entirely wrong.

───

Your shift at the library seems to drag on and fly by simultaneously. It’s probably the nerves. At this point you don't know if they're from your date, or seeing Ryland when you get home.

Probably both.

───

Before you know it, you’re home and changing into your dress for the date that you're not even entirely sure you want to go on anymore. You don’t feel the need to make any drastic changes to your makeup, so you just do a small touch up on your makeup from work. Taking a final look in the mirror, you exhale a deep breath and work up the courage to make your way to the kitchen where you know Ryland will be waiting.

When you reach the end of the hallway, you see him sitting at the table, a pen in his hand and his focus on the stack of students’ tests that sit in front of him as he works through grading each of them thoroughly.

“You know you really shouldn’t be bringing work home, Mr. Grace.” You tease him like normal, because it's the only thing you know to do. Smoothing the skirt of your dress out, you close the distance to the kitchen table where he's stationed. His focus flicks up towards you, you watch the way his eyes take in your appearance, the way they linger on your dress before moving up to your face.

“That’s the life of a teacher. Overworked and extremely underpaid.” He responds casually, placing his pen down and stretching his arms out. You hear something pop, probably his back from being stiff and him sitting crouched over the table.

Something you've gotten on him for plenty of times.

“Isn’t that the truth.” You smile faintly, tapping your fingers against the table.

He only nods, so you continue, “Well, I’m getting ready to head out. Do I look okay?” You question him quietly, pulling your arms to your sides so he can get a good look at you. You find yourself wanting his validation.

“Yeah, you do,” he nods, giving you a small smile. “You look very pretty in your dress. I like that color on you. It looks good with your skin tone.” His voice is soft and sincere, almost shy in a way as he speaks. It makes you smile, a real grin that you can’t contain.

“Thanks, Ry. I appreciate that.” And you do. More than he will ever know.

“If you need anything, just call me, okay?” His voice has grown serious now. “If anything at all goes wrong—don’t hesitate. Call me and I’ll be there to get you, even if I have to sit you on the back of my bike and peddle the both of us home.” You let out a small laugh at the mental movie your mind creates for you. It's ridiculous, but you're one hundred percent positive that he's telling you the truth.

“I’ve got you on speed dial. You're my emergency contact if it goes south.” It sounds like a joke, but he really is your emergency contact.

Just the same as you are his.

“And you better use it if you need to.” He smiles, voice full of sincerity.

“I will. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“I’ll see you soon. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks, Ry.”

Then you're out the door, leaving Ryland sat at the kitchen table wondering why his heart feels like it's been broken into two.

You knew the date wasn’t going anywhere almost as soon as it started. The man was nice, the conversation flowed, but you just didn’t click.

It also didn’t help that you kept comparing him to Ryland all night. Comments he made, jokes he said that you just knew Ryland would never say. He didn't have that same effect on you that Ryland had. That easy connection that blossomed between the two of you almost instantaneously just couldn't be replicated with the man you met tonight, but that didn't surprise you, not really. Ryland was one of a kind, the type of soul that you could never find in another body no matter how hard you looked.

You knew your feelings for Ryland were there, constantly lingering and slowly growing, but you hadn't realized just how deeply they ran until tonight. All your date had shown you tonight was that you never wanted to go on another one if it wasn't with Ryland.

───

You turn the doorknob to your shared apartment and let yourself in—the apartment is dark and quiet, except for the sound of old reruns playing on the television in the living room. Your eyes flick to the time on the clock and you furrow your brows.

It's late.

Ryland is usually sleeping by now.

You slip your sandals off slowly, careful to not make any excessive noise. Cautiously, you make your way towards the living room, your steps are quiet just in case Ryland has fallen asleep accidentally on the couch. It's not common, but it has happened before. You peer into the living room and see him on the couch, but he's not asleep just yet. His eyelids look heavy, half-lidded, trained on the television, but you're not sure he's actually watching it. You see an empty takeout container of what you can only assume is the Thai food he spoke to you about this morning. The old floorboards creak under your foot as you step on a particularly touchy spot, giving you away. His head turns quickly, eyes opening wider as he sees you standing in the entryway.

"Are you trying to sneak in on me?" He teases sleepily, that easy humor threading itself through his voice as he speaks.

"You caught me red handed." You sigh dramatically, raising your hands in mock surrender as you carry yourself further into the living room, not focused on being quiet anymore.

He watches you, silently, but you can tell there are words sitting in his throat that he won't let come out just yet. He waits, ever so casually, as you take a seat on the middle cushion of the couch, curling your legs up under yourself.

"Did you wait on me?" You know those aren't the words he wants to hear right now, but you ask anyway, eager to hear his answer.

"Yeah, well—I tried to. I think I was about half asleep when you came in. Didn't even hear the door open." His response was what you were hoping to hear. A smile forms on your face as you watch him shift his body to face towards you. He props his elbow on the top of the back of the couch, leaning his head against his hand, the movement causing his glasses to slightly shift.

"I was quiet. I thought you'd be sleeping so I didn't want to disturb you." You shift now, scooting in deliberately closer to him. Your knee knocks into the side of his sweatpant clad thigh and he feels it, glancing down at the contact before bringing his eyes back up to find yours again.

Neither of you move.

"You never disturb me." He tells you softly, the words dancing around in the air for a moment as you pause.

"I don't think there will be a second date." You finally say, giving him an entryway into the conversation he's been waiting to have.

You swear he almost looks relieved when he hears confirmation that the date didn't go as planned. His shoulders loosen ever so slightly and he nods his head. "I'm sorry it didn't work out." The words sound sincere enough.

"No, don't be sorry. I didn't have high hopes anyway." You shrug casually, sighing lightly. "We just didn't click very well—you know?" You scrunch your brows together while you think and he gives you a nod to continue. "Sometimes you just click with people and you know it will lead somewhere. That didn’t happen.”

"Yeah, I understand what you mean. Completely." A pause, then he opens his mouth to speak again, closes it, and the words wither up and die on his tongue before he can even spit them out.

"Like, you and I, we click. I just didn't feel that with him." You're hoping he catches the hint you're throwing him, but knowing Ryland, he probably hasn't.

"Yeah, we clicked very well. We're very good friends."

There is the confirmation that he hasn't caught the hint. It makes you laugh, how oblivious he can be to things sometimes. Your laughter confuses him, his brows now knitting together as he thinks.

"What?" He questions, letting out a nervous laugh because he feels like he's missing out on something.

He most definitely is.

"He just wasn't you, Ry." The words are quiet, but they're out there now. Hanging between the two of you like a bridge, an invitation that you hope he will accept.

"What? I'm sorry—what was that?" He's leaning his head in closer to you now, as if he'll understand what you're saying if he can just close the distance between the two of you.

You try again.

More straightforward this time.

"He wasn't you. I think I knew it wasn't going anywhere before I even met him. I kept thinking of you, and he just wasn't you. The way he made me feeling isn't the way you make me feel. You make me feel things I've never even experienced before. This date just made me understand what I've been too stubborn to acknowledge for awhile. I have feelings for you, Ryland." Your nerves have caught up to you, evident from the lengthy explanation you give him. He's quiet, taking your words in and trying to digest them—make sense of them.

Your heart is trying to make its way outside of its home in your chest as the seconds tick by.

"You don't know how long I've hoped to hear those words from you." He breathes, his words dripping with honesty. "I think I've had feelings for you since about the fourth month of you living here. It was so hard not to, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable so I just tried to push them down." You think he's finished, but he continues. "I almost went crazy tonight, sitting here thinking about that awful date and worried you would come home with good news. I know that makes me a horrible person, but I don't think I care anymore."

His confession has you melting, your legs turning to jelly where they sit beneath you. You lean closer into him, reaching your hand forward, not realizing where it's about to land, and place it on the top of his thigh. The two of you look down to where your hand has landed, its place on his thigh that is so dangerously close to his dick. You both look up at the same time, eyes locking on each other. You find no indication that he wants you to move, so you leave your hand there.

The energy between the two of you has shifted, becoming more charged.

You're close now, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. It's warm, heating your cheeks. His breath smells like the spearmint toothpaste that sits in the holder alongside both of your toothbrushes. His eyes are searching your face, looking for any indication of you not wanting this.

Not wanting him.

He finds none.

And still, he asks, because that's just who he is. Always needing one hundred percent certainty.

"Is this okay?" His voice is soft, scared almost, breaking quietly near the end.

Your brain is short-circuiting, all dizzy and fogged up from the closeness paired with his scent. You can't get any words to form, so you do the next best thing—you nod.

"No," he shakes his head, "Words, please. I need to hear you say it, okay? Please?" He finishes with your name, whispering it so delicately, so softly, as if he's afraid he'll break it, break you, if he doesn't treat it with the utmost care.

"Yes," you manage to mutter, still nodding your head, "Yes, this is okay. Please." You finish stronger, the words coming out louder than the first.

There's a pause, a nervous breath, then his lips are on yours. It's not a perfectly practiced kiss you'd see in movies, it's clumsy, noses bumping into each other and breathy laughter throughout. Two people beginning to learn each other in a different way, a more sacred way.

His hands are hesitant, finally raising them to slide up your thighs and settle on your hips. He pulls away, his eyes are dazed and his pupils are blown wide. "Still okay?" He questions again.

You don't respond immediately, instead, you shift your weight, bracing your knees against the couch cushions and raising to balance on them before you swing one across his lap so that you're now straddling him. His hands keep their place on your hips through your movements, rubbing soft circles against the fabric of your dress as you get yourself situated on his lap. Your hand that was on his thigh moves to rest at his side. The skirt of your dress has risen up, bunching up around your thighs from your movements. You can't help but feel the way his hardening length presses into you.

"Yes," you tell him, raising your hands and placing them on his broad shoulders, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt between your fingers. "Is this okay?" It's your turn to question now, to confirm that he wants this, wants you, just as much as you want him. You watch his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his chest heaves as he takes in a long breath. Exhales, then his eyes are open again.

"Yes," he says, voice still slightly shaky with residual nerves, "this is more than okay." He confirms, a sheepish smile making it's way across his lips.

A smile tugs at the corner of your own lips, then you're leaning back in and capturing his mouth with yours once again. His lips are soft, softer than you imagined they would be. You're both still shy, almost unsure of yourselves when it comes to this new territory between the two of you. You take a chance, moving your hands from their place on his shoulders to his head, threading your fingers through his blonde locks. You tug, just hard enough, that he gasps into your mouth.

You swallow the sound down greedily, wanting to hold onto it forever—keep it locked away in a place only you have access to. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around your hips.

You pull away this time, getting a good look at his face. His cheeks are tinted red and his lips are a darker shade of pink than usual from your kisses. You bring a hand around, placing a finger under his chin and making him tilt his head back. He obeys so easily, tilting his head back quickly with no resistance at all.

"Did you like that? Me pulling your hair?" Your voice is sweet, honey coating every word.

"I think—" he pauses when your lips find his jaw, "I think I like anything you do to me." He breathes, hands tightening around your hips instinctively. You let out a small giggle, your breath fanning across his cheek. You continue to kiss along his jaw, then down his neck. The collar of his shirt has been pulled down slightly from the bottom edges being trapped under your thighs. You continue, kissing down to his exposed collarbone, pausing momentarily before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin that stretches along the bone.

He groans softly—then, subconsciously, his hips buck up into your panty-clothed core. The friction is nice, pulling a soft gasp from your throat. His hands still.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to." His words are quick, full of remorse at his unintended actions.

"No, it's okay," you whisper, trying to console him. You begin to make your way back up his neck, planting small kisses against the base of his throat as you move. "Can we take your shirt off? I wanna see you."

"No."

Oh.

The word makes you pause, pulling away from him almost immediately. Your skin grows hot from the feeling of embarrassment. He tilts his head back down so the two of you are face to face again. When he sees your expression, his eyes go wide and he scrambles to correct himself.

"No—I mean, yes, we can." He sputters, using his hands on your hips to pull you even closer to him. "Yes, I want you to see me. I want to see you too. I just—if we're going to go further than this I don't want it to be here—on the couch I mean. I want to do it right, in bed." He clarifies quickly, trying to salvage whatever he can of this interaction. His thumbs begin to circle your hips again in hopes of calming you.

You finally let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

He wants to do it right.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding your head in agreement. "Can we go to the bedroom, then?"

"Yes, please." He nods, tapping your hips lightly with his fingers to signal for you to get up.

You place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, swinging your leg off of him and placing your foot on the floor. He keeps one hand on your hip, steadying you as you stand. Your dress falls back down, no longer bunched at your thighs.

It's his turn to stand and he does so quickly, bumping into you on the way up.

"Sorry," he hums, "Just excited." The honesty makes you laugh.

"Excited to have sex with me?" You tease, tilting your head up to see his face.

"Yes—excited for that reason. To have sex with you." He smiles shyly, the light from the television allowing you to see the tint of red that spreads across his cheeks.

You shake your head with a smile before turning to make your way towards the bedrooms. He follows closely behind, keeping a hand placed on your hip to tether himself to you as if he's afraid one of you will float away if he lets go. You continue, coming up on the first bedroom in the hallway—which just so happens to be his.

You reach for the handle and turn it, pushing the door open to step into his room. You've been in his room a handful of times before to grab something for him or to turn off his fan, but never for a reason like this.

His room isn't fully dark, a small lamp sitting on his bedside table illuminates the room just well enough for you to see. He has a bookshelf in the corner where dozens of textbooks on molecular biology, DNA, chemistry, and other sciences sit.

Just light reading for him.

His desk sits along the wall, the chair pushed halfway in. Papers and pens are scattered all across the face of desk. He has an unfolded basket of clothes sitting on top of his dresser. Folding them is the worst part! His voice pops into the back of your head. You swear you've heard him say that at least one hundred times by now. He watches the way you take in his bedroom, the way your eyes linger on certain things. He finds himself becoming self-conscious when he notices the clothes on his dresser.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors." He says truthfully. He never would have imagined that he would be ending his night with you in his bedroom.

He surely wasn't going to complain, though.

"With the amount of times I've heard you complain about folding clothes, I'm honestly surprised you only have one basket that isn't folded." Your voice is light, you're smiling as you talk. He laughs from behind you, his hand running from your hip up your side.

"Ry, can you unzip my dress?" Your voice is quieter now, the gentle humor that was there just a moment ago has faded into something gentler.

He doesn't speak, but you feel his hands trail up your back to the zipper that sits at the top of your spine. He grabs it in his hand and you swear you can feel his hand tremble slightly before he works up the courage to pull the zipper down, down, down, all the way to the base of your spine. His hands raise back up, pushing the fabric from your shoulders and down your arms. The dress drops, and you're left standing in your bra and panties, facing away from Ryland.

His hands hesitate before they move down to the clasp on your bra, it takes him a moment, but he unclasps it for you. You shrug the straps from your shoulders and down your arms to let it fall to the ground, joining your dress in a pile by your feet. You have one final article of clothing to shed, which you do so yourself. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your underwear and bring them down your legs before stepping out of them. The pile of your clothes on the floor is now complete.

You take a breath before turning around to finally face Ryland. Your nerves disappear the second you see the lock on his face.

His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. There's something so soft about the way he's taking you in. You think you're going to have to reach out and poke him to bring him back down to earth, but then he speaks.

"You are absolutely beautiful." He reaches his hand out to your hip, finally touching you without the barrier of clothing. His fingertips are soft as he squeezes the flesh between his fingers—it almost seems like he's testing you to make sure you're real. His fingers trail up your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their path. He pauses at your breast, looking towards your face once more for an invitation.

You nod.

He continues.

His touch is soft, ghosting over the flesh of your breast. He grabs a hold of it, holding it in his palm. His fingers close around your nipple, twisting the hardened bud between his fingers. Your body is on fire under his touch. You whimper softly, heat coiling down low that has you squeezing your legs together to get any amount of friction you can.

He takes note of that.

"You like that?" He questions, wanting to take his time to learn you.

You nod.

You're becoming impatient, wanting to see him and feel him.

"It's your turn now." You urge him softly, your fingers coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. He nods, his hand moving away from you and grabbing onto his own shirt. You help him raise it up and he maneuvers it off of himself—it joins your pile of clothes in the floor.

You knew Ryland had a nice build, but you didn't expect this. His biceps are large, and the skin on his stomach lays tightly over his muscles. It's now your turn to bring your hand up and run it across his stomach, feeling the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles contract under your fingertips. Your hands glide around before settling down low on the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Is this okay?" You say the words that have become habitual to the two of you at this point.

"Yes, please." His eyes meet yours through his glasses as he confirms. You nod, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his his sweatbands along with his boxers and pull the both of them down his thighs at the same time. He steps out of them, and now the pile of your clothes on the floor is truly complete.

You're able to take him in now—all of him.

He's bigger than you imagined. Not huge, but a good size and thickness. You know the stretch is going to hurt so good. He's hard, his dick is poking out and red at the tip. You reach your hand down to grasp him in your palm, then pause. You raise your eyes to his and he's already watching you.

He nods.

You continue.

You grip him in your hand, running your thumb over his leaking slit to gather some wetness. He's sensitive, already twitching in your palm with minimal effort on your part. You stroke from the tip to the base of his dick and it has him groaning, a sound pulled deep from his chest. That heat, the need, coils low in your stomach again.

"You're so gorgeous, Ry." You tell him, watching the way his eyebrows knit together in pleasure. His eyes catch yours again and you see the way his cheeks turn that familiar shade of pink. He's so responsive it makes you weak in the knees.

"Gorgeous." he repeats, like it's a foreign concept to him. He doesn't really believe it.

"Yeah, really gorgeous." You confirm with a simple nod of your head, like it's the most obvious thing you've ever said to him.

To you, it is.

You stroke him languidly a few more times, enjoying the feeling of him twitching against your palm.

The feeling curling deep in your stomach is becoming too hard to ignore.

You need him.

"Lay down on the bed, please." You tell him softly, giving him one final stroke before taking your touch away from him completely. He whines at the loss of contact, his hips jerking closer to you. His eyes are open and watching as you step closer to the bed.

"Wait, no—I want," he pauses, unsure of himself, then, "can I taste you, please?"

His words land hard, a pulsing sensation flows through you, right where you need him the most. Who would you be to deny him?

Especially when he asks so nicely.

"Yes." You nod, eager for the contact with him. You face the bed, crawling onto it before turning yourself around and laying on your back. The air from your movements causes a waft of his scent—a mix of his aftershave, shampoo, and that detergent he swears by, to blanket you, enveloping you in a nice little cocoon of him. He follows you, making his way onto the bed and lodging himself between your legs, his arms hook under your legs and his hands rest so gently against your stomach.

He takes in the sight of you sprawled out and ready for him and he swears he's in heaven—or as close to heaven as he will ever get. He places a kiss against your thigh.

"You look so pretty." His breath fans over you as he says it, causing your pussy to clench around nothing.

You shy away, covering your face so you don't have to look at him. "Hey, no—I want to see you, please." His voice is so soft it makes your heart ache. You oblige, uncovering your face so your view is now Ryland between your legs.

With your attention now on him, he gets to work quickly. He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with his tongue. You gasp, which only encourages him more. His tongue moves back down to your entrance, prodding your hole to get a better taste of you.

He devours you like a man starved, scared that this will be his first, and last, meal. Though, at this point, the both of you know that this isn't going to be a one and down type of encounter. He's attentive, quickly learning what you do, and don't like. He licks back up, focusing on your clit, finding that spot that makes you keen and arch your back from the sensation.

"I'm gonna come." You manage to choke out, your thighs flexing tighter around his head. Your voice, those words, are music to his ears. His tongue becomes more precise, flexing to a taut point and circling around your clit to help pull your orgasm from you. Your eyes shift down, the sight of Ryland between your thighs paired with how deliciously he's sucking on your clit are enough to send you over the edge. The coil in your stomach snaps, hot pleasure coursing through your limbs. You reach your hand down to grab a handful of his hair, trying to pull him away from you, but he doesn't let up.

Your grip on his hair paired with tasting you on his tongue has him moaning, sending vibrations through your already overly sensitive cunt. He lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue, his movements eventually slowing to a halt.

Neither of you speak for a moment, you because you're still too blissed out, chest heaving as you suck in deep breaths. Ryland because he can't believe this is happening. He has stilled, his head resting against your thigh. You feel a few light taps, Ryland's fingers against your stomach, and you look down. His fingers are still wrapped around his hair and his glasses are crooked, but he doesn't notice. The mixture of spit and your release are coating his lips and chin. He's smiling up at you so sweetly it makes your heart ache that familiar ache.

"Good?" He asks, voice unsure. You want to laugh. You just came on his tongue and he's still worried he didn't do good enough of a job.

"Great." You breath, giving a light tug at his blonde locks to signal him to come up. He wastes no time, unhooking his arms from your legs and crawling up the bed, caging you between his arms. Your hands move to his face, fingers grabbing at his glasses to correct their placement. You catch his eyes with yours.

His eyes are soft as he stares into yours, so full of something you can't quite name yet. Your fingers run down his cheek and settle on his jaw, thumb brushing against his skin. He leans into it. The yellow light from his bedside lamp catches his skin so perfectly, casting a warm hue across his face that paints him as one of the most beautiful paintings you've ever laid eyes on. He's so beautiful like this, face so relaxed and carefree.

You think he's an angel—something otherworldly for sure.

You feel his length twitch against your lower stomach, hard and leaking from the slit with desire. That familiar heat is already forming in your belly again. "I want to feel you," you tell him, voice quiet and sure. "All of you, Ry."

"Okay," he nods, "I want you, too."

You smile, removing your hand from his face and snaking it between the two of you, grabbing his length and stroking him. "Can I be on top? I want to see you."

"Yes," he nods, quicker this time. "You can have me anyway you want me. Anything you want." His voice is so certain and he's moving before you can say another word. Taking his position with his back flat against the bed, you raise to your knees and sling one leg over him, straddling him once again. His hands find your thighs, resting near the top of them like that's exactly where they were made to be.

You raise again, giving yourself room to take him in. Your hand raises to his lips, fingers splaying out expectantly. There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"Spit." He does so without another command, so eager to please and be good. You gather the spit on your fingers, using your thumb to get the residual saliva left on his bottom lip. You reach down again, grabbing ahold of him once more, fingers now wet and ready to help lubricate him. You give him a few pumps, coating the spit along his length. His hips buck at the contact, a quiet groan leaving his lips as his eyes screw shut. His tip prods at your entrance and you sink down ever so slightly, dragging the moment out.

He whines, a sound so beautiful you want to have it on recording so you can play it whenever you want.

Slowly, you sink down further, taking him in inch by beautiful inch, until you're fully seated on him. A quiet moan slips past your lips at the stretch, the fullness you feel. He fits inside you so perfectly, completely made for you, and you, made for him.

You quickly decide that this is it, you're complete.

Ryland Grace has been your missing piece all along.

You just can't believe it's taken you a year to realize this.

His hands grip your thighs, fingernails marking crescents into your skin. "You—you feel so good," he gasps, swallowing hard. "I know I'm not going to last long." Embarrassment weaves itself into his words, but he shouldn't feel that. To you, it's endearing. He's going to come quickly because of you.

"That's okay," you start to shift your hips, raising up, then back down slowly, setting your own rhythm. "I want you to feel good." Moving quicker, you place your hands on his stomach to steady yourself, the tight muscles under his skin flexing as you gain momentum.

He says your name, but it's broken off at the end with a moan, "I don't think I can have you like this just once and be done." A breathy laugh, trying to be nonchalant, but his words are anything but casual and he is literally inside of you, already twitching as your walls squeeze around him.

You continue your motions, the drag of him inside of you making that coil in your stomach already begin to tighten. "I can't either."

He whines at your response, hips bucking up into you as you come down onto him again. The tip of his dick hits a certain spot inside of you that has your vision blurring. You chase that feeling, moving up and down feverishly, trying to catch the sensation again.

Ryland is a moaning mess under you, caught between scrunching his eyes closed in pleasure and trying to keep them open so he can watch the way you get yourself off while using him.

"I'm gonna—" a low groan, "Come. Can I?" Come inside? He doesn't have to say the words for you to understand where he was going with the sentence. Nodding, you work quicker, grinding against him to help him reach his peak.

"Please," you beg, "I want to feel you. Please come inside me, Ry." The nickname paired with your movements help throw him over the edge. He's gasping, hips bucking as he releases inside of you. You continue to grind against him, milking him thoroughly as you chase your own orgasm now. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, the friction helping that coil in your stomach get closer and closer to snapping.

Ryland knows you're close, feeling the way your walls are constricting around his twitching dick. He watches you move, working yourself up and using him to get there.

He thinks it's the most ethereal thing he's ever seen.

"There you go," he croons, rubbing soothing circles against your thighs with his large hands, "Use me. Let go for me, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Ryland has never called you anything other than your name before.

The unexpected use of the pet name and the sound of his voice is enough to let that coil snap. For the second time tonight, you're coming all over Ryland Grace. Crying out, you ride the high down until there's nothing left to hold onto anymore.

All that can be heard in the room is the sound of both of you breathing, heavy long breaths as you both try to get oxygen back into your lungs. His hands continue to work themselves over your thighs, then up your hips and your sides to help you ground yourself back to him.

Before you know it, he's wrapping his arm around your back and readjusting himself so he's sitting with his back against his headboard, still inside of you, but growing softer, as you straddle him.

His hands move to your face, fingers wiping back the sweaty hair that's sticking to your forehead. He looks happy, a sweet smile tugging at his lips while he watches you through his glasses.

He would do whatever you asked him to.

He's sure of that now. Maybe he always has been.

"What?" You question, scratching your nails lazily against his abdomen.

"Nothing," he smiles wider, "I was just thinking—" a pause, "does this change our roommate agreement?" That humor that flows so easily between the two of you is back, not changed by the events that just took place or the fact that he is literally still inside of you.

The question is so silly it makes you laugh, a deep sound coming up from your stomach.

"Yeah, Ry. I think it does."

Tomorrow morning the two of you will have a lot to figure out, but tonight, you’re just happy to be in each others arms.

────୨ৎ────

thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated :)

[stargirl-meltdown]

stay

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 10.6k idk man, i slipped

summary: you leave ryland because you can’t take the lies anymore—only to learn the truth was bigger than both of you, and you don’t know if love is enough to survive it

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, graphic description of sex, gentle smut, port with plot, major hurt comfort, crying, feeling unloved, major deceit/lies, soft! ryland, but still angst, there is a happy ending, this is a long one so get ready

You lugged your bag down the steep stairwell, no longer caring if the wheels clattered against each step as you made your descent. The sound was sharp as it echoed, ricocheting up the narrow walls as it almost beckoned you to turn back. 

It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn't there to hear it. 

You felt as though this moment should have been more dramatic, some semblance of finality in it. You never expected it to feel so dull. It sat heavy on your stomach, churning deep inside with the same feeling that had been stuck there for the past few weeks. 

It was not a clean break, wrapped up with a satisfying conclusion. It was slow. It eroded quietly at something that you once believed was unbreakably solid.

God, you almost wished it were more sudden than this.

You’d been circling this for a while now, flipping and mulling it over in your mind as it gnawed slowly. You’d give it time, given him time. That and every excuse you could possibly feed yourself, stretching them all thin until they barely held any comfort at all. 

He’s tired. 

Work is stressful. 

It’s just a phase.

But it was only so long that you could look at something fraying so obviously in front of you and turn a blind eye to the truth. 

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, your grip on the handle had tightened to the point your fingers ached. You paused in the dim hallway, breath catching. It wasn’t because of the suitcase, but the weight of everything you were leaving just four floors up. 

The heavy door. The flat. 

Him. 

You stopped your train of thought before your heart led you straight back upstairs, stepping out into the night. The street was quiet, wrapping you in cold darkness immediately. It was late, no sounds of traffic or voices, only the distant sound of the city and the hollow echo of your own footsteps as you crossed toward your car. 

You remembered the first time you’d stood on this exact stretch of pavement, keys in hand, both of you grinning like idiots.

Your salary, paired with his teacher’s one, had been just enough to make it work—barely, at times—but it had felt like a win at the time. A one-bedroom with an actual kitchen, a living room that wasn’t just a glorified corridor, and that tiny little balcony that had sealed it for him immediately.

He’d stepped out onto it that first day.

“It’s perfect,” he said, turning back to you with boyish excitement. “Do you know what we could grow out here?”

You hadn’t, at least not then, but it was impossible not to learn when living with a science teacher. 

Every morning after felt easy. He’d be up before you sometimes, or just after, padding out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee in one hand, already half-focused on the plants before he’d even taken a sip.

You’d stand just inside the glass doors, your own mug warming your hands, watching him.

He’d crouch, careful with his makeshift garden. Fingers brushing over their leaves. He always treated them with such care. Checking the soil, murmuring little observations under his breath.

And then he’d look up at you.

“This one’s doing really well,” he said, pointing, already halfway into it. “I’m going to have to repot it soon—yeah, definitely. It’s starting to outgrow its house. If I leave it the roots’ll get compacted and then it’s just a whole thing—nutrient uptake drops, water retention—should probably move it before it gets upset.”

You never understood half of it, but you loved the way he said it. Loved the way his whole face lit up, voice picking up the pace. He always got completely absorbed with his subject, even something so small and living and hopeful. 

Like he used to be with you.

You reached your car now, dragging your case the last few feet, catching some of the uneven pavement before you lifted it into the back. It landed with a dull thud, making this feel even more final. 

The back of your eyes began to sting as you tried to swallow. 

You glanced back at your building for one last time as you slammed the door shut. Turning and wrapping your arms around yourself to give you some semblance of comfort. 

He always said that it was his job to take care of you. To make sure you were okay, to look after you. 

You’d believed him. 

Just another lie. 

You think you knew from the beginning. The late evenings, distracted conversations. Him nodding along to things you said without really hearing them. You’d been kind to him, told yourself it was normal. People get busy, life gets in the way.

But then it began to stretch.

He’d start coming home later. And when he was home, he was miles away. You’d sit on the sofa together, something half-watched on the TV, and you’d feel it. Physically, he was next to you, but his attention was fractured; trying to be present but couldn’t quite manage it.

You tried to ignore it.  Hell—you wanted nothing more than to ignore it. But you weren’t stupid. 

“I’ve got an after-school thing.”

“I might be running late.”

You’d nodded, because what else were you supposed to do?

But something about it had sat wrong.

That was until you’d picked up your phone, dialled the school, and asked casually if you could leave a message for him. But the voice on the other end told you something you already knew: that the building had been locked up hours ago.

You fucking knew it. 

You closed your eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the tightness in your chest that had been building all day.

You still loved him.

You loved him, and you missed him.

Missed the way he used to look at you, the way he used to reach for you without thinking. Missed the thoughtless closeness that had once been the foundation of everything.

This was not supposed to end with you standing next to your car, years of your life packed away in the back, sneaking away in the middle of the night. 

You were just about to open the door when you heard a noise.

First it was distant, but fast approaching, amplified in the empty night air. It grew louder fast, then closer, your stomach dropping as your mind scrambled to keep up. 

No.

No, no, no. 

You turned your head just enough to see it. A small white light cutting through the dark at the end of the road. 

His bike.

Your heart leapt, slamming against your ribs as your fingers fumbled uselessly with your keys. They slipped, catching awkwardly between your hands as you tried to press the small button.

Not now.

Please, not now.

This was the whole point—you hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t given yourself the chance to hesitate, because you knew if you saw him, if he looked at you the way he used to, if he said your name... 

You wouldn’t go.

Your breath came shallow as you tried again, hands shaking now. Behind you, the bike slowed.

“Hey!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds so you could just leave.

He pulled up. You heard the shift of movement as he dismounted, the soft scuff of his shoes against the pavement.

“Hey—” he called again, like nothing in the world was wrong. “You off somewhere?”

You finally unlocked the car, the sound that seemed to echo far too loudly in the street.

“If you needed me to pick something up you should’ve just asked,” he went on, voice warm, slightly breathless from his journey home.

You kept your head down, unable to look at him. 

You heard the shift of his helmet being pulled off, the shake of it as he adjusted his hair, the soft clatter as he leaned the bike carefully against the side of your car.

God. You didn’t want to do this.

You didn’t want to stand here and say the words out loud. You didn’t want to hear him explain or watch him try to fix something that had already slipped too far through your hands. You didn’t want to beg him to tell you what you already knew.

That he’d lost interest.

Or something worse.

“Move, Ry,” you sighed, hand already on the door as you tried to pull it open.

The cold air bit at your skin sharply, but you barely felt it. He made no effort to move. He did the complete opposite, stepping in front of the car, cutting you off entirely, clearly not realising you were trying to do. 

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, his brows pulling together as he took a proper look at you. “It’s freezing out here.”

You almost laughed.

You hadn’t even brought a jumper. Every single one you owned was his.

Soft, worn cotton that still smelled faintly like him, no matter how many times you washed them. You’d stood in front of the drawer earlier, fingers curled around the fabric. You didn’t know if your heart could bear taking them.

So you’d left them behind, left everything back there. 

“Move,” you tried again, stronger this time, your voice shaking despite your best efforts as you stepped forward, attempting to push past him. “Please, I—I need you to move.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to stay in front of you, confusion flickering across his face as your words finally began to register properly.

Something wasn’t right; he could see it now.

“Hey—wait—”

He dipped slightly, crouching just enough to catch your face as you tried to turn away, his head tilting, searching for some sign to tell him what was going through your head.

It was impossible not to see the red rims of your eyes, your breath coming in unevenly despite how still you were trying to hold yourself.

His expression shifted.

Please, don’t do this. 

“…what’s wrong?”

His hands came up without thinking, settling gently on your shoulders like they always did when he was trying to ground you. You shrugged them off, stepping back like his touch burned.

He would never expect you to react that way to him. 

His hands hovered in the air for a second before dropping back down, his fingers flexing, unsure at his sides.

You’d always lean into him.

Always.

“You’re worrying me, sweetheart,” he tried again, shifting his weight. “C’mon—let’s just go upstairs, yeah? We can talk about whatever this is inside. It’s not safe to be out here this late—”

You wanted to, so badly.

You wanted to go upstairs, let him pull you into the warmth of your home, make you tea, talk you through it in that rambling way of his until everything felt manageable again.

You wanted to look into his eyes and believe him.

But for both of your sakes, you couldn’t let that happen. 

You knew the second you stepped back into your shared space, softening even a little, it would be over for you. You’d fold. You’d stay. You’d convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

And you couldn’t do that again. You owed yourself more than that.

“I’m not going upstairs with you,” you said, lifting your head finally, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

Those stupid, pleading blue eyes that had always undone you without effort.

“I’m leaving, Ry,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I—I can’t do this anymore.”

Your words didn’t properly land, hovering somewhere between the two of you. Words he never imagined he would hear. 

His mouth parted like he was about to say something before stopping himself, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to find something that made sense.

Much like you had, for weeks at this point. 

“What—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Why?”

He took a step closer, cautious now he realised how serious you were.

“C’mon,” he said, voice tighter, something creeping into it, panic, maybe, or confusion. “You’re not making any sense. Let’s just—let’s just go inside, okay? We can figure this out—”

“There is nothing to figure out.”

You saw the way he stilled, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his expression flickered again. 

Hurt this time, unmistakable.

“Seriously,” you added, your hands trembling as you gestured weakly toward the side, toward the space you needed him to move from. “My mind’s made up, so if you can—”

Your voice wavered and he caught it.

Of course he fucking did.

It was like a switch flipped behind his eyes, the moment your words faltered. That ever-so-small crack in your composure was enough to make him hope that this was salvageable. He sharpened immediately, though his confusion remained, but it shifted into something more urgent. 

“Hey—no, wait—” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

His voice softened on the last part, trying to steady you.

You shook your head immediately, stepping back again, your heel catching slightly against the curb as you tried to keep distance between you.

“Just—please,” you said, breath uneven now. “Just move, Ry, I don’t—I don’t want to do this like this, I just—”

“Like what?” his words spilt out. “What are you talking about?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily. His eyes kept shifting between your face and the car, like he was trying to piece something together and kept coming up short.

“You’re leaving?” he said again, like saying it slower might make it make sense. “You’re—why would you—what happened?”

What happened? 

Like he had the nerve to even ask. 

A laugh broke out of you, brittle and wrong.

“What happened?” you echoed, your head shaking “Ryland—are you serious?”

He winced, the missing nickname hitting him. 

“I—yeah, I—what do you mean?” he stammered, genuinely lost. “You were fine this morning, I—”

“That’s exactly it,” you cut in. “I’m always fine, right? Everything’s always fine because I don’t say anything and you don’t ask and we just—carry on like nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he said, immediately agreeing, more careful now. “Clearly something is—just tell me what it is.”

Just tell him what it is so he can fix it. 

You shook your head again, your hands coming up as you could physically push the words back down.

“No, I—I can’t—” you started, your breath hitching as it all caught up with you. “I can’t keep pretending like this is—like this is normal, like this is what it’s supposed to feel like—”

“What isn’t normal?” he pressed, trying to follow. “You have to tell me, I can’t—”

“You’re never here anymore!” you burst out, the words breaking loose before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was painful. The confusion on his face faltered as it softened into something sadder, almost edged with apology, even if he didn’t fully understand why.

“What?”

“You’re just—” you gestured helplessly, your hands shaking. “You’re gone, Ry. You’re here, but you’re not here, and I—I don’t even know when that happened, I don’t know when I stopped being part of your life in a way that actually matters—”

“That’s not—” 

“You don’t talk to me anymore,” you pushed on messily. “You don’t look at me properly, you don’t—you don’t see me, and I’ve been standing there just—waiting for you to come back to me and you just—”

“I am here,” he said desperately. “I’m right here, I—”

“No, you’re not.” 

Not in the way he used to be. 

He opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to respond to what was so obvious.

You could see it, see him trying, like he always did. Reaching for something to fix it, to explain, to make it all make sense again. He’d always been good at solving problems. But this felt like something that had slipped too far through his hands to put back together.

This had been breaking for a long time. 

“I’ve just been busy,” he said finally, grabbing the first thing that made sense. “That’s all it is. It’s—it’s work, it’s been—”

“Busy?” you repeated, your voice cracking again. “You’ve been lying.”

His whole body went still, like you’d pulled something tight inside him.

You knew you were right. 

“I—no, I haven’t—” he said too quickly. 

There it was again. 

That instinctive, immediate reach for something untrue, so fast it barely felt like he’d thought about it. You’d let yourself hope that he might fix it. That he might finally say something real enough to pull you back.

But that just cemented it.

He was sticking with the bullshit. 

“You told me you were at the school,” you gritted out, tears finally slipping free despite how hard you’d been holding them back. “You told me you were working late, and I—I called, Ry. I called them.”

His face fell.

“They said the building was locked,” you went on, your voice breaking. “Hours ago.”

“Okay—okay, wait—” he said quickly, hands coming up again, palms out like he was trying to slow everything down. “There’s—there’s a simple explanation for that, I just—”

“What?” you asked. “What explanation?”

What could he possibly say?

“I was—I was there,” he said, nodding like he was trying to convince both of you. “I just—I left, like, right before you called, they must’ve just—missed me, or—”

“Ryland,” you pleaded for him to stop. 

He tried to press on.

“I—stopped at the store,” he added, scrambling now. “On the way back, and I—lost track of time, that’s all, I just—”

You stared at him, and something in your expression must have told him because he stopped. The words fell apart mid-sentence, realising how poorly he was doing. 

Even he wouldn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And he knew you weren’t stupid. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said quietly. It wasn’t even cruel, just a plain observation that he couldn’t even be angry about.

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking away from yours for the first time since he’d gotten there.

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” you said. “You always have been.”

It was true. Last year he’d tried to convince you he hadn’t planned anything for your birthday, doing a terrible job of acting casual while you narrowed your eyes at him. He’d tripped over every word, couldn’t quite meet your gaze, and you’d laughed because it was so obvious, so him. 

Now you weren’t even sure he’d remember the date without being reminded.

The silence stretched again as your mind went somewhere you had been skirting around for weeks. You didn’t want to believe it, but you had to be sure, even if you broke your own heart in the process. 

“Is there—“ you began, trying to swallow the taste of the question back down. “Is there someone else?”

Your voice broke on the last syllable, his head snapping up. 

“What?” his response was immediate, like he was unable to comprehend you asking such a question. 

“Because I don’t understand what else it could be,” you went on, tears falling freely now, your chest heaving with it. “You’re gone all the time, you won’t tell me where you are, you barely touch me anymore, and I—I just need to know if I’m—if I’m just—”

“Hey—no—no, no, no,” he cut in quickly. He couldn’t stop himself when you looked like this. “Sweetheart, no—how could you even—no, I would never—”

He moved without hesitation, closing the space between you, one hand catching your arm just to steady you before the other came up, hovering for a split second at your cheek like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

His fingers were warm against your skin, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye as if he could physically stop the tears.

“I would never do that,” he said urgently. “Not to you, not—no, that’s not—don’t—don’t think that, okay? Please don’t think that.”

His words were so soft, but you were already splintering, and the contrast was too much to bear. Whatever you’d been holding together, whatever thin thread of control you’d been clinging to, snapped completely.

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, your hands coming up to cover your face as your shoulders shook, the sound raw and helpless and completely out of your control.

“Hey—hey—” he panicked now. “Okay—it’s okay, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you into him, unable to stop himself, arms wrapping around you properly this time.

He couldn’t lose you like this.

You didn’t fight him, already lost in his familiar embrace. Your hands clutched at his jacket instead, fingers twisting into the fabric as you cried into him, the sound muffled against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realise it was—I didn’t know you were—”

You shook your head against him, your voice breaking apart between breaths.

“You weren’t there,” you managed, the words barely coherent. “You—you weren’t there and I—I didn’t know how to—how to fix it on my own and I—”

“I know, I know,” he said, his hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there gently, his fingers brushing as he tried to calm you down. “That’s on me, okay? That’s—that’s my fault, I should’ve—”

His voice caught as the guilt started to settle. 

How could he have let it get this bad? 

Was he that blind? 

“I’m here,” he said instead. “I’m here now, okay? I’m right here.”

You cried harder at that. The statement offering you little comfort. He had been here physically, albeit in fragmented pieces, but he wasn’t with you. It was outlined in every late-night and half-finished conversation. 

Your knuckles started to ache as you squeezed his jacket tighter, feeling the damp of your own tears leaving small marks on his lapel. You could feel the erratic rise and fall of his own breathing where your cheek was anchored into his chest, far from his usual steadiness. Instead, it was racing. 

Good. 

It was a bitter thought, but you couldn’t help it. It felt good to have him feel just a fraction of what you were going through. The feeling didn’t last long; you were too tired. Far too worn to sustain any malice right now. 

You let yourself take a deep breath in, trying to steady your breathing. The adrenaline diffusing into exhaustion. The fog in your head cleared as you came back into yourself, making the decision before you even pulled away, shaking your head softly against him. 

“I think—“ you started, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Maybe it’s better if we just… spend tonight apart.”

His whole body went rigid beneath you. Every muscle locked up at once as you barely finished your statement. 

“What?” he sputtered. His face had gone pale beneath the streetlight. “No,” he said again, already shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. No.”

“Ry—”

“No.” He swallowed hard, now blinking fast, trying and failing to get hold of himself. “No, I’m not—I’m not letting you just go somewhere alone when you’re this upset, okay? I’m not doing that.”

We don’t do that. 

The urgency of it made your chest tighten all over again. He looked wrecked now, breathing still uneven, eyes darting over your face.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said weakly; even to your own ears there was no strength in it. “I just… I can’t do this tonight. I can’t stand here and—”

“No, no, you can’t—” He was speaking too fast now, his brain sprinting ahead of his mouth. “Okay, yes, obviously, tonight is—bad, I get that, I do, but you can’t leave like this. You just can’t. Not—not when you think—” He broke off, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not when you think that’s what’s happening.”

You looked away from him, jaw trembling.

“I don’t have it in me to argue with you.”

“Then don’t,” he said, almost pleading now. “Just—just let me try.”

Your throat tightened.

His voice dropped, but no less desperate. “Please,” he said, almost painfully with his sincerity. “Please just come upstairs with me.”

You didn’t answer.

You wanted to. To fold into the shape of him and let him lead you upstairs, but you felt completely wrung out. Heavy with grief and the cold and the too many sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling when he was right there next to you. 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Okay? I will. I promise, I know I’ve been weird, and I know I’ve been gone, and I know this looks terrible—horrific, actually, in retrospect, which is my fault—but it’s not what you think it is. It’s not. You have to—you have to believe me on that part.”

His hands had slid down to your elbows now, holding lightly. His thumb kept twitching against your sleeve.

“I’ll explain all of it,” he said more firmly. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t walk away from me tonight. Please.”

You searched his face, the open panic there. The fear. His mouth was parted slightly, ready to keep pleading if you needed him to. His eyes were frantic, horribly earnest.

He looked nothing like a man who had stopped caring. He looked like a man who had just realised what his silence had cost him.

The fight was draining out of you, leaving a dangerous flicker of hope you did not trust. Your face felt cold from the night and hot from crying. Your chest hurt. Everything hurt.

You gave the smallest nod, one that was barely there. One which he latched onto instantly. His whole expression changed with almost comical speed, relief flashing across his face so fast and so naked it might have been laughable in any other moment. 

“Yeah?” he said, breathless. “Yeah?”

You managed another tiny nod.

You could let him try. 

He perked up at once, scrambling to gather himself. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Yeah, alright. Come on. Come on, let’s just—okay.”

He was moving before he’d even finished speaking. He shrugged off his coat immediately, that caretaking part of him kicking in with no thought at all, and stepped forward to drape it around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him. 

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, already fussing with the collar to pull it closer around you. “God, why didn’t you—no, stupid question, forget I asked.”

Gently but decisively, he took your keys from your unresisting hand. You frowned faintly, too wrung out to stop him, watching through blurred vision as he glanced at you once before he clicked the button.

The car locked with a sharp little chirp. He winced, caught out.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, not sounding sorry in the sense that he regretted it, only sorry that you’d noticed the calculation. “That was—yes, I know. But you were about to leave me in a parking spot, so I think I get one tactical decision.”

Despite everything, despite the ache in your throat and the tears still wet on your cheeks, the line was so desperately, transparently him that something in your expression must have shifted.

“I’m not locking you in,” he said more gently. “I’m just… I need to get you upstairs before you bolt or decide I’m terrible enough to justify vehicular manslaughter. One crisis at a time.”

You chuckled against your better judgment. 

Damn him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, his hand finding yours. And when you didn’t resist, he tightened his hold just a fraction.

At the front door, he let go of your hand only long enough to fumble the key into the lock, missing the first time because his hands were still shaking. He huffed under his breath, corrected, and pushed the door open before immediately turning back to you.

“Go sit down,” he told you. “I’ll make tea, alright?”

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you inside, his hand still hovering at your back. The flat felt wrong now, with you going back on the promise not to return here tonight. 

You moved toward the sofa, lowering yourself down slowly, his jacket still wrapped around you. Behind you, you heard him move into the kitchen. Cupboards opening, shutting. The scrape of something being moved out of the way. The clatter of the kettle being filled, water rushing.

He was nervous; you could hear it in everything he did.

Your hands curled into your lap, fingers picking absently at the skin beside your nail, tugging at it until it stung. You pressed your thumb harder against it, grounding yourself in the sharp pain. You stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, listening to the soft click of the kettle switching on. The sound filled the space, just like old evenings. 

He reappeared with two mugs in his hand, steam curling from both of them, glasses slightly fogged, 

“Sorry,” he started automatically, stepping into the living room. “I couldn’t find your mug, I swear it was—”

You looked up. His words faltered mid-sentence, his eyes drifting from the mugs in his hands to your face.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You were really serious. 

His voice was quiet and your gaze dropped immediately, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment uncomfortable in your chest. You stared down at your hands instead, deciding they were far more bearable to look at.

He shook his head quickly, needing to undo the moment as fast as possible.

“Hey—no, look—it’s fine,” he said, a little too gentle. “It’s—I’m gonna fix it, alright? I’m gonna make it fine.”

You really hoped so.

He crouched slightly as he reached you, setting one of the mugs down on the coffee table before offering the other to you. You took it without looking up, the warmth seeping into your palms.

Then he sat opposite, on the edge of the table. Your knees were almost touching. He rested his elbows on his thighs, one hand still loosely wrapped around his own mug, the other running briefly through his hair again before dropping back down.

Here goes nothing. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “So.”

You lifted your eyes to him slowly, bracing yourself.

“I don’t… really work as a teacher anymore.”

What?

I mean, you knew it wasn’t his first profession, that had been ripped away from him. He told you after a few weeks of dating, the past still sat heavy on his shoulders. But he took a shine to his kids, was protective of them, even found himself finding joy in the small places the classroom offered. 

“…you got fired?” 

It was the only thing you could deduce. 

“No—no, God, no,” he said, startled. “I’m not that terrible.”

You didn’t laugh. He swallowed, nodding once to himself like he’d expected that.

“Right. Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. He set his mug down, both hands coming together loosely between his knees.

“What I’m about to tell you—” He faltered, dragging a hand over his mouth. “It’s not something I’m meant to say. Not to anyone. So I need you to trust me, okay? Just—trust me for a minute.”

Your throat felt too tight to speak, but you nodded.

“Do you know what the Petrova line is?”

You tilted your head, the question so abrupt it threw you slightly.

“…yeah,” you said slowly. “You’ve—you’ve talked about it before.”

He nodded in relief.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I have,” he said, more to himself than to you, like he was trying to reassure himself that there was a logical entry point here. “Right. Good. That’s good.”

How could he not remember?

He was fascinated by it, and mildly concerned. Researching articles and sharing them with you in the evening, or even messaging them to you while you were at work. 

Maybe you weren’t a priority anymore.

He kept going.

“So—okay—the Petrova line,” he said, slipping unconsciously into explanation mode. “Those dots, right? The… the dimming events on the sun? They’re not just random fluctuations. They’re consistent.”

He glanced at you, checking you were following. You nodded faintly.

“They’re… eating it,” he said, the words sounding strange even as he said them. “Not—not like, metaphorically. Literally. Something is consuming solar radiation at the surface level and absorbing it or… something.”

“…huh?”

“I know,” he held up a hand, already anticipating the reaction. “I know how that sounds, okay? I do. But it’s—it’s measurable. The data’s there, it’s been there, we—I just didn’t realise how serious it was.”

His voice was picking up now, like he was explaining something to his class. 

“It’s spreading,” he continued. “Exponentially. And if it keeps going at the rate it is, it—it’s not just a solar anomaly, it’s a—it’s a problem. A big one.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug in your hands.

“…Ryland,” you said quietly. “What are you talking about?”

How did this relate to anything?

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.

“I got… approached,” he said, choosing his words more carefully. “At work. In the school car park.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Approached?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small, humourless breath. “Like—cornered, basically. There were people. Government people. I didn’t—I didn’t know that at the time, obviously, I just thought—” He shook his head. “They knew about an article I wrote years ago. About life not necessarily requiring water to evolve, you remember?”

Like he had to ask. 

You looked at him to continue. 

“I tried to say no,” he added defensively. “I did. I told them I was a teacher, that I wasn’t—I wasn’t the right person, that they should find someone else, but they—”

Something tightened in his expression.

“They didn’t really give me a choice.”

The room felt smaller.

“They think these things—whatever they are—they’re alive,” he went on. “And they can survive on the surface of the sun.”

Your eyes widened as you fully registered his words. 

But… how is that possible?

You didn’t have a PHD in space science or damn astrophysics, but this sounded insane, even to you. 

“And because I have a background in molecular biology and I’ve written about organisms that can survive extreme environments and I am, apparently, just obscure enough to be useful without being politically complicated…” He let out a breathless exhale. “They… recruited me.”

Recruited him.

It was almost unbelievable. He was brilliant—yes—but your cardigan-wearing, plant-watering, middle-school-teaching boyfriend had somehow been snapped up by the government to investigate why the sun is basically dying?

He was right, it did sound insane. 

“…you’re serious?” you said, though it didn’t sound like a question.

He held your gaze.

“I know how it sounds,” he said quietly. “I do. I know it sounds insane.”

He got that right. 

“…you’re saying…” You started, your voice unsteady. “You’ve been—what? Working with the government?”

He nodded once. And you realised, with a sinking, dizzying feeling in your chest. 

He wasn’t lying.

As much as you hated to admit it, the information sank through your chest. You wanted to tear it apart, find a seam and rip, pulling until you could shred it into something easier to understand. 

But it made sense. 

The late nights shrouded in secrecy, all of the distractions. He was stretched thin about something he clearly couldn’t talk about. He’d come home wired, your brain jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but his mind was still buzzing with something far greater than the two of you. 

There was detail in his explanation—so much detail, and it was fast. The intricacies of his story felt unpolished and unrehearsed, just like life was. His lies were never this big; this felt too real to be something he’d constructed just to avoid telling you he didn’t love you anymore. He would never be that cruel. 

It was true, but you didn’t want to think about what that meant for you both. 

Your stomach twisted as you processed, not knowing whether to be angry or terrified. Your grip tightened around the mug as your pulse started to make itself known again, surging back with fresh force. 

“You—“ you began. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

You had an inkling as to why. This was a huge secret, but he still allowed you to think the worst, not noticing how fractured your relationship was becoming. 

“Hey—no, I wanted to,” he told you quickly, slightly relieved you were humouring him. “I tried to tell you. Like—multiple times, actually, I just—”

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair.

“There were NDAs,” he said, the words tight. “Not the kind you sign for, like, a new textbook publisher or whatever, I mean actual—legal, government-level—if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person I could—”

He cut himself off again, jaw tightening.

“They’re… not people you mess around with,” he finished. “They’re the real deal.”

Who the hell has your boyfriend even been talking to?

“These people?” you echoed, incredulous. “Ryland, how do you even know these people are legit?”

“They are,” he said immediately. “They just—are.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know, I know,” he said, frustrated with himself now. “I just—I can’t give you, like, credentials or a LinkedIn profile or—I don’t know—”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly. 

“But they’re real. I promise you they’re real.”

You focused on him through the haze of adrenaline, allowing the noise in your head to go quiet. Mulling his words over and over as he awaited your response. 

It was your turn to look at him now, the man you loved sitting opposite. And if you were being completely honest, he looked wrecked. 

The exhaustion clung to him. There were faint shadows under his eyes that were far darker than they should have been. His hair had grown slightly longer than usual. It fell messily over his forehead, half pushed back and unkempt. His hands were itching at his knees, unable to stay still. Fingers flexing and twitching, wired with adrenaline. 

He was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something. 

Tell him you believe him. 

But in doing so, you’d be admitting that he hadn’t just drifted away from you, he’d been taken to somewhere you couldn’t follow. 

Your throat burned as your emotions scattered. 

He could have told you something—a small thing. Something to stop you from unravelling the way you had, enough to stop you from standing outside with a packed suitcase, ready to leave everything behind. 

You parted your lips as you tried to find a question to ask, a hundred things you could demand of him right now. From the look on his face, he would do them all. 

What mattered most right now? What did you need to hear from him first? 

There was only one thing that circled in your mind, the thing that kept you up at night. The only thing that made this ache so sore. 

Your voice was fragile as you posed the question. 

“…you didn’t just… get bored with me then?”

Ryland looked at you, completely devastated. 

How could you ask him that?

“No.” It was his most immediate response that night.  “Absolutely not.” 

He leaned forward, needing you to hear his words more clearly than ever. 

“That was never—never what this was,” his voice was firm. His chest ached at how fragile you sounded, ached even harder that you had to pose the question. 

He could hardly bear to imagine what must have been going through your head these past weeks. 

“You really thought I—“ he stopped to align the words right. “You really thought I could stop loving you? Just like that?”

The thought sounded unfathomable to him. 

You fell silent, your actions from tonight speaking for themselves. 

You had. He had pushed you to the point where you had. 

He exhaled as your gaze dropped to the mug in your lap; you felt a sense of shame, which he saw immediately. 

“Hey—this is on me,” he quietly told you, shifting forward. “This is completely on me, alright?”

Before you could react, he reached forward and gently took the mug from your hands. His fingers brushed yours without him meaning to, and you found yourself almost itching for them again. He set it down beside his own on the table, deciding to join you on the couch.

“I feel so stupid—” you started.

“Hey—no,” he cut in immediately, his hand finding yours where it rested in your lap. “No. You’re not stupid.”

Far from it in his mind. You were the only person who was, quite frankly, alarmingly smarter than him on most days.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, feather light as they moved.

“If anything, you’re underreacting,” he attempted with humour. “Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t throw something at my head sooner.”

A weak, breathy sound left you. You definitely thought about it. 

“I got in over my head,” he admitted. “And I handled it badly. You deserved better than that.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“A lot better.”

You could feel it in the way he said it, the weight he’d been carrying, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest. This was a conversation that should have happened weeks ago.

“I should’ve trusted you with it,” he went on. “I should’ve—I don’t know.”

His other hand came up then, tentative, brushing lightly along your arm before settling at your elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your throat tightened again. He shifted, body angling toward yours fully now, closing the space without overwhelming you. His hand lifted slowly—giving you time to pull away if you needed to—but when you didn’t, his fingers came to your face, warm against your cheek.

“Hey…” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, coaxing. “Look at me.”

Your eyes met his, wide and a little glassy. And the way he looked at you. 

God.

The love he’d been too wrapped up to show properly for weeks was pouring out of him completely now. Attention back on track to where it should have been all this time.

“I love you,” it was a statement, the honest truth behind all of this. “Do you believe me?”

You had to. 

You paused before nodding softly, still unable to meet his eyes. Your pause was far too long for him, showing him just how far this had fractured. His had been immediate. You had never been hesitant with him before, not when it was this.

He nodded, accepting what he had hoped wouldn’t happen. It was a small dip of his head, careful not to disturb you too much. 

“Okay,” he sighed, defeated.

It wasn’t the okay you wanted. Far from reassurance and steeped in uncertainty. It was an acceptance; it almost sounded like a goodbye. Your fingers tightened slightly in his hand, but he misread it. From where you sat opposite him, all he felt was distance. 

He swallowed, his thumb slowing against your knuckles.

Space. That was what you needed.

And if that was what you needed, then he would, of course, oblige. Even if it ate at his stomach from the inside out. If he’d hurt you this much, if he’d made you doubt something as fundamental as this, then the least he could do now was not crowd you. Not make it worse.

Even if it meant walking away when every part of him was screaming not to.

“Alright.” 

Your brows pulled together faintly, but before you could speak, his hand slipped from yours. The absence of it was immediate. He pushed himself up from the couch, movements controlled, and straightened slightly, like putting physical distance between you might somehow make this easier.

“Hey—” 

He gave a small, almost apologetic shake of his head.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I can—I can come back tomorrow. If you want.”

“Huh?” 

“You want space,” he added, choosing each word so it wouldn’t hurt you more. “Which—yeah. I mean, that’s fair. Completely fair.”

“Ryland—”

“I’ll just—” His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out your car keys—the ones he’d taken earlier—and he stepped toward the table. The small clink as he set them down beside the mugs felt loud.

“You can leave if you want,” he said, glancing at them briefly before looking anywhere but directly at you. “Or stay here. Either’s fine. I’ll, um—”

He faltered.

“I’ll give you some space.”

Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, you could see the way he was reading this, the way he’d twisted your silence into something it wasn’t. You watched it hit him all over again, turning awkwardly as he made space to depart and all you could feel was panic once again. 

No—

It flooded through your chest, hollow and twisting as you watched the man you love walk away from you once again. You only let him take a couple of steps.

“Ry—no, wait—”

You were moving before you even fully registered it, the room tilting for a second as your hand reached out. Your fingers caught the sleeve of his shirt, gripping it just enough to stop him. He turned back to you slowly. You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly on his sleeve, anchoring him there.

“Don’t—,” you said, your voice catching despite your best efforts. “I—I want you to stay.”

Something flickered across his face. 

“Are you sure?”

You nodded your head quickly, stepping closer without thinking, your other hand coming up to fist lightly in the front of his shirt.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you admitted, the truth of it sitting raw in your chest. 

And you didn’t want him to either. You knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d find somewhere last-minute, something overpriced and uncomfortable, tell himself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t sleep, he never did when something was weighing on him, and then tomorrow he’d show up with that careful smile, pretending he was fine so you wouldn’t worry.

“Please don’t—please don’t leave me again.” 

You didn’t give him time to overthink it. Your hand tightened in his shirt, pulling him down just enough. And then you kissed him.

It was everything you hadn’t said, everything that had been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks, all of it crashing into that single moment as your lips met his.

His hand came up to your face instinctively, fingers warm against your cheek as he kissed you back, grounding like he needed to make sure you were doing this. You broke it just enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his.

“Stay,” you whispered, your voice soft but certain. His breath hitched.

“I need you, Ry,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt, keeping him close. “Please.”

And the way he looked at you then,  like you’d just handed him something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

“Okay,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t resignation. 

You were giving him a chance, and he would be an idiot not to take it. 

He leans down to kiss you again, and it’s the kind that makes your head spin. It’s the same kiss that got you to say yes to being his girlfriend, the one that made you feel like a teenager all over again. 

He reaches his hand under your neck to tilt your head up, tasting you once again, guiding you gently with his mouth against yours. 

“Honey…” he breathes against your lips. “We don’t—we don’t have to—“

You weren’t listening to him. 

The night had overwhelmed you completely, more than you knew how to hold. The only thing that made sense now was him—and you needed him close. Needed the weight of him, the warmth of him, something real to hold onto.

“Please,” you ask him, already pawing at his shirt, desperate for him to be close to you. “I need you, Ry—please.”

He groans against your neck, trying to keep up. 

He knew he could do this for you; you were etched into his brain. He knew how to make you breathe his name, how to make you fall apart from his words, his fingers. 

You were practically begging him to hold you, to be near you. He felt it in the way your hands were palming his shoulders, trying to drag him deeper into the flat. 

This he could do for you. 

This was the least he could do for you. 

He dipped his head to your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot you liked. He hums when he hears your soft sigh, continuing until he feels your neck open for him more. He holds you in place as his movements get more precise, feeling his chest soar when he hears the gentle moan pass your lips. 

One palm slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist. 

“Can I?”

It pained him to ask. Usually he listens to your body for confirmation, the way you melt into his touch, but tonight is different. He wants to hear you tell him, remind him that he is the one you want right now, the one who gets to have you like this. 

You nodded, heart hammering. He eased his coat off your shoulders first, letting it pool behind you on the floor, then hooked his fingers under the edge of your shirt. He didn’t yank it up; he peeled it away tenderly, lips following the path his hands made—crouching almost in worship. 

He kissed the newly exposed skin of your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your bra as he tugged the fabric over your head. Gently, he ushered you back toward the couch, far too desperate to make the small journey to the bedroom. 

His hands held your hips as he knelt between your thighs, gazing up at you with an expression that could only be described as awestruck. He had seen many things in his life, but none quite as beautiful as you looking at him like this. Soft-lids, flushed cheeks. 

He wasn’t religious, but at times like this, he believed he could be. 

He dragged the zipper down with agonising slowness, then hooked his fingers into the denim and your underwear at the same time, easing them down your thighs together. Every brush of his knuckles against your skin made you shiver, and he noticed leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your knee as he freed one leg, then the other.

When you were finally bare, he sat back again. His breath hitched visibly. 

“God,” he breathed when he saw you, sitting back on his heels just enough to take you in. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles. 

How could he forget this? 

You were practically shivering with anticipation, lips parted as you ached for his touch. It had been weeks at this point, the strain between his own legs reminding him. How he had neglected you, both of you. 

Tonight, he was going to fix this. Fix everything. 

He leaned upward, allowing his hands to finally wander. He groaned, low and genuine. The first slow glide of his fingertips through your folds made you both gasp. You were soaked, slick heat coating his skin instantly, and you because the touch was so light, so careful, so exactly right. He circled your clit once, feather-soft, and your breath caught sharply.

He finally sank one finger inside you, slow and deep, and the stretch was perfect—familiar, warm, the slight callus on his knuckle dragging just right. You arched with a soft cry, and he hummed in approval, curling the digit gently like he was testing the waters even though he already knew exactly what you needed.

Your head fell back against the couch cushions, hips rocking down to meet his hand as the pleasure built in slow, syrupy waves. He was everywhere—mouth pressing kisses to your collarbone—while his fingers worked you open. He wasn’t out of practice at all; every twist, every curl was deliberate.

“Ry—fuck,” you gasped when he crooked his fingers just right, brushing that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine.

His name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed as your face scrunched. “There we go.”

You flushed under the weight of his praise, legs parting to allow him even closer, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him closer, needed him inside of you. It had been too long; he owed you that much. 

“Ry—“ you breathed out and he stopped his movements instantly. 

“What is it?” he asked gently, lips still running along your jaw. “Talk to me.”

Tell him what you need.

“Want more,” you sighed as your hands wandered lower, gently tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He got the message, willing to give you exactly what you wanted tonight. 

He pulled back to yank his shirt over his head in one quick motion. The sight of him—bare chest, the faint trail of hair leading down, the way his muscles shifted under his skin—made heat pool low in your belly all over again. 

You missed that sight.

You were getting impatient, after weeks of torment, leaning forward to reach the button on his jeans. He couldn’t help but let a small chuckle escape his chest at your eagerness. 

“Easy,” his hands came to cover yours. “We have all night.”

You huffed at his response and he sped up his movements, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go, kicking them off toward the end of the couch. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip, and he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice, eyes never leaving your face as he sucked in a breath. 

Gently, he stood, soft as he lay you down. One hand holding the back of your head, the other on your hip, angling you exactly where he could look after you. Where he could take care of you properly. 

Instinctively, your legs sprang up to wrap around his hips, automatically aligning his with yours as his cock strains against you. 

“Baby—“ he groans as his eyes flutter closed, buring his face in your neck as you rock gently against him, the friction sending small jolts through his body. 

“Hey,” he shakes his head as he mumbles. “Gotta take it slow, alright?”

It’s been so long, and he’d be damned if he ended up hurting you like this. 

“Don’t wanna,” you plead as you paw at him. “I can take it—promise.”

A low, broken sound rumbled in his throat when the words left your mouth. God, you sounded so sweet beneath him. His beautiful girl begging so gently for him, in a tone he far from deserved. 

He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, and he hissed at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a second. 

“Ah—“ He rocked his hips forward slowly, sliding the length of himself along your pussy without pushing in yet, coating himself in you while his hands flexed on either side of your head. Every slow glide bumped against your clit and you whimpered, hips jerking up to chase the friction.

“Please, Ry—” 

“I know,” he coos. “I know.” 

He just needs to get you there gently, the way he knows you like.

“You ready f’me?” he asks gently, satisfied with the pool of slick between your folds. His hand drifts lazily down as he circles your clit, waiting for your answer. 

You nod slowly as you recline on the armrest, opening yourself fully to him. He eases himself in steadily, so thick you felt every inch stretching you open. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, and he let out the most broken, relieved sound you’d ever heard from him.

It really had been that long. 

“That’s good?” he breathes, needing to know. 

“Yes,” you mewl in response. 

His mouth was on yours again before you’d even fully caught your breath, the kiss slower this time. It made you whimper into him. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, nails gripping as you pulled him close, the way you knew drove him wild.

His hips faltered as he let out a broken groan into your neck, trying to keep his composure. 

“—sweetheart,” he pants, as he steadies himself with a chuckle. “M’not gonna last long if you do that.”

He pulled back and he looked at you, something pleading in his gaze. It was your turn to smile up at him, lips curling ever so slightly as you leaned up to his lips. 

“Then you better hurry up, Ry,” you tease. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

And he intended to do it properly.

He continued with a new pace, your fingers still trailing. It was deeper now, with one hand sliding under your knee to hitch your leg higher around his waist so he could angle even better. The new position made you cry out, back arching clean off the couch, and he groaned in response.

You had never looked more beautiful, so soft under his weight. You still trusted him completely, even after he left you. 

After you nearly left him. 

His jaw tightened as his hips faltered at the thought before he stopped himself. You felt his hands guide your own up beside your head, lacing your fingers as he folds you deeper into the couch cushions, desperate to hear your moans get louder against his ear. 

“Feel good, honey?” he breathed. “C’mon, let me hear you.”

Let him hear he was doing it right. He had to be. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

God, he hopes so. 

Far too long he had left you alone, not taking care of you in the way he should. He cursed himself for almost letting you slip between his fingers, cursed himself when he had this to come home to every night. 

He’d been such an idiot. 

It was his job to take care of you. To make sure you felt wanted, seen, to make sure you felt good. 

“Haven’t been good to you,” he admits as his voice breaks. “Not nearly enough—god—“

You whined under him, letting him know he was hitting your sweetspot as your chest brushed against his own. 

Just like that. 

He needed to see this, needed to give you this, to know that he could still make you feel good. 

That you still loved him. 

You were losing it under him, every thrust dragging pleasure through you in heavy waves, the emotional weight of his words mixing with the physical until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from how full you felt, how desperately loved.

“Ry—Ry, I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips meeting his on every stroke now, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the wet sounds of him moving inside you.

“You can,” he promised, voice cracking as he thrust harder, chasing the same edge you were on. “Yes, you can, baby, you’re almost there—can feel it—so deep, Christ—“

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again in tight, perfect circles, and the added stimulation shattered you. 

“That’s it—” he groaned, hips stuttering but not stopping, fucking you through it with those same devoted strokes. “There you go—“

Your orgasm crashed over you, vision whiting out as you clenched around him, moaning his name like a prayer. He slowed just enough to let you breathe, kissing you messily, tongues sliding together while he kept moving in shallow thrusts, drawing it out.

When your tremors finally eased, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and adoring, before pulling out.

“You with me?” he asked, voice soft even as sweat beaded on his forehead. You nodded, wrecked and glowing, and tugged him back down into another kiss.

“Mm,” you nodded, against his lips. 

He smiled, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers careful, as they tucked a loose strand behind your ear. Finally, for the first time this evening, feeling close to you once more. 

He lingered there for a moment, hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin. You hadn’t pulled away. You were letting him be close again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I’ve said it, but… I’m really, really sorry.”

You watched him for a second. The panic from earlier had subsided, lost in the haze. Your hand came up to cover his where it rested against your face, holding it there.

“I forgive you.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah,” you repeated. 

Oh, thank God.

He let out an exhausted but satisfied laugh. How he managed to salvage this, he didn’t know, but what he did know, he was damn lucky. 

“But—” you began. “If you ever get pulled into something like that again,” you said, holding his gaze, “maybe don’t just… disappear on me and hope for the best?”

He winced. Just a little.

“Yeah. Bad strategy.”

“At least keep me in the loop,” you added, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me everything if you can’t. But… don’t shut me out like that.”

That was more than fair.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Your brow lifted slightly.

“Can you?”

He let out a breathy laugh, the tension in him easing just enough to let a bit of that familiar energy back through.

“Right—yes. Sorry,” he said, straightening slightly. “If I am ever, hypothetically, recruited into another deeply questionable, government-adjacent science situation—”

You huffed.

“—I will,” he continued, softer now, more sincere, “tell you. Or at the very least… not vanish in the process.”

You smiled properly then.

“Good.”

He nodded, a little more firmly this time, already planning on how he was going to make this right.

Not just tonight, tonight wasn’t nearly enough.

His mind was already moving ahead of him, piecing it together the way it always did, except this time it wasn’t equations or variables—it was you. What you liked. What you needed. All the ways he could show up better.

Tomorrow, for a start. He could take the day off. He would take the day off.

Stratt could wait. The sun—well, the sun had its issues, but it could manage one more day. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, there were more important things to fix.

A few days, maybe.

As long as it took.

Slow mornings. Proper meals. Being here fully, the way he should have been all along.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, softer this time, almost absent as the thought settled into certainty.

He was going to make this up to you. The way you deserved.

He couldn't wait for you to see it yourself.

a/n: sorry this is late !! things have been hectic on my end (may or may not have been head-hunted to be the head chef of a new fine dining restaurant omg i have the meeting on tuesday!!!) and i still feel super rusty with writing

ive literally just started the book so please excuse any inaccurate plot timeline, hopefully i shall get some more inspo later on as i do really want to write a full series for this thing

as always, let me know what you think ! reqs are open and this has to be the nicest fandom i've ever joined, you all are so lovely <3

[drabblesandsnippets]

Rewrite the Narrative

summary: (5k - it got away from me, ok? lol) insecure reader x Bucky who's fucking feral for her (thank you to the lovely anon who requested this 🩶) tw: fluff, enthusiastic consent, a lot of smut and Bucky talking you through it

Bucky had spent most of his life under darkness. Kept in the shadows like a secret.

So when he realized that's where you preferred to hide - in the same place that nearly destroyed him - he did the only thing he could.

He reached in and pulled you out. Used his skills to stoke confidence instead of fear.

Intimacy had always felt like a stranger to you. Something you couldn't quite grasp, even alone, no matter how hard you tried. Lights off and under covers not nearly enough to quiet your mind and just feel. To stop thinking about all the ways you might be too much. Or, not enough.

By the time you met Bucky, you were already convinced it just wasn't in the cards for you. Destined to spend the rest of your life always wondering 'what if.' Constantly reviewing the endless list of things you probably needed change about yourself.

And then he walked into your life and had the nerve to offer you the most dangerous thing of all.

Hope.

It started small. Slow. Two people learning how to trust again. How to be present. How to want without worrying about doing the wrong thing.

Bucky seemed to catch on much quicker. Kisses growing confident, words spilling out unchecked during heated moments. But never pushing. Always content with whatever pace you seemed comfortable with.

Inside you've been dying for more. More than just the heavy make-out sessions you'd find yourselves in. His body pressing you into the couch cushions, thigh slotted between yours, careful hands roaming over frustrating layers of clothing.

The words always seemed to die before they could ever fully form. Pleas for more getting lost in the ruminating thoughts that would inevitably take root. A constant battle of being silenced by your own insecurities until one day - suddenly - Bucky manages to coax it out of you.

"God, sweetheart," he groans against your neck, hips rocking gently. "Feel so good." One hand grips your thigh, squeezing the generous give of it. "So soft."

Your shuddering moan only seems to set him off more. Fingers readjusting, sliding higher, easily finding that spot on the back of your thigh that elicits some of the most needy noises you've ever made.

"Yeah?" he pants, kisses following a trail back to your lips, tongue delving deep. Teeth clashing in a frenzy that leaves you dizzy. Grasping at him, shirt bunched between your fingers, body seeking more friction.

It's the harsh gasp of his name that breaks the spell. Mouths reluctantly separating so he can check in. Gaze sweeping over your fluttering lashes, the heat radiating off your skin, your perfect, swollen lips parted in an effort to take in more oxygen.

"Doin' so good for me," he murmurs, pulse stuttering at the effect the simple praise has on you. Thighs tensing. Back arching. Another shuddering gasp that almost makes him forget he's a gentleman.

Dropping his head again, he noses along your jaw to breathe you in. His firm grip on your thigh encouraging you to keep moving. To keep taking. To stop worrying that he's thinking about anything other than how perfect you fit against him.

"Swear you were made just for me."

He says it with such conviction - such awe - that it's impossible not to believe it. To not let it sink deep and twist around all the ugly fears usually holding you back. Making room for one single thought.

"Please."

Such a simple word.

And yet, it has Bucky's brain short-circuiting. Cock twitching, his strained erection digging into your thigh. Leaving no doubt what you're doing to him.

"Please what, sweet girl?" he breathes, restraint warring with desire.

A pathetic whimper bubbles up, hands dropping to the cushions. Just long enough for him to start suckling a bruise over your pulse, wet tongue pulling your focus. Your grip immediately returns to his waist, nails digging in through the cotton. Eliciting a growl that has you once again forgetting about everything but him.

"What do you need, hmm?" Soft words muttered against your throat, his sure hand hitching a millimeter higher. Testing the waters without throwing you off balance. "Need me to touch more of you? Make you feel good?"

Heavy panting answers him. Your thigh inching up his side, letting him settle deeper against you. Letting him feel how fucking warm you already are.

"Christ."

His sharp inhale unlocks something inside of you. Giving way to a newfound confidence that has you taking a step all on your own, fingers dipping underneath the hem of his shirt, seeking out his feverish skin.

"Shit," he hisses, body locking up, weight dropping to his vibranium forearm, resisting the urge to rut against you like some animal in heat. Muffled laughter follows, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he apologizes, "was almost over before we even got started."

Warmth settles low in your belly, electricity radiating out from where he's grinding against you. Your hips setting the pace without you even realizing it.

It's never been like this for you. Not just the bursts of pleasure, but how he's able to get you to relax. To breathe. To just fucking feel for once in your life.

"Yes." It almost comes out as a sob. Your palms sliding over the strong muscles of his back, each flex grounding you deeper in the moment. "Please."

A slow shift and he's suddenly there. Flush against you. The fly of his jeans providing exquisite friction that has your legs squeezing his hips.

"Oh god," you gasp, a tremor running through you, limbs clinging to him like you're on the verge of losing yourself.

"Shhh," Bucky soothes, wasting no time in pulling you back from the brink, "open those pretty eyes for me."

The moment you do, he's leaning over you, intense gaze holding you hostage, taking you in like you're a work of art.

"There you are," he smiles, drawing out more needy gasps, your hips starting to find a quicker rhythm. "Love watching you... this little scrunch right here -" a kiss to the bridge of your nose, "when it starts to feel really good."

A deliberate roll of his hips and he kisses the spot again, grinning against your skin. Beard tickling your nose, a soft giggle pouring out of you like it's second nature.

"Already addicted to you, sweetheart, ya know that?"

Your answering moan has him reaching for your thigh, hooking it higher up his waist, opening you up until your crying out for him again.

"God, you're perfect," he groans, palm cradling the back of your skull to keep you looking up at him. Forcing you to rewrite your entire narrative. "So damn responsive for me."

You can feel it. The heat, the pressure, the hard line of his erection coaxing you to heights you've never experienced. Panties growing damp. Nipples pebbling inside your bra. An overwhelming ache for more.

"Please," as if it's the only word in your vocabulary. Nails leaving pink trails down his back, your other hand reaching down to grab his ass, using it for leverage to chase the pleasure coursing through you.

All because he hasn't taken his eyes off you. Showing you, clear as day, how fucking turned on he is. Just from seeing you like this.

So when you sense the shift - his breathing turning harsh, the tension building in his muscles, the way he keeps saying your name like it's the only thing he remembers - you're finally capable of asking for what you want.

"Please, I... can we- can we go to bed?"

Bucky'd throw you over his damn shoulder if he wasn't worried about scaring you off.

Instead, he takes his time. Kisses you nice and slow, easing you up so you're sitting for him. Giving you a chance to change your mind once you're no longer clouded by the heat spreading between you.

There's no second guessing this. No pausing. You just reach for his hand and allow him to pull you up, his steady feet guiding you towards the bedroom. Assuring gaze carrying you until you're both standing at the side of the bed. The low light of the lamp hiding nothing from either of you.

"Can I take this off-," he starts to ask, hands resting on your hips, fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt.

"Can we turn off the light-," you ask at the same time, your head turned towards the offending source.

Shy laughter vibrates against his chest where you bury your face, his arms banding around you, his warm chuckle shaking you both.

And then the moment threatens to turn sour, Bucky placing a kiss on the top of your head with a murmured, "tryin' not to hide in the shadows anymore."

It shouldn't shock you. Shouldn't freeze you in place. Shouldn't have you tensing in his arms like he's done something wrong.

"Sorry." The reflexive apology tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's the only olive branch that makes sense.

"Hey." That soothing tone again that has you melting, his hands coming up to frame your face, flesh and metal holding you like you're something precious. "None o' that. We don't gotta do anything, okay? Could just lay here, if you wanted."

Your fingers encircle his wrists, the contrast reminding you of everything he's been through. What he's capable of. How incredibly safe you are in his arms.

You start with the slow shake of your head, then you're offering him, "I'm just... scared. I don't... I'm not good at... this. At... being seen."

"Yeah, you are."

The words cut through the haze, a confused laugh passing between you before you're shaking your head again. Ready to prove him wrong.

"You are," he grins, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his bent knees. "You don't think you are. You've somehow convinced yourself you're incapable of it."

It's not criticism. Or a complaint. Just an observation that he's bringing into the light.

Thumb tracing the seam of your lips, he tilts his head, refusing to let you drop his gaze. "But you like it. You want me to see you. Want me to prove you wrong."

You swallow the lump forming, words getting lost in the process, your focus flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Trying to figure out where to go from here. How to-

"Ya gotta stop thinkin' so much, sweetheart," he grins, hands sliding around your hips, pulling you even closer. Cutting off your response with a teasing kiss. "Not expecting miracles, here. Just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

It's an impossible task actually - stop thinking so much - but trusting Bucky? That comes easy.

"Yeah," you nod, hands toying with the cuffs of his sleeve, thumbs stroking his biceps. "Might still make it awkward."

"Awkward I can do," he promises with a playful smile, fingers starting to guide your shirt up. "Hiding's what scares me."

His confession catches you off guard, knees threatening to buckle, the vulnerability in his voice leaving you breathless.

"Know it makes you feel safe," he continues, eyes darkening when your shirt rides up just enough to give him access to the soft skin above the waistband of your pants. "Wanna figure out how to make you feel safe with me. Like this."

Each word dismantling another layer of armor until you're trembling in his arms, skin prickling with excitement, arousal building from the sheer thought of being taken care of.

"Can I try?" he asks, hands moving up along the curve of your waist, shirt bunching higher until cool air meets heated flesh.

He doesn't demand any more of you. He just sits there, looking up, patient as the day is long. Waiting for you to decide if this is something you're ready for.

If not-

"Yeah."

This time it resembles an actual syllable instead of a gust of air. The effort sending heat licking up Bucky's spine. Spurring him on to help you take the first leap, he rises to his full height the same time he gently instructs you to lift your arms. Shedding you of the material in one careful swoop, leaving no time for you to get lost in the tempting darkness.

"All you gotta do is stay right here with me," he reminds you, your shirt tossed onto the dresser behind you.

Then he's looking at you, hungry gaze taking in the swell of your breasts, cleavage on display, the delicate trim of your bra making him have to remind himself to behave.

For now, anyway.

When he finds you looking down too, he steps closer, catching your attention with a playful, "Knew I was lucky. Didn't realize how lucky until just now."

You forget how to breathe again when his hand makes contact with your bare waist, thumb resting just below dangerous territory.

"What else you got hidin' under there, doll?"

The question cuts through the noise starting to surface, an appreciative laugh getting swallowed when you take the initiative to kiss him. Arms draped over his shoulders, fingers combing through his hair, the tip of your tongue teasing along his parted lips.

That's all it takes for Bucky to take matters into his own hands. Literally. Palms effortlessly scooping you up, wrapping your legs around his waist before you can overthink it. He doesn't even turn towards the bed yet.

He just stands there, kissing you like his life depends on it. The solid weight of you igniting filthy scenarios he's desperate to act out with you.

By the time he has you on the bed, writhing underneath him, your shirt still the only barrier that's been removed, you've become someone you don't even recognize.

Desperate and needy. Holding onto him while he takes you apart.

His mouth leaving a trail of messy kisses down your throat, across your collarbones, tongue dipping between your breasts until your arching up. Offering yourself up to him, leaving him no choice but to devour you.

Wet heat closing over your nipple through the thin barrier of your bra, sending sparks straight to your clit. Your hips finding that rhythm again, grinding against his jeans until you forget that you never knew how to do this.

It doesn't even register once his hands slip underneath you, fingers unhooking your bra with ease that belies his recent experience. Once it's slipping free, he's kissing you again, distracting you with growling praise of, "so goddamn perfect," and "can't believe you're mine," and "love you so much."

Until you're dizzy again. Lost in the sea of sensation and intimacy. Brain quieting long enough for you to reach for his shirt, silently begging him to join you. To feel his skin against yours. Hard planes meeting soft curves that have you both moaning.

Then he's back to giving your nipples more attention, large hands cupping your breasts, fingers tugging at one neglected bud before switching sides. Lips and teeth working them into stiff peaks. All the while working you higher and higher with consistent pressure between your thighs.

Making you believe that something life-altering is coming.

Because it is.

Just, not yet.

When he pulls back, one hand slipping between your bodies to start working you free of your pants, the whine that erupts has your hands scrambling, covering your face to avoid Bucky's reaction. As if it'd be anything other than devoted amusement.

Smug satisfaction that he's able to bring out those kinds of noises even through layers of clothing. It leaves no doubt that this is headed exactly where he thinks it is.

As long as he can help keep you anchored.

"Gonna ask for a favor," he says, leaning in kiss the corner of your mouth. "If things get too loud up here," another kiss to your temple, "just let me know." Fingers hook into your waistband, pausing long enough to add, "doesn't even gotta be words, sweetheart. Could tap me. Get my attention if I don't notice, okay?"

He probably will. Always does. But it gives you an out. A way to break the tension before it can shatter the connection.

It doesn't take long. Once he's helping you wiggle out of your pants, the clumsy movement drawing attention to the parts you long to hide, you're reaching out. Trembling fingers brushing his shoulder.

He's already pausing, your pants pushed down to your knees, Bucky refusing to let the swirling thoughts take hold.

"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning in to press a deliberate kiss to your belly. Beard tickling along your side until your squirming for him, a beautiful giggle breaking free. Your pants getting kicked off in a haste to pull him closer.

Rough jeans meeting the thin cotton barrier of your soaked underwear, his hard erection trapped between you, begging for relief. He ignores it in favor of watching you lose yourself to the pleasure.

Head thrown back, eyes fluttering, nails digging into his skin every time he reminds you he's exactly where he wants to be. Heated groans of, "didn't think it could feel this good," and "you're so hot, sweetheart," and "can fucking smell you, wanna taste you so bad."

It should throw you for a loop. Should send you fleeing under the covers. But all it does is make you whine. Pussy pulsing, a gush of arousal that's sure to leave a wet spot on his pants.

"That a yes?" It comes out more desperate than he intends, fingers cupping your jaw, thumb guiding your chin down so he can lock eyes with you. Needing the verbal confirmation this time. "Want me to taste you? Eat your pretty pussy?"

"Oh god." Another whine. Eyes snapping closed. Thighs gripping him tight as your entire body reacts as if you've been electrified.

The growl he makes against your neck, teeth nipping at your dewy skin, has you confessing in record time. Gasping pleas of, "Yes... want that... please, oh my god."

"Fuck," Bucky grunts, forgetting himself for a moment as he thrusts against you, the fly of his jeans catching on your swollen clit, making you keen. Making the pleasure spike until you're begging for him to take pity on you.

It takes everything in him not to give in. Not to slide down and lick you clean, have your thighs wrapped around his ears as you scream his name.

Hips maintaining the direct pressure you seem to crave, he catches your gaze again, offering you that same smile that got you to agree to go on that first date.

"Same rules apply, sweet girl," he reminds you, nose kissing yours. "You let me know if anything doesn't feel good. However you can." A mischievous smile ticking up the corner of his mouth, "Otherwise, all you gotta do is lay here, okay?"

No expectations. No need for performance or overthinking. Just two people in love, exploring. Learning each other.

Bucky only moves once you fully relax, hands mapping your body as he trails kisses down your sternum. Tongue poking out to tease the side of your breast before dipping lower. Open mouth kisses across your tummy while the pads of his fingers tease along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

Giving you no relief to the ache building inside of you. But at least he's all you're thinking about. How good it feels. How much you need him to just tear your fucking panties off so he can make good on his promise.

Watching him have to unzip his jeans and reach in to adjust himself only sets more fire to your veins, nails digging into his shoulder while you tug at his hair.

"Fuck. Please, I can't..."

"Okay," he soothes, smiling against your skin, fingers sliding to catch the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down until you're completely bare for him. The scent of you hitting him like a tidal wave. Making his mouth water, his trembling hands coaxing your knees back, spreading you open.

"Bucky," you breathe, hands resting on the curve of your stomach, itching to hide yourself from his intense gaze.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, holy shit," he gasps, pupils blown, palms inching closer, thumbs meeting the slick heat coating your skin. "Jesus, you're so wet for me, baby."

That's all it takes, apparently. Some teasing, some filthy praise, and you're resting back against the pillows, thighs spread, hips already moving towards his mouth. Your hand never loosening its grip on his hair the moment he makes contact.

Lips and tongue leaving a wet trail along your thigh until his nose bumps your swollen pussy, the taste of you exploding on his tongue. Your scent filling his lungs. Making him never want come up for air.

"Knew you'd taste good, but fuckin' hell, sweetheart."

Nearly coming right then and there.

Tongue lapping at your folds, collecting more of your wetness, thumbs keeping you spread so he can drink you down. Never once letting you start to doubt this is anything other than worship.

For once in your life, time loses all meaning. Zero thoughts other than how much Bucky is enjoying this. Allowing you to focus on his mouth finding your clit, tongue swirling, groans vibrating that have you seeing stars.

"Like that," you manage between gasping breaths, sweat starting to collect between your breasts, your free hand wrapped around your ankle. Helping to keep you exactly where he wants you.

Where you're more than happy to be.

The pressure building again. Sharp zaps of pleasure radiating out from your clit. Juices drenching his beard. Your greedy walls pulsing around nothing. Aching to be filled.

"Oh god, fuck me," you plead, toes curling. "Please - please, fuck me."

Your demand for more is met with the pad of his finger breaching your entrance, slick digit slipping in without any resistance, knuckles curling to make you grind against his mouth.

Encouraging you to chase your pleasure, another finger stretching you open when your legs starts to quiver around his head. His hips humping the air while he devours you. The sounds you're making going straight to his leaking dick. Steel-hard and leaving a mess because he can't get enough of you.

You're almost there. Teetering on the edge of something attainable, eyelids shut tight, dry mouth left open in a permanent O, muscles starting to protest from exertion.

Reminding you how long you've been like this. While he's still-

Harder suction has you crying out, vibranium arm pinning your thigh to the mattress, your other dropping to mirror the relaxed pose. Heels digging into the covers so you can fuck yourself. Use his mouth to make yourself come. His fingers never ceasing their relentless assault, your fluttering walls starting to tighten.

"Oh sh- I'm gon- gonna - don't- fuck- fuck- fuck - don't stop, please- don't fucking stop, please."

Bucky couldn't even if he wanted to. He's too far gone. Lost in his new favorite place. Where he intends to spend as much fucking time as you'll let him.

Especially if this is where it leads. To you coming all over his face, pussy trying to milk his fingers, the hoarse scream of his name making him spill his load like some green cadet.

He doesn't stop until you're tugging at his hair, sobbing from overload, his fingers continuing to draw several more shuddering gasps before he finally relents. Letting you breathe, kissing his way back up until he's wrapping his arms around your shaking body.

Welcoming the onslaught of emotions sweeping you under.

"Shh, I've got you," he promises, soothing you with tender caresses along your sweaty back. "Did so good for me." Grazes of his lips over your jaw. "So proud of you. Takin' what you needed. Lettin' me love you like that."

Slowly bringing you back down to earth.

"Holy shit." The first words you're capable of, followed by tearful laughter. And endless admiration. "Can't believe you just did that."

Bucky's breath fans over your face, his laughter meeting with yours during a lingering kiss.

"We did that," he counters, fingertips stroking lower, tracing the swell of your ass. "You did that. And it was so fucking hot."

A squealing laugh erupts when he grabs a handful of your asscheek, rolling over until you're sprawled across him. Nipples scraping against his chest, thigh draped over his, one confident hand following an invisible trail to his open fly.

"Made a mess," he warns, abs clenching under your teasing touch, cock already twitching back to life.

"Should I stop?"

A hint of playfulness that has him grinning against your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth in answer. Hips arching towards your hand. Silently encouraging you to keep exploring.

The boldness wavers when your hand reaches his underwear, fingers hooking in the waistband to tug them down, only to realize you've reached the awkward one-handed stage. Your other elbow digging into the mattress to keep most of your weight off of him.

"You're overthinkin' again," he teases, whispering the words like a secret. "How 'bout you lay back for me? Let me do all the work?"

"Pretty sure you just did," you whisper back, hand stalling at his fly.

Soft laughter fills the space between you, Bucky's nose nudging yours, encouraging you to look at him, "So? Make me earn it, sweet girl."

Like he's craving it.

Pillow back under your head and his gaze stays targeted on you. Pants and underwear getting pushed down, clumsy attempts knocking him over before he's surging upright with a sheepish grin, the material finally getting kicked off his feet.

Your own relaxed laughter fades as soon as you lay eyes on him. Thick and heavy, growing by the second, leaving you torn between wanting him in your mouth and your pussy. Tongue peaking out to wet dry lips, thighs opening wider to invite him in. Unabashedly giving him the final choice.

It's no contest.

The thought of having your lips wrapped around him has a pearl of pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock, but it's the thought of sinking into you - feeling your walls squeeze him when you come again - that turns him rock-hard. Balls drawing up tight as he shuffles forward.

Resisting the urge to sink into you - a super-human fucking feat, given the tilt of your hips - Bucky places both hands to the mattress, right next to your head, effectively caging you in, pelvis flush against yours, the engorged head of his cock rocking against your clit. Creating a lewd, schlick sound.

Waiting until your fluttering lashes open to meet his gaze, he leans close, stilling your quick nod with a growly reminder, "Gonna give you whatever you need." Body aligning with yours, thick head nudging your entrance, he pauses again. Heavy breaths mixing with yours. "All you gotta do is lay there and take it."

The first exquisite stretch cuts off your needy whine. The uncontrolled sound morphing into a keening sob that wracks your whole body. Nails digging into his back, heels flexing towards the ceiling, his cock bottoming out to steal your last breath.

"Oh fuck me," he groans, forehead dropping to your chest, velvet walls pulsing around him, trying to turn him into a liar. Threatening to end this before he can make good on his word. "Gonna need a second."

His breathless confession has the opposite effect of what he's probably hoping for. Back arching, pussy squeezing his cock, nipples seeking out his talented mouth.

"Doll," he growls, body meeting yours in a slap of heated flesh, hips setting the pace you're begging for. Lips close around the aching bud, teeth worrying the sensitive tip, suction soothing the sting every time his cock hits that spot inside of you.

Driving you higher and higher up the bed until his hand shoots out, palm nearly cracking the headboard to protect your head from hitting the wood.

"Ain't gonna last," he grunts, letting your nipple go with a filthy pop. Sitting back to get a better look, eyes roaming from your bouncing tits to his cock disappearing over and over into your tight heat. "Fuck, baby, tell me what you need."

It hits like lightning, a burst of pleasure, a roll of your hips, and then a flash of insecurity. Stomach rolls on full display, thick thighs shaking with each hard thrust.

"Uh uh," he pants, "eyes on me."

Metal hand securing a thigh, the other gripping your soft belly, his twitching cock and gaping mouth all the evidence you need to believe his next rush of praise.

"Hottest fucking thing I've ever seen, holy shit."

Vibranium thumb finds your clit, cool metal warming under the slick, swollen heat, metal starting to vibrate as he picks up the pace. Finding the perfect rhythm you need to start strangling his cock.

"That's it," he tells you, fingers warpped around your waist for leverage, "just let me fuck you. Gonna make you come all over you me, baby."

There's no doubt this time. An exhilarated laugh and you're throwing your head back, once again lost to the pleasure. Bucky fucking every single thought out of you. Leaving you breathless and whining, the intensity building until it hits you like a tsunami.

Wetness gushing around him, triggering his own orgasm, whiting out his vision as he falls on top of you, careful of pressing too hard against your belly, cock filling you up with several more sloppy thrusts. Prolonging the aftershocks until you're both spent, limbs trembling, words reduced to incoherent gasps.

Tears you don't even remember crying track down your temples, Bucky kissing them away once he finds them there, tasting sweat and salt and you.

"Love you," he breathes, pulse thundering in his ears, super-soldier serum having met it's match.

"Love you," you manage, despite being barely conscious, nails scratching lazy patterns down his back, bodies still humming.

Eventually, ears tuned to your steady heartbeat and slowing breaths, he shifts his weight to avoid crushing you, rolling you both over, his softening cock slipping out, severing the precious connection. Your twin moans from the loss creating more laughter. Lightness. A bridge back to reality. Sweaty bodies sticking together. Cum leaking from your sore (satisfied) pussy.

"Gonna get you cleaned up," he announces, hand holding yours against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "Right after I remember how to walk." Fingers tracing the soft curve of your back as you snuggle into him.

"You're on your own there," you mumble, "gonna have to carry me everywhere."

A tease that you'd never make before settles deep in his chest. Emotion tightening his throat.

Bucky fights through it, inhaling deeply, watching the way your heavy lids flutter during the exhale. "You got it, sweetheart. Your very own chauffeur service. Ready to spoil you rotten."

Sealing the vow with a soft brush of his lips to your forehead. Wondering how long it's gonna be until you're strutting around his place naked. Comfortable and free.

He gives it a month, tops.

Weeks, if he plays his cards right.

(banners by @cafekitsune)

[honeyy-darling]

home

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t

warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?

It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.

Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.

He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.

Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.

Worth it every single time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3

[abbottsdarling]

Change

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x fem!Reader x Miles Miller x Bob Reynolds

Summary: Miles was lonely working at the El Royale. His days were routine, keep the premises clean, inform management about any special guests, and just try and get through life without without wallowing in his guilt. It isn't until you three come along, that his routine changes.

Warnings: MDNI, SMUT, p with SO much plot, unprotected p in v, foursome, threesome, Miles centric, strangers to friends to lovers, established poly relationship, pre-established poly relationship, nipple play, voyeurism, fingering, oral sex (m! receiving), dirty talking, teasing, mentions of Bob and Miles past drug addition, mentions of Miles religious guilt, mentions of Bobs childhood (not described), inaccurate descriptions of rodeos and bull riding, there is so much so sorry if I miss anything

Word Count: 9.8k

Note: All three of my fav lew characters in one fic? Hell to the yeah. I'm greedy asf what can I say. Also this was literally just meant to be p w/o plot at a max of 2.5k words and instead became almost 10k of plot idk how it happened. Thank you to @buckysdingus for proofreading this for me!

Also tagging @lewmagoo, you mentioned if I ever ended up writing this you would be interested. Also, your lewcest helped give me the drive I needed to finish this, so thank you for that! Hope you enjoy!

Masterlists

Ficmas Masterlist

Miles remembered the first day he met you three very clearly.

The El Royale had been quiet as usual. It was long past its prime since the hotel had lost its gambling license, but stragglers who’d lost their way and those who were lost, and in need of a place to stay for the night still found their way to the hotel.

Miles was going about his day, cleaning the counter with no guests in sight until he heard the jingle of the front door opening, making the hotel clerk’s head shoot up.

Miles shuffled around fast, making sure to look professional as he readied to give his welcoming speech about the history of the El Royale and all the options they had to offer, only to feel the words choked in his throat.

Deep blue eyes met his own, the worn Stetson at the top of the man’s head the next thing that caught Mile’s eye. A light tint of pink colored the hotel clerks’ cheeks when he caught the polite smile the man threw his way.

Miles noticed that the handsome stranger came in carrying three duffle bags, secretly finding himself hoping it meant that the cute guest would be staying here for more than a day.

Miles shrugged those thoughts away. He had a job to do.

Miles cleared his throat to speak, but another jingle of the door interrupted him just as he said ‘hello-’, snapping him to focus on the two bodies that walked in attached to one another.

There must be something in the air tonight because Miles rarely ever had such pretty guests before.

You had been giggling about something Miles didn’t quite catch into Bob’s ear, but it made the man beside you blush as he tugged you further into the hotel lobby.

Miles caught the way Rhett’s smile turned up at the sound of your laugh, and how natural it seemed when you greeted the cowboy with a kiss on the cheek. When Bob didn’t immediately turn sour at who Miles assumed was his girlfriend kissing another man, it seemed to click in the hotel clerk's head all at once.

Oh my god.

You three were… ohhh

Ok.

Focus.

Fuck. It was hard to focus when you three were so hot.

“We-welcome to the El Royale!” Miles all but shouted. He didn’t know why, but the three of you made him nervous. Your eyes immediately snapped to him, a smile on your lips when you saw how wide Miles’ eyes were.

Miles stuttered, finally giving his speech that came out too fast and slightly jumbled, but as it was, you three were only half-listening. Too curious and amused by the reaction you seemed to have on the other man.

 “The El Royale is a bi-state establishment! You can either stay in the great state of California or the great state of Nevada! Warmth and sunshine to the West or hope and opportunity to the East!” Mikes nervously fiddled with his tie as he ended his speech, each of your gazes heavier than the next.

Miles stuttered, “Do you all have any questions?”

The cowboy raised two fingers, before motioning to the bar, “You guys got a bartender?”

Miles sucked in a breath at his deep voice, “Yes, that’s currently me.”

“Is it just you here Miles?” You asked with genuine curiosity.

Miles stumbled with his words, “Mm, um, yes! Yes ma’am, just me at the moment.”

You laughed, enamored by his politeness. “Aren’t you a cutie? Also, you don’t gotta call me ma’am. Makes me feel like an old lady.”

Now that made Miles really stumble over his words, “I - I would never, I only was trying - you are very young, I-”

“Stop torturing the poor guy.” Bob interjected with a grin. Watching you make the hotel clerk squirm was an adorable sight. “How much for a room?”

“8$ for the room.”

With that, Rhett fiddled to get his wallet out before sliding the cash over the counter. Miles tried not to combust when he felt the static when their fingers brushed up against each other. You tried to hide your smile at the shy hotel clerk’s reaction.

“-and I'll just all three of you to please sign the ledger.” Miles held the pen out for you three. Bob was the first to take it.

Miles watched as you lingered over each other. How Bob scribbled his name down with barely eligible writing, Rhett’s writing only slightly better and yours the best out of the three, in perfect cursive.

As he took the ledger back, he looked down at your names. His eyes ran over them, trying to memorize them as best he could before Rhett cleared his throat, catching the man’s attention.

The clerk was red in the face, the ledger shutting with a slam, “Let me get you your room key.”

Now usually that would be it. After Miles handed you the room keys and map and you’d find your way to your room all on your own, but there was something in Miles that made him pause. He had an unexpected feeling. He didn’t want this interaction to end.

“W-would you like me to show you to your room?”

--

Showing you to your room ended quicker than Miles would’ve liked. The El Royale was only so big, it wasn’t exactly hard to get lost.

After checking in and showing you to your room. Miles wandered to the back of the hotel, pacing back and forth for what must’ve been 30 minutes as he contemplated if he should go into those hidden walkways. If he should make his way through those hidden walls to where your room was.

Management insisted on it being done for every guest, even now, but you all seemed so nice. He didn’t want to go back there. But there was also a part of Miles that was innately curious. And he hated it. But you three just… intrigued him. You were so nice without needing to be. And you were all so pretty too.

Rolling his shoulders, Miles nodded to himself before he made his way in.

Curiosity won overall.

Once he finally reached the outskirts of what would be the two-way mirror of your room, he hesitated. He was so especially nervous, but as soon as Miles stepped out into view, that nervous faded completely to shockingly, or unsurprisingly, arousal.

Wow, you three wasted absolutely no time getting busy.

Miles nearly fainted at the sight, catching himself on the wall before he fell completely. He almost gave himself whiplash, checking if you’d heard the light thud, but it didn’t seem you did. It seems you couldn’t hear anything under the sound of Bob's skin slapping against yours as he thrusted into you from behind.

Miles had been greeted with the sight of your face pressed against the mirror, your gasps fogging it up as you tried to keep yourself balanced. Miles' eyes bulged even wider when he saw Rhett behind Bob, his cock thrusting into the other man, who moaned, as the force of the thrust made him plunge deeper into you.

Miles felt a pain between his legs.

Your whines, Bob’s moans, and Rhett’s deep grunts sending all the blood flowing to his cock. He could already feel himself leaking in his slacks. His hands immediately came to cover himself, as if he was trying to hide his arousal from you, but you couldn’t see him, he reminded himself. But when his palm ghosted along his bulge, he involuntarily whimpered, rutting into his hand.

Miles gasped, red as a cherry out of shame. But… It felt so good. It shouldn’t, Miles shouldn’t see this any longer. He should go back to his little cot right now and forget about the wildly good and interesting sex that’s taking place in front of him right now, but he can’t seem to bring himself to do it. No matter how much shame he feels, his feet stay rooted in the ground.

So, with quiet whimpers, Miles palmed himself to you three. Desperately needing some type of touch, friction.

“Fuck! Bob! Shit-”

Miles quickly covered his mouth, quieting a louder than intended moan that nearly escaped him at your shout.

“Shit, you fucking our girl just right, huh Robby?” Miles watched as Rhett yanked the other man’s head back by his hair, not holding back on his thrusts before biting down Bobs’ neck.

Miles saw Bob's eyes roll back in pleasure, “Y-yes, yes s-sir. Fuck!”

You shrieked suddenly, making Miles finally notice Bob’s hand that had been between your thighs for some time now.

You came with a shout, almost falling forward into the mirror, but Bobs hands on your waist kept you upright as he continued to fuck into you. From the looks of how sloppy both him and Rhett were thrusting, they weren’t too far behind.

When Miles heard Bob whine and Rhett’s loud ‘fuck!’, he nearly collapsed into the wall behind him. A wet patch grew between Miles’ legs as tears brimmed his eyes.

Miles was out of breath, completely overwhelmed at the sight.

And that was just the beginning.

When you left that weekend, Miles thought he’d never see you again. That you three would simply become ghosts of his past that he’d remember fondly and blush. That he’d dream of that time he caught you three fucking behind the mirror as he touched himself at night, before crying into his pillow in shame.

But then you showed up again a month later. And then again, a month after that, and another.

It soon became a routine. Once a month you three would stumble in, with flirty smiles and sparkling eyes that sent the adorable hotel clerk’s mind spiraling as he found himself unexpectedly falling for you more and more with every visit.

And each time, he’d make his way to those back rooms. Not always to watch you fuck, of course he wasn’t exactly complaining when he stumbled in during those time. He liked to watch you three interact, just go about your day from behind that mirror.

He watched as you planned your outfit for the day. He saw as you would get settled on one of the chairs near the window with a book and just lounge about the room. He watched how Rhett would get ready for his rodeos. Blushing bright when he caught sight of the bulge in the cowboy’s underwear before averting his eyes, just to sneak secret glances here and there.

Miles saw how playful Bob was with you both, riling Rhett up before a show, just to leave him aching before shooing him out of the room. He saw how Bob would just drape himself across your lap as you were trying to read, acting like one of those big dogs who didn’t realize just how big they were. Whenever you’d throw Bob an annoyed look, that you didn’t really mean and  he’d just pout, claiming that you’d been neglecting him.

Miles found himself imagining what it’d be like to be in that room with you, not just Miles the hotel clerk, but Miles, your sweet boy. Someone you three would hold. Would care for. Would love. But he shook those thoughts away. It wouldn’t happen. A couple of three was rare in itself. Four? Never happening.

Still, Miles awaited your arrival every month, anxiously tapping his fingers against the lobby counter. Immediately perking up when you stepped in, lighting up the room instantly. He painfully wished you’d come by more often. That you stayed longer than the usual three-day visits. Miles was so touch starved. Starved of any meaningful human interaction really. And with you three, boy it was meaningful.

Miles’ first separate interactions with you three were forever etched into his mind.

With you, he’d been behind the bar one day, wiping some glasses down to pass the time when you walked in alone, sitting right across from him at the bar.

You smiled when you caught the man’s eye, “Hi Miles.”

“H-Hi.” Miles stared at you, at a loss of words. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. He didn’t see Rhett’s truck in the driveway and assumed you three had gone for the day.

He snapped back to reality when he realized he’d just been staring at you and not taking your drink order, which is probably why you came down here in the first place. “Oh! Sorry, um, would you like anything to drink ma’am?”

You chuckled with a twinkle in your eyes, “Miles, please. No need to call me ma’am.” His embarrassed smile had your stomach flipping, “Just a Sprite please. I don’t drink.”

You talked for hours, asking him questions and vice versa while he dusted the glasses and counter tops.

“So, where’s Rhett and Bob?”

“Oh, well, Rhett’s got a rodeo tonight. I was supposed to go, but I wasn’t feeling too hot.” You rubbed your stomach, “So Bob went with him so I wouldn’t feel too bad about missing it today. But I’m feeling much better now.” You raised your glass to him, “Thanks to your lucky Sprite.”

Miles smiled down at the glasses, shrugging, “It’s not like I made it-”

“Miles.”

“Yeah?”

“Just take the compliment.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Miles!”

He giggled at you, “Sorry, sorry.”

As Miles watched you, his chest was struck with something he doesn’t think he’s ever felt for someone before. Affection.

“So…”  Your voice caught his attention again. He shook off the fact that you most definitely caught him staring at you, again. “Why is it just you here Miles?”

“Oh, well. Once we lost our gambling license, most guests went with it. And well, no one really wanted to work at a desolate hotel like this anymore.” He shrugged at the end, taking your empty glass and refilling it with more fizzy sweetness.

“If you don’t mind me asking…”

You nod at him to continue, “How, um, how did you all three, um-” Miles cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very awkward, “Sorry forget I-”

“How’d we get together, you mean?”

Miles bit his lip and nodded in confirmation.

You sighed, like you were remembering a blissful memory, “Welp, me and Rhett knew each other since we were kids, very young kids. And we kinda dated back in the day…” you laughed at the memory, “I don’t know, can you call being each other’s boyfriend and girlfriend at 12 actually dating.”

Miles shrugged, amused. “I mean… maybe.”

You chuckled at him; glad he was finally feeling comfortable joking a bit with you, “But, with college, I moved away, went to Florida. Which is where I met Bob, and well…” You trailed off, like you were debating if you should tell more or not. Miles was a bit curious about your hesitation, but he figured you’d tell him if you were comfortable with it.

“It was a bit… complicated with Bob, but once he was better, he came with me to Wabang. And…” You were smiling so wide, Miles thought your cheeks must hurt. “Let’s just say it was kinda history after that.”

“That’s nice. You three seem very… happy.”

You sent him an appreciative grin, “Thanks Miles.” Your eyes ventured off to the clock hanging behind him. You whistled at the time, “Anyway, I’m off to bed Miles. Have a goodnight, okay?”

He waved goodbye, before being overwhelmed with the feeling of missing your voice.

The next was with Bob.

Bob would get bouts of insomnia at times. Sometimes his mind just wouldn’t shut up and if you were home, he’d go read a book in the living room, or go for a walk along your property, but since you were at the El Royale, he decided to just take a midnight stroll to the lobby. Only he didn’t make it that far.

Bob had been walking by the laundry room when a low grunt behind a not so closed door caught his attention.

Bob was curious. He didn’t think anyone would be awake at this time of night besides himself, so he went looking, only to quite literally stumble face first into Miles.

“Oh shit -”

Miles gasped in surprise when he noticed Bob. He started rambling, apologizing for not seeing the other man, not even carrying that half of his neatly folded bed sheets were now on the outside floor.

“Oh! I’m sorry sir -”

Miles knelt down, placing the laundry basket on the floor as he quickly tried to pick up the sheets. Bob helped him, feeling bad for bumping into the man, but also curious, “Shouldn’t you be asleep by now? It’s like… 2am.”

“Yes, yes sir-”

Bob interjected, “Please don’t. Sir…” he shrugged, before cringing, “It’s just so formal. Just call me Bob, or Robby. That’s what Rhett and she like to call me.”

“O-okay, Bob.”

“Okay Miles.” Bob nodded at the laundry, “So… why are you doing laundry in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, yes! Um, well I wasn’t sure if you heard earlier but, um -”

“Oh yeah, Rhett told me about that. Fucking asshole.”

Miles frowned but found himself agreeing with him. It was a rarity that the El Royale had more than one guest at a time, and it was ever more of a rarity for there to be an extra guest here when you three were, but this weekend was one of those times.

The guest had been a jackass from the start. Not even bothering to properly greet Miles when he walked in like he owned the place, kept interrupting Miles during his welcome speech to make comments about the ‘gaudy and dated’ decorations, and for some reason, actually complaining about the price being as low as it was. Like come on, who complains about something being too cheap?

Then the asshole all but demanded Miles carry his bags to his room. Douche bag didn’t even let Miles have the chance to offer first.

Rhett had been in the lobby at the time, enjoying the ambiance of it while you and Bob napped. He didn’t want to accidentally wake you.

Rhett glared daggers into the man’s back as he watched him, about half ready to tell him off when he talked to Miles like he was lesser than, but Rhett didn’t want to overstep. Miles practically begged him not too the moment their eyes met.

The guest had then demanded Miles clean the already clean room simply because of its dated look. And poor, sweet Miles, being who he is, cleaned it. Rhett tried to pull Miles aside and intervene. Again, Miles shook his head at the man, but threw him an appreciative smile.

Miles shrugged as he looked at Bob, “It happens sometimes. Not everyone’s as nice as you three.”

Bob made a playful noise, raising his brows at Miles as he smiled down at the slightly smaller man, “Oh yeah? We’re pretty nice I guess.”

Miles’s face went red, “Uh, yes, Jesus, sorry. Um-” he motioned to the sheets, “Well because I had to deal with that customer, it kinda set me back in my duties. I need to go change the sheets in all the Nevada rooms-”

“But they haven’t even been used?”

“Yes well… management insists.”

Bob sighed, not liking the sound of that at all. “Well, how about I help?”

Miles shook his head, refusing, “N-no sir, I can’t you’re a guest-”

“Miles, call me Bob, remember. And yes, I can. Plus -” he reached over, grabbing the sheets that were still in the man’s hands, “I can’t sleep anyway. At least now, you can get to sleep sooner and doing something as tedious as this might actually help me get sleepy faster. What do you say?”

“Uh…” Miles contemplated it. Technically, this was against the rules, but the idea of being able to sleep in two hours instead of 4 sounded heavenly. Finally, with a sigh, he relented, “Ok, yeah. I guess.”

Bob perked up, “Okay!” before taking the basket out of Miles hands before the hotel clerk could even blink, making his way over to Nevada.

“Sir - Bob!”

That night, Miles learned that he and Bob had more in common than he thought. They were both haunted by their past for different reasons, and both found comfort using unhealthy and dangerous means.

“Yeah, I was clean when I met her, but I relapsed at one point it was… bad.” Miles noticed how Bob winced at the memory, “But we got through it. I went back to rehab, focused on myself, went to therapy, then we went to Wabang, met Rhett… rest was history.”

Miles smiled, “That sounds great Bobby. Truly.”

Bob froze. Miles noticed, “Bob? What’s wrong -”

“Please just uh...” Bob looked like he was trying to find the right words to say. He didn’t want to dump all of his trauma onto the poor man in one fell swoop. Tonight, had already been emotional enough talking about their past addictions. “You can call me Bob, Robby, hell even Bobert for all I care, just please, not… that”

Miles apologized, feeling guilty, “Yes! Yes, of course. I… I’m sorry if I offended you, I never meant to-”

Bob held his hand out, stopping the rambling man with a laugh and a light blush, “Miles, Miles! Calm down. Breath. Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. Now you know.”

 Miles felt something he didn't think he could feel in a while with Bob. Being Understood.

With a nod, they went back to work. Pretty soon they were both yawning as they waved each other goodbye before going back to their respective rooms.

Lastly was Rhett.

He came to check out for you three. You and Bob were already in his truck as Rhett slid the key over the counter, biting his lip with amusement as he watched Miles fumble with paperwork. Working too fast because he was incredibly flustered under the cowboy’s intense gaze.

“So… she tells me it’s just you here?”

Miles nodded, “Yes, sir. Just me.”

Unlike you and Bob who insisted that Miles drop the formalities, Rhett smirked at it. Liking the way that word sounded, coming out of Miles tongue as he stared up at him with his big doe eyes, handing him his receipt for the stay.

Rhett pocketed it, “You ever been to a rodeo?”

Miles stammered, shaking his head. “Uh no sir. I don’t believe so.”

“You should come by sometime. Think you might like it.” He nodded towards the door, “And before you ask, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind at all.”

Miles didn’t say anything, just nodded his head up and down as Rhett waved him goodbye.

Rhett stopped before he walked out, taking a chance to turn back to Miles. He looked like he needed to get something off his chest.

“It wasn't right.”

Miles tilted his head, confused. “What wasn't right, sir? Was there something wrong with the room? I’m sorry-”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Rhett shook his head at him, walking back into the lady towards the counter, “The room was fine. You were fine. More than fine - I mean - fuck.” Rhett seemed to have trouble finding his words. Miles blushed at his words, but waited for him, patient.

“Just, that asshole earlier. You should’ve let me do something."

Miles shook his head, “No, sir. That wasn't your issue - ”

“Still doesn't mean it should happen. If it wasn't for you looking like a deer in headlights when I tried to tell him off the first time I would've thrown him on his ass.”

Miles was utterly perplexed, “Why? I mean, I’m just a hotel clerk, nothing special.” He looked down at his hands at the end, avoiding Rhett's eyes.

“Because, no one should be treated like that,” Rhett's finger lifted Miles' chin, their eyes meeting, “Especially not you.”

Miles was at a loss of words. He’s never heard such care behind someone's voice before. Never felt such sincerity in their words.

They shared one last look, before Rhett sighed, stepping back. Miles already missed the feeling of his hand on his chin. “I should go. Long drive back. Until next time, Miles.”

Miles doesn't know why, but called out for Rhett before he could even take three steps toward the door, “Wa-wait! Sir!”

Rhett turned back to Miles, his brow raised as if to say ‘yes?’.

“I just noticed that well..” he stammered as he said your name, “She and Bob, they um…” Miles looks like he’s trying to find the right way to phrase his next words, “Well um, she asked me not to call her ma’am”

Rhett nodded, chuckling at the memory, “And Bob insisted I not call him sir either…”

“Yeah, Robby hates all types of formalities. Thinks their bullshit.”

Miles winced at his next words, “Well I guess I just… was curious why…” he suddenly shook his head, “Nevermind, forget what I said -”

“You wondering why I haven't asked you to do the same?”

Miles sent him a pained smile, thinking he had no right to ask, but nodded nonetheless.

Rhett shrugged, a smirk on his face as he watched the man squirm, “I don't know, maybe I just like the way it sounds coming from you.”

Miles stared up at him, more at a loss for words than he was before.

Rhett winked at Miles before he waved him goodbye. Miles waved back, watching him go until the door shut behind him.

The minute Rhett’s truck pulled out of the driveway, Miles was overwhelmed with the quietness of the hotel.

Every night you weren’t there, you’d show up in Miles' fantasies, his dreams. He’d blush in shame as he touched himself in his cot, imagining your hot breath against his ear as you whispered filth to him about how ruined he’d be after you three were done with him.

He imagined moaning pathetically as big, calloused hands wrapped up tight in his hair, tugging back hard as Rhett attacked his neck. And the final cherry on top, was imagining Bob's lips wrapped around his cock, bobbing his head up and down like he was gunning for first place in a blow job competition.

When Miles imagined those blue watery eyes staring back at him with hollowed cheeks, his back arched as he released himself all over his stomach, weakly muttering your names before he collapsed over his blanket, exhaustion overtaking him physically and emotionally.

Despite the obvious attraction he felt for the three of you, he didn’t think it could ever be reciprocated. You already had each other, why would you need a fourth person.

Miles is brought back to reality when the clock strikes four. His breath hitching in anticipation. And just like clockwork, you three walked in.

The three of you walked in with ease. Like you owned the place.

Rhett caught his eye first, the cowboy towering over you and Bob as he stood in between you two. Rhett had his arms slung over Bob's shoulder and the other snaked around your waist.

Then it was your laugh. Rhett must’ve said something on the way in because your head was thrown back in giggles, the side of your face pressed into him. And then there was Bob, with his kind eyes flickering to Miles as he watched you and Rhett laugh. The hotel clerk felt his heart skip.

Miles smiled, greeting you three as he always did. Your usual room key was already out as Rhett slid his card over. You chatted about what you’d been up to the past month. Bob talked about how he'd taken up gardening recently. It helped him pass the time, and gave him routine. Rhett  mentioned that he was looking to buy some horses sometime soon. You nudged his shoulder, telling him he should start out with some chicks first before jumping straight to horses. Miles laughed and followed along, enamored.

When you finally walked away, mentioning needing some time before the rodeo tonight, Miles watched you leave.

He was already missing the smell of your perfume and how warm your skin felt against his as he handed you the pen for the ledger. He thought of Rhett’s flirty gaze, staring him up and down as he leaned against the counter, passing Miles his credit card for the room and how his hand lingered when Miles handed it back to him. And he thought of Bob's blushing face and kind voice as he waved Miles’s goodbye, a skip in his step as he led you and Rhett away to your room.

And nearly just as quickly as you left, Miles disappeared down that secret passageway.

Miles blushed as he took in the scene in front of him from where he stood behind the mirror. Completely invisible to the three of you.

You’re lying on the bed. Bob on your right and Rhett on your left as they ravished you. He could hear the sloppy kisses of Bob attacking your lips while Rhett focused on your neck, his tongue gliding across it before he sucked on your pulse point, eliciting a desperate whine from your lips.

Miles felt his cock hardened in his slacks as he took in the sight in front of him. His eyes tracing how their hands roamed your body. A wave of guilt and shame washed over Miles, just like every time he watched you.

This was wrong. This was sinful. He was intruding on you three, again. He should avert his eyes, walk out of here and head back to his cot to pray for forgiveness. And he’s just about to, finally giving into the feeling that’s been eating at him, but just as he turns, he hears something that makes him stop dead in his tracks.

“Mmm Miles… he’s a cutie, ain’t he?”

The hotel clerk’s hand twitched, a look on his face that said ‘did I hear that right?’ before he rushes back over the mirror. Did he hear that right? Were his ears playing tricks on him?

You giggle against Bob's lips, nodding at Rhett’s words, “Yeah, and with a cute face to match the name.”

“You like imagining it darlin’?” Rhett's hand found its way to your clit, making you thrust into his hand, “Imagining sweet little Miles in here with us? That’s what you want, yeah?”

You hum in agreement, “Want him, so, so bad.”

“Maybe we should…” Bob trails off, suddenly shy under yours and Rhett’s intense gaze, “Never mind.”

Rhett tuts at the man, lifting his chin so their eyes were locked, “Come on now, ya know better. Tell us whatcha thinking?”

“You know I love my blue-eyed brunettes …”

“God, I love you.” Rhett kissed Bob hard as his hand was still circling your clit. You whine at being ignored.

Bob chuckles, “Shit, she’s so needy. No wonder she wants Miles so bad. He’d probably be so good to her. At her every beck and call.” Bob nods to you, egging on your whimpers and whines, “Yeah sweet girl, two dicks isn’t enough, you need three to keep you satisfied.”

You cry out, jolting under them. Miles doesn't miss the way you nod at Bob's words.

Oh God.

Miles feels like he can finally breathe once he stumbles out of that secret room. His eyes are so wide, they almost looked like they were bulging out of his head. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it looking as disheveled as he felt at that moment.

He doesn’t know what to think, what to do, or how to act. He figured he should probably get out from where you could catch him. He made it to the lobby in record time, going to stand behind the counter to hide the very obvious bulge in his slacks.

His mind is spinning. He hears the sound of his name coming from your lips echoing in his head. He keeps seeing the way Rhett and Bob crowded over you, Rhett’s hand slipping in between your thighs as Bob suckled on your pulse point.

Miles whimpers to himself. His cock is painfully hard as he tries to make the images go away, but every time he tries, your moans and grunts bounce around in his mind. “Fuck.” He palms himself, bucking into his hand, sucking in a sharp breath at the friction.

Then Miles stops, suddenly very aware at how lewd he’d been acting in this open lobby where anyone could walk in and see him touch himself behind the counter like some pervert. Miles burns with shame. He stood there for lord knows how long, trying to make it go away with no luck.

He was about ready to make his way towards his room and relieve himself in his cot when he heard a call of his name, his eyes meeting yours as you quickly made your way through the lobby over to him.

Miles averts his eyes. Very shy at seeing you like this even though moments ago he was watching you being intimate with your lovers.

“Miles! Good, I was hoping to catch you!”

“Oh! Hi, yes ma-ma’am -”

You chuckle, leaning your elbow on the counter, palm in your cheek as you tease, “Miles for the hundredth time, you don’t have to call me ma’am. We’re definitely past that at this point.”

“Sorry ma’am-” he cut himself off, shaking his head at himself. You wrinkle your nose at him, “Sorry. Force of habit. Wh-what can I help you with?”

With his question, you stand up straight, rounding your shoulders to try to appear taller. Trying to gain back the usual confidence you had just 10 minutes ago when you were sandwiched between Rhett and Bob. You hope Miles couldn’t tell what you’d been getting up to from your swollen lips and slightly flustered appearance.

Oh, baby girl, if only you knew.

“Miles, I have an… important and… slightly inappropriate question to ask you.” You wince at your phrasing, but you weren’t exactly sure how to phrase this request of yours.

Damn it, you should’ve let Rhett do this. He’d know how to sweet talk this poor man before you who’s looking at you like you’re holding him at gun point just from your horribly phrased question. But no, you had to go and be stubborn about it.

Miles gulps, his fingers twitching at his sides as he imagined what your question could be, after what he saw behind the mirror just moments ago. Could it really be happening? Him and the three of you?

Mile’s heart is racing as he answers. “Ye-yes?”

You look like you were about to ask him a life-or-death question. “How’d you like to go to a rodeo?”

His eye twitches, “Uhh… what?”

--

The stadium was loud.

The stands were littered with cheering fans, all either wearing flannel, Stetsons, or cowboy boots that chimed every time they stomped their feet against the metal of their seats.

Miles was slotted right between you and Bob. Your hand on his thigh as you spoke adamantly about how the scoring process worked and when Rhett would be on. Bob had an arm thrown over the smaller man’s shoulder, drinking from a soda can as he leaned in to hear you better over the loud voices.

It didn’t really take much convincing on your part to get Miles to agree. You three were the only guests the El Royale had booked for the whole weekend. He tried to say no, insisting he didn’t want to intrude, but when you insisted that he wouldn’t, that you wanted him to come, he finally agreed.

The truck ride over was a bit cramped, but comfortable. Miles tried to sit as close as he could into the passenger side door, not wanting to invade your space, but Rhett all but pulled him into his side so he was right in the middle. So Rhett was in the driver's seat, Miles tucked into his side, your thigh nestled comfortably right next to Miles and Bob was sitting halfway in your lap even though he had enough space to just sit down in his own space.

Despite how overwhelming the environment was, Miles felt completely comfortable between you two. That was one of his major reasons for hesitating to come, but being between you and Bob, Miles felt almost… safe. Like he wasn’t afraid to be here, because he had you two there to distract him.

“Okay, so the goal is for Rhett to stay on for at least eight seconds. Anymore and that’s just extra luck for a high score.”

Miles nods along curiously, “Does Rhett win these a lot? You guys are always coming around here and uh… I noticed that sometimes you guys come back with a belt and trophy like that a lot of the time.” Miles points at one of the victory belts hung up on display.

Bob nods with a proud smile, “Yeah, Rhett dominates about every single one of these. He’s Wyoming’s finest -”

“Well, if we’re really being honest here-”

“Probably one of the nation’s finest.” You and Bob spoke at once.

Miles went to respond, only to be interrupted by the loudspeaker.

“Oh! Oh! It’s starting!”

Miles watched, completely amazed, and slightly worried for every rider that got thrown off the back of the bull. When he saw how ruthless these bulls could be, a feeling of anxiety started creeping in his stomach. He thought of Rhett getting bucked off the bull at that harsh speed, worried about what could happen to the cowboy if he didn't expect it.

Before he could worry more, Rhett’s name was called. The three of you jumped up immediately.

Looks like Miles wasn’t the only anxious one.

Bob's hand was tightly squeezing Miles. Bob shares a look with the smaller man, sending him a half smile that seemed to want to twitch into a frown at times. Your hands were pressed up against your lips, almost like you were praying. But from what Miles could hear, those definitely weren’t prayers.

“Come on Rhett. Just eight fucking seconds. Nothing more, nothing less. They better fucking not have given you a bad fucking bull this time because I swear to fucking –” Yep, definitely not prayer.

Your foot anxiously tapped into the bleachers, only ceasing once the buzzer rang and the bull was released from the chute.

---

“There's our cowboy!” You practically jump into Rhett’s arms, ignoring the dirt and sweat on him as you kiss him. One of Rhett hands snakes around your waist, smiling into the kiss as the other hand holds the trophy and belt that’s about to fall out from the force of your pounce.

Bob smiles, grabbing them both from Rhett’s hands before anything could happen, letting you fuss over Rhett like you do after every ride.

Once you finally deem Rhett safe and healthy, Bob shoves the trophy into your hands before cupping the cowboys face, bringing him down into his own kiss.

Miles nods at him, “You did great out there.”

Rhett chuckles before bringing Miles into a hug, making the man involuntarily squeak in surprise before hugging him back, “Thanks Miles. I had my good luck charms cheering me on, so it’s really no surprise. You were cheering me on, right?”

Miles nods, tongue tied.

Rhett smiles down at him, before sighing dramatically, “Alright, I don’t know about you guys, but I want nothing more than to head back to the hotel right now.”

With that you made your way back to the truck, asking Miles how he enjoyed his first rodeo and answering any questions he may have still had after watching Rhett ride.

Miles couldn’t get that out of his head. The way Rhett’s hips thrusted back and forth as he kept his balance, never faltering for a second. He went a little weak in the knees at how naturally and confident Rhett looked up on that bull.

“Oh shit.” It’s Bob, “We don’t have enough room. With the trophy and belt.”

Oh no. However will you settle this predicament?

 --

You settled yourself comfortably on Miles’s lap, laying against his chest, your breath hot against his ear as you asked, “You don’t mind, right?”

Miles seems to have forgotten how to speak, too overwhelmed with the feeling of your weight against his dick that he is hoping to God and all that is holy it won’t start chubbing up. But he also can’t seem to find the strength to say no to you.

He shook his head, “N-no! It’s fi-fine!” he all but squeaked. You were going to be the death of him in this car ride back to the hotel.

In all honesty, you didn’t really need to sit on someone’s lap. The trophy, even as big as it is, could’ve just been put in the back or held by you or Bob. In fact, you probably could have just sat in Bob’s lap instead. That probably would make more sense.

But then, how else could you find a way to get the painfully shy, cute, little hotel clerk right where you want him?

It was only five minutes into the ride and Miles was dying. Actually dying. His heart is beating in his ears as the three of you talk around him, but he isn’t hearing a word you say. You’ve shifted in his lap ten times in those five minutes and Miles is biting his lip to not moan each and every time. That mixed with Bob's hand on his thigh and the smell of Rhett’s musk still lingering after his ride leaves Miles aching.

His cock is painfully hard. He’s surprised you haven’t noticed, but then again, maybe you have and you’re just being polite by not mentioning it. But with the way you keep on moving, if you did notice, you weren’t exactly being nice about it.

You shift again, turning to respond to a comment Rhett said, and Miles doesn’t mean to. He really doesn’t, but it’s just instinctive at this point. He just needed some friction. But the way the truck instantly goes quiet when Miles accidentally thrusts up against you and a quiet, desperate whimper left his mouth he didn’t even know was coming, makes Miles want the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

He can’t believe he just did that. He feels your eyes on him. He feels how Bob's hand tightened on his thigh, how you stopped mid-sentence and turned toward the poor hotel clerk. Even Rhett’s drumming against the steering wheel stopped.

“Miles.”

He couldn’t look at you, too ashamed.

“Miles. Look at me.”

He wouldn’t budge, so you put your hand under his chin, tilting his head up to look at him properly. Miles’s cheeks are wet, and even more tears are building behind his guilty blue eyes as he basks in shame.

You try to soothe him, “Oh Miles. Don’t cry, it’s-”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean too! I just – I just-” The apologies just come spewing out of Miles and he can't seem to stop.

 “Miles!” Bob tries to calm down the spiraling man to no avail.

“I didn’t mean – You’re all just so nice to me!”

Rhett tries next. “Miles!”

“All of you are so pretty, and-”

“Oh, for the love of -!”

Miles’s rambling is cut off by your lips on his. You ignore the saltiness from his tears, just entirely focused on making him stop hyperventilating in Rhett’s truck the only way you could think of.

Miles kisses back, thinking he must be dreaming. That he must’ve passed out from hyperventilating and now he was dreaming of you kissing him.

When you pull away, Miles is already staring up at you in confusion and wonder. You’ve completely baffled the man, “Wh-what?”

You hold his face in your hands, your thumb softly thrumming along his cheek, wiping away his tears. Miles doesn’t fight it, in fact, he leans into your hand.

“Miles, honey, this can’t be a complete surprise to you, right?”

He stammers, at a loss. “Wh-what?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Rhett’s eyes on him. That’s when Miles realizes the truck was no longer moving. Rhett must’ve pulled off to the side when Miles started breaking down.

“Tell us to stop, and we will.”

Rhett inches closer, nose to nose with Miles as he stares at the other man, waiting for him to decide for himself.

Miles closes the distance. Rhett’s lips are slightly chapped, but mesmerizing, nonetheless. If Miles were standing up, he thinks his foot might pop up behind him like they do in those romance movies.

Before Miles can get even more lost in the kiss, he’s tugged back by his hair. A small whimper leaves his lips before another pair of lips are on him, silencing him, “My turn, I want a kiss.”

Bob kisses him like he’s been starved, savoring his taste as he pulls Miles closer. You, still seated on Miles’s lap, gasp in surprise as a small giggle follows behind.

When Bob finally pulls back, all of you are panting. Visibly flushed with wide eyes and blown pupils as you try and think of what to do next.

“Rhett, I don’t care if you have to drive 20 over. Get us back to the fucking hotel, now.”

--

The minute the hotel room door shuts behind you four, Miles is… unsure.

He doesn’t know what to do. If he should sit or stand. But you do it for him.

“Let us take care of you Miles.”

You push him down on the bed. Miles lands with an ‘oof’ , his eyes bouncing back and forth between the three of you, watching your every movement as you undress. Miles figured he should do something. He went to unbuckle his pants, just for Rhett to stop him

They spoke to each other without uttering a word.

Let us take care of you.

Miles nods, letting go.

Your hands run through his hair as Bob unbuttons his shirt, and Rhett unbuckles his jeans.

Rhett makes sure to palm Miles as he takes off his underwear, smirking when the smaller man tries not to whine.

Soon Miles was laid out on the bed. You and Bob on either side of him while Rhett towered over you three, his cock flushed against his lower stomach.

“Now…” three sets of eyes flash to Rhett, “M’gonna work ya open Miles and once that’s all set and done…”

“Robby’s going to use your mouth and I’ll…” your hand strokes his aching cock, making Miles jolt.

“She’ll ride you. Is that okay Miles?” Bob nuzzles his face onto Miles’s cheek, batting his lashes at him.

Miles nods. Fast. Desperate. “Yes, yes. Please.”

You three get to work fast, like you’d been planning for it. Rehearsed it.

You kiss Miles while Bob nips up and along his neck, sucking sweet red and purple bruises onto his milky white skin. Miles moans into your mouth when Rhett enters a finger into him, his hips bucking up. Even though Rhett tried to warm up the lube as much as possible, it was still a bit cold, making Miles jump slightly.

“You’re okay Miles. Such a good boy for us.”

Miles squirms as Rhett works him open. Miles had been with men before, but it’d been such a long time, and none were as big as Rhett and Bob. Not by a mile.

By finger three, Miles was whining into your breast as Bob gently coos in his ear, placing comforting kisses in his hair as you both sooth him. 

Bob noticed how frazzled Miles’s brain must’ve been. How he seemed to need something to calm him down. Bob recognized it almost immediately. That’s often how he looked when he needed to do something with his mouth. Something to ground him.

Bob nudged Miles’s face down. The other man was putty in his hands, letting Bob maneuver him as he wanted until his face was all but in your chest.

Miles was wide-eyed, looking between you and Bob for permission. You just chuckled as you wrapped your hands in his hair and pulled him forward, moaning when he started suckling on your nipple.

Having your breast in his mouth and Bob lips along his neck made Miles all the more sensitive every time Rhett’s fingers dragged along his walls, purposefully missing his prostate as he thrusted them in.

Miles thinks Rhett knew the moment he hit it, Miles would be cumming before they could get to the good part. And Miles really wanted to get to that.

“You okay bud?” Rhett squishes his face against Miles’ inner thigh, kissing it as he waits for an answer.

It comes out muffled as he speaks around your breast. “Ye-yes sir.”

Rhett grins, satisfied with how natural that sounded from him.

Once Rhett deems Miles ready, he nods for you and Bob to get into position. You’d talked about this before. How you’d want to take advantage of the adorable meek hotel clerk, imagining how your first time together would go.

You release Miles' mouth from your nipple. Miles chases after you, but Bob pushes him back onto the bed by shoulder.

 In one swift motion, Rhett grabbed Miles’s ankles, pulling him closer so his ass was at the edge of the bed, a better angle for Rhett to fuck him how he wanted. Bob slung his leg over Mile’s shoulder, his cock leaking as Bob dragged it along Miles’s lips. Miles closes his eyes, moaning as he tastes him.

You hover above Miles, lightly stroking his angry red cock that was desperate for attention.

“You ready bud?”

It’s Rhett that calls his attention. Miles’s voice is shaky with anticipation.

“Y-yes, please.”

The moment your heat engulfs Miles’s cock, he tries to whine, but he’s cut off by Bob's cock forcing its way into his mouth.

Everything is still for a moment. Miles has a moment to get used to having his mouth stuffed full of cock while you adjust to his size. You moan once you're finally seated on his lap, full of cock. While Miles was smaller than Bob and Rhett in terms of length, he still stretches you wide.

Bob groans when Miles instinctively starts suckling around him, “Fuck, Miles. Yeah, just like that.”

Then the moment Miles has been bracing for.

Rhett inches his way forward, careful as he pushes himself into Mile’s entrance.  Miles squirms, thrusting up into you as Rhett stretches him wide. You let out a surprised moan at his thrust, your breast bouncing up and down at it.

“Fuck Miles,” Rhett grunts as the last bit of him was engulfed by the man, “You’re taking me so well bud. Taking us all so well.”

Miles preens, back arching as he gets used to how overstimulating it all feels. You on his cock, Bob's dick in his mouth and Rhett inside him. Filling him so much Miles is surprised his stomach isn’t bulging.

“Gonna start moving, okay?”

Miles nods at Rhett, well, as much as he could from his current position.

Rhett grabs Miles by the hips, his grip tight as he pulls out about halfway before slamming back into him. Setting up a pace as he starts pounding into the man.

Miles whines and whimpers around Bobs cock, the vibrations making Bob moan as he starts fucking Miles’s throat.

You start moving, setting a pace for yourself as you bounce up and down Miles’s cock. You hold yourself steady with your hands on Miles’s chest, getting a perfect view OF Bob fucking his mouth. Your clit throbs.

The sounds coming from the room are depraved. Depraved, wicked and entirely sinful.

Your moans and groans echo off the hotel walls. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin as you all ravish the hotel clerk you’d been craving since that time you met him finally coming true, and you were going to savor the taste of him.

Bob groans when he’s able to fully sheath himself in Miles’s mouth. Miles’s nose pressed against Bob’s pelvis. “Fuck, coming all those times even when you didn’t have a show really did pay off, Rhett. He’s taking me so well down his throat. I don’t even think he has a gag reflex.”

Miles, brows burrowed. He makes a questioning sound at Bobs’ statement, but it’s forgotten the second you clench around him, making Miles let out a muffled whine. Rhett picks up speed, his thrust turning mean as his hand comes down and pinch Miles’s bottom, He loves seeing how every little touch and comment makes him squirm.

“Fuck Miles, you takin’ us all so well. Might just have to keep you for good.”

That did it. Warmth filled you as Miles broke. He finally reached his breaking point at Rhett’s words, completely overwhelmed at the idea of being yours. Being kept by you.

Miles lets out choked sounds as you continue bouncing on him, on the brink of tears as he feels your pussy spasm around him. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you sigh in ecstasy.

Bob came next, the vibrations from Miles’s throat being enough to send him spilling down the other man’s throat. Miles gulps around him, his eyes closing as he milks him dry. Lapping at his slit, Bob hisses in sensitivity, but doesn’t remove him. Miles just looks too cute like this.

Rhett saw white the moment he came, spilling into Miles as all your whines and grunts went straight to his cock. The feeling of Miles clenching around him so tight when Bob came down his throat was what Rhett needed to finally send him over the edge.

You are all a pile of panting, sweaty, tired limbs as you all recovered from the ultimate high you’d just experienced.

Bob's cock, now soft, was still nestled comfortably in Miles’s mouth. You were curled over Miles’s chest with his cock still inside you. Rhett’s breath was shaky and hot against your back as he thrusted the last of his cum into Miles.

Bob is the first to move, pulling Miles off gently with his hair. A string of saliva and cum follow him that Bob wipes away before gently kissing him. Bob recognizes that hazy look in Miles’ eyes. He needs to be comforted right now.

Rhett and Bob both guide you off Miles’s cock, eliciting a whine from you both at the loss. Bob plants you right next to Miles before getting settled right next to you.

Rhett’s careful as he pulls out of Miles, leaving kisses along his stomach before nestling himself on the other side of the man.

You four lay there for who knows how long. Soft touches and gentle smiles all being shared as Miles’ eyes return to normal, that glazed over look in them long gone.

Bob is joking about something, lightly biting into your shoulder, which makes you playfully swat at him. That seems to make Miles remember the comment Bob said when you three were too busy fucking him for him to ask about.

 “Why did you… Why did you come here even when you didn’t have a show… I just… why?”

Bob shrugs from where he laid next to you, “Well, we needed an excuse to come see you -”

“Plus, I would still go train and everything’.” Rhett grunted as he pulled Miles closer to his chest. Miles melted into him “Because ain’t no way we could’ve gone three full months without seein’ ya.”

“Shit,” Your voice comes through with a laugh, “It was hard staying away four weeks, but we couldn’t afford to come by more than once a month, even with how cheap the room was.”

Miles nods in understanding, “I get it, I mean, I wanted to see you more. A lot more. But I understand.” Miles fingers start drumming along his thigh, as he bit his bottom lip in thought.

Would it be another month until he sees you again? Miles doesn’t know if he could handle that. Would you even want to see him again? Or would you stop, after you got what you seemed to have wanted from him?

You seem to read his mind. Maybe you have superpowers or something?

“Miles…” you start, sharing a glance with Rhett and Bob. They nod at you, “We would like to ask you something.”

Miles nods, waiting for you to continue.

You duck, suddenly shy under his gaze, “Um, uh, well…”

“Darlin’ you were just on his dick a second ago, why are you getting all shy now?”

 “Rhett!” You reach over and playfully slap his shoulder. It felt light as a feather to the cowboy. You pout, “Fine, you ask then.”

Rhett and Bob laugh at your antics, before turning serious again.

Rhett stares into Miles eyes like he’s staring into his soul, “Come with us.” Rhett kisses his naked shoulder, “Let us take you away from here.”

Miles’ first instinct is to say yes. He wants to. God, he so desperately wants to do so, but he thinks of management. What they’d do when they come to find the hotel deserted. And he hesitates, “Bu-but the hotel-”

“We all know you hate it here Miles. Don’t worry about management. We’ll take care of you.” Bob strokes his arm in comfort, letting him know it was okay to do what was best for him, not anyone else.

With finality, Miles nods, “Okay. Yes. Take me, please.”

You cheer, pulling him in for a kiss as Bob reaches over kissing his forehead and Rhett kisses the back of his neck.

You started to get carried away with Miles, your kiss turning into a heated make out session as you barely let him breath, so excited to finally have him for good.

Bob pulls you back, amused. “Okay, okay. Damn, let the poor man breathe a little.”

Rhett laughs, “You’ll have plenty of time to do that when we get home darlin’.” He nods at the clock on the wall, then back at your three, “Now let’s get packing, I wanna be out here before sunrise.”

That night, you three packed up and took Miles far away from the seedy, depressed hotel that had sunk its claws into him for far too long. Management be damned. Once you were out on the road, the El Royale getting smaller and smaller the further you drove, the more sure Miles was of his decision. He knows that with you three, he’ll know safety and love. Above all, he’ll know what it feels like to finally have a home.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

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Ficmas Taglist: @iristheplanet16, @unitrippy, @drifting-daydream, @musicislove3389

[fablebarnes]

complete and utter filth and i loved every second of it