Chapter 1: Summary Chapter
Chapter 2: First Encounter
Chapter 3: Fragile Commitment
Chapter 4: The Beginning of Trust
Chapter 5: Worming Her Way in
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Chapter 8:
Bob Reynolds:
A Shadow of a Heart
Chapter 1: Intro Chapter
Chapter 2: How it Started
John Walker:
A Shadow of a Heart
Chapter 1: Intro Chapter
Chapter 2: How it Started
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworkers are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: full disclosure- I blacked out. Iâm not sure how the hell I wrote almost 3k words of filth but I do know I hunted my husband down after. Thank you for the love on part 1. You all fueled my praise kink. Do it again, please? Like, reblog, and comment! All the love to you!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Youâve never held on to something so tight before.
Not even when you were younger and held your mamas hand.
Not when you tripped and reach out to grab the nearest person.
Not even your phone when the wind almost blew it away.
But Bucky, your fingers are cramping from the force of your grip on his jacket.
The bike bobs and weaves between cars, his chest rumbling from laughter when you squeak and lock your arms harder. His left hand moves to rest on your thigh, fingers drumming softly along the curve of your knee.
Your mouth is dry from panting, and your insides feel like goo. Vibrations from the bike are making it really hard for you not to moan into Buckyâs helmet and press yourself harder against his back.
This is checking off every box on your dirty biker fantasy, and dear Gods above â if he doesnât bend you over the second the bike stops, you might fall to your knees and beg for every sin available for purchase. Dignity doesnât exist in your vocabulary when a wall of a man like Bucky has you draped along his back. Let alone on his damn bike.
So, when he leans the bike to follow out of downtown and to the suburbs, you can only hope heâs not a murderer. Honestly, he could choke you out and youâd say thank you.
The other two had given him a thumbs up and stayed on the path in the city. Red Bike had leaned over and fist bumped Bucky, and wiggled his fingers at you before speeding to catch up to Star Spangle Banner Biker.
You take in your surroundings as the bike start to slow.
Itâs a relatively quiet sub, most homes are dark â porch lights on, but all windows dark. Save for a few with soft lights in the living room from a TV playing.
The home Bucky pulls into is modest, a sweet brownstone with an already open garage awaiting your arrival.
You slowly flex your fingers, releasing your hold on him when he kicks the stand down.
Bucky gracefully stands, running a hand through his hair, âHope you donât mind, but I brought you to mine. I kind of forgot to ask where you wanted to go.â A sheepish grin blooms on his face.
Taking a deep breath, you slide the helmet off, âItâs okay. I wasnât in the mood to deal with my roommate anyways.â You hand him his gear.
He places it on a shelf besides the bike, taking a moment to remove his protective gloves.
And you take that moment to very openly ogle at him.
His shoulders are wide â you literally had your face between the blades â but theres something comforting about the size of him. Wide. Tall. Arms that look they could crush watermelons. Thighs that look solid enough to hold you there for hours.
A back so muscular the muscles are seen through the thick leather jacket. His hair is on the longer side. Long enough to grab fistfuls of and curl at the nap of his neck.
Youâre practically drooling when Bucky looks over his shoulder at you.
âYou like what you see, sweetheart?â The fucker smirks.
Licking your bottom lip, âIâm not complaining about the view.â
He faces you fully, one hand going to rest on bike behind your seat, the other on your cheek. âYou know, Iâm trying very hard to be a gentleman ââ
âAnd howâs that working out for you?â You lean into his touch.
You watch in real time as his pupils dilate, âYouâre making it rather hard.â
You let your eyes wander over him. Down his torso to his jeans, âYou talking about your restraint or that?â
There, as clear as the moon in the sky, is a bulged in his pants. Your thighs twitch, your fingers raising to find purchase on his waist. When he doesnât answer, you meet his gaze.
Blue eyes nearly swallowed by black. The hand on your face slowly slides to the back of your head, fingers slightly twisting to grab your hair. Your breath hitches at a soft tug, âBoth.â
His eyes track your tongue when it flicks out to lick your lower lip again, âI had a shit night, Bucky. I donât want restraint.â
Famous last words before his mouth is on yours.
The kiss isnât soft. Itâs not sweet. And it sure has hell is not slow.
Bucky kisses like a man starved. Parched. Lost in the desert and you are the first lick of water heâs tasted in days.
Itâs complete of teeth grazing lips, tongues fighting for dominance, and fingers gripping for dear life.
Buckyâs hand from the bike moves to your thigh, finger tips digging into the meaty flesh of you. A groan leaves his mouth and into yours. Your own hands unzip his jacket and shove it off him while still keeping your lips locked. Jacket makes a soft thud when it hits the floor.
His hands go back to you after shaking the gear off, turning your body to sit sideways on the bike. For a moment, you think about jumping off the bike, but then heâs shoving your thighs apart and stepping between them.
He towers over you like this, and your neck starts to hurt from how far back your head is leaning to keep kissing him. You break apart to breathe, but his lips just descend to your neck. You grip the bike for support with one hand â the other finding his hair.
You yank when his teeth find that spot below your ear. And the sound that leaves his throat is enough to send slick drooling out of you.
Itâs like you unlocked Bucky because then he drops to his knee, fingers curling into your leggings and pulling them down so fast, you almost fly off the bike. You gasp, âBuckyââ
The look on his face will forever be etched into your frontal lobe. Eyes blown wide, mouth pretty pink and wet, and hair falling on his forehead. He just stares at your bare pussy for a moment before looking up at you with a lopsided grin, âOh sweetheart. Louder for the neighbors to hear.â
The words barely reach your ears when his mouth meets your wetness. Your hand dashes to his hair as a breathy moan leaves you. And Bucky eats pussy like heâs tasty the sweet nectar of a plum.
Itâs loudâ his tongue against your clit, flicking and lick quick swipes. His right fingers tracing the opening of you, his left hand holding open your trembling thigh.
You watch him watch you. Your mouth hangs open, brows drawn together, and filth falling from your lips. âBu-Bucky!â You gasp loudly when a finger sinks in, âThe garage isâ â, another loud moan, thighs twitching, âOpen!â
Bucky has the audacity to roll his eyes and then press another finger in just to curl them.
Your back arches, head thrown back, moaning to the ceiling and praying to God someone doesnât hearâlet alone fucking seeâwhat Bucky is doing to you.
You clench when he curls his fingers harder, pressing that soft spot he seems to have found ungodly fast. His chooses that second to also suck on your clit, harshly.
Stars burst in your eyes, the sound between you legs is sloppy, and all you can do is cry out his name as you come. On his bike.
Your biker fantasy list is headed to being completely filled if he keeps this up.
Bucky doesnât slow his fingers, only moves his mouth to give kisses to your thighs, âGood girl. Such a good girl for me.â
Heat blooms on your face, you pussy crying around his digits, âPlease.â
He licks his lips, âPlease what, sweetheart?â
Your eyes start to cross as another orgasm builds embarrassingly fast. Youâre not even sure what youâre begging for. Mercy? More? His cock? His mouth again?
His free hand grips yours still holding onto the bike, âCome one, sweet girl. Give me one more and Iâll give you my cock. Think you can do that for me? For yourself?â And then he slips a third in, all the way down and twists them.
For a brief moment, you think you break his hand holding yours and maybe yank a couple strands out of his head. You come again. A high cry echoes in the garage. Clenching so tight around him, he just leaves his fingers buried deep within you. Wiggling the tips to draw out your orgasm.
Tears fall form your eyes when you realize heâs lowering his mouth back down to you. âBucky, please.â You hiccup, âYou â you said â â, and his lips are making out with your clit again.
You sob loudly. Fat tears spill from your face, sweat dripping down your back, and you canât seem to catch your breath. His mouth feels like sin and heaven and his fingers just keep playing that spot deep inside you. You pussy cries with you. Two orgasms in, a third approaching, and your poor thighs cant close around his big body.
Buckyâs shoulders keep you spread, and his eyes stay locked on your wet face. The evil bastard looks smug. Looks like he could die there and be so thankful.
âI know, sweetheart.â He pulls away, lips wet and smirking, âI promise. One more. Give me one more and Iâll fuck you right.â He licks your shaking thigh, âYou look so fucking beautiful on my bike. Letting me eat your pussy.â Bites the juggle of your inner thigh, âI could do this all fucking night. You taste so good. One more, there you go.â And he wraps his lips back around your clit.
You might pass out, youâre not sure, when your third hits. Itâs so wet and loud and Bucky just drinks you up. You push on his head, your feet kick at his sides, too overstimulated. Your poor pussy weeps when he pulls away and withdrawals his fingers. Not without keeping them curled the whole way out.
Your lungs arenât filling with enough air, but your chest feels light and heart feels full. And pussy feels fucking recked and its just from his mouth and hands.
Bucky lifts you off the bike, holding you open and carrying you as if you weigh a sack of potatoes. You cant even find your brain to care, to fight him to put your down. That youâre heavy.
You just get wetter at the idea of him holding you against a wall and fucking you until the wall gives way.
When your mind catches up, heâs dropping you on his bed and his clothes are shedding. Buckyâs mouth finds yours as he climbs over you, hooking your thighs over his.
You cant help put looks down and nearly pass the fuck out because what do you mean heâs hung like a goddamn horse?
You must make a choked sound because Bucky laughs softly, hands moving to remove your shirt and snap your bra off. âItâll fit, sweet girl. Youre a good girl, right? You can take it.â
You nod along, wide eyes watching the way his cock glides between your wet folds. You whine as the shaft slides over your clit. âI can take it.â
Bucky moans, âFuck â â, and sinks his cock halfway in you.
You both gasp out, your hands gripping his biceps as his grip the sheets beside your shoulders. âOh â Bucky â fuck me!â Back arches off the bed as he thrust the rest in.
âShit, I knew youâd be perfect. Taking me so fucking good. Look at how pretty youâre taking me.â Bucky shoves a hand into your hair and angles your head down.
Your lower lip wobbles at the sight.
Your pussy stretched wide to take his girth, thighs wet from your three orgasms, and your legs spread so fucking wide you can feel a mild pinch in your hips.
Wet eyes meet piercing blue, and you clench around him âPlease.â You beg again. And this time, you know what youâre begging for, âFuck me, Bucky. I can take it.â
Bucky slowly leans back; gaze still locked with yours. He takes one hand and presses it to your thigh, lifting it up to spread you wider. You gasp when he somehow slides in deeper. His other hand moves from your hair to your right breast. âHold on, sweetheart.â
Your hands grip his arm above your chest just as he drawls out, and slams back in.
The pace he sets is punishing. Headboard shakes against the wall, the bed creaking with each thrust of his hips. His heavy balls smack against you and the squelching between your legs is almost as loud as your sobs.
âOh my god!â His cock drags along spots inside you never even knew where there. The head hits deep, your walls keep quivering, âPlease, Bucky â donât stop â I can â â, you blabber.
Bucky groans, hips snapping fast and harder, âJesus Christ,â his eyes watch your breast bounce, the softness of your body jiggling with each pound, âIma keep you tied here. Keep you all to myself and fuck you whenever you want. That sound good, sweet girl, huh?â He tilts his hips, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.
You nod because thereâs no way youâll say no to that, âWhenever you want.â Youâre crying again.
He licks his lips before lowering himself nose to nose with you. His hips not once faltering, âYeah, sweetheart? Whenever I want?â You just nod. âGood girl, such a good. Fucking. Girl.â
Each word punctuated with a thrust harder than the last. And thatâs what sends you over the edge.
You clench down, hard, and come harder than youâve ever before. You fly off the bed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sob his name over and over. Â
Bucky lets out a deep growl, drilling one last deep thrust in before releasing inside and painting your fluttering walls.
It takes a long moment of gasping, twitching, and sharp sobs before either one of you lets the other go. Bucky slowly lowers your legs onto the bed as he pulls out.
Your eyes slip shut, his cum dribbling out, âBucky â â, you start.
âIm right here, sweets.â A warm hand finds your cheek, âIll be right back. Donât worry.â
You lay there, feeling boneless and thoroughly stretched out. In all parts of your body and soul.
A deep feeling washes over you as you hear him down the hall running water. Is this when he calls you an uber to send you home? Is he just going to come back to clean you up and then go take the couch?
Your spiral pauses when he walks back in, âI hope itâs not too hot.â Buckyâs voice washes over you and heâs gently wiping you clean.
You sigh, keeping your eyes closed. Its stupid. Just met like a few hours ago and he fucked you so good now youâre going to compare everyone after him to him. But you donât want to go. His bed is warm, his hands are gentle and soft, and he smells like comfort and desire.
Bucky must notice. Of course he does.
âYouâre staying.â
Two simple words that cause your eyes to open and widen. Had you said those things out loud? Did he fuck the filter right out of you? Is your brain still on the bike?
âIâd like to take you for breakfast. Maybe get your number and see you again, if youâll have me.â Bucky looks so open and kind and your eyes start to swell.
âIâd like to stay. And breakfast. And you can have my address and social too if you ask nice enough.â
Bucky laughs, wrapping his big arms around you and pulling you to him. A blanket joins his arms, locking in all warmth.
âRest, my beautiful girl. Iâm nowhere near finished with you yet.â
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworker are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: itâs been forever since I wrote literally anything. Iâve decided to crawl out of my hole and share a little something something as I warm my fingies. I have a mild praise kink so reblog, like it, and comment. Thanks!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Perhaps itâs the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.
Youâve seen the videos â the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.
If ever given the chance.
But Gods work on mysterious waysâŚ
Itâs a buzzing Friday night in New Yorkâbars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.
Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someoneâs promotion, you donât even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.
The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.
About you.
The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.
âIt must be hard shopping for your style in your size.â Dani had drunkenly mocked.
âSummers have got to be hard on you.â Tiffany chimed in.
âOh be nice to her. She just has more to love.â Frank laughed.
You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.
You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.
Slamming the last of your drink, you didnât even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.
The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.
Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.
Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.
The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.
But itâs the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.
You canât help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, whoâeven through his helmetâlooks over the conversation.
Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels itâs going to drop out your pussy.
You take a step forward and then freeze. Heâs huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?
Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.
Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.
Youâre frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.
âYouâre still here? We thought you left!â Dani pokes your arm.
You snatch it out of reach, glaring, âI was getting an uber.â
Frank materializes on the other side of you, âwhy are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Donât be so sensitive.â He nudges Tiffany. âRight? We werenât trying to make fun of you.â
The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, âyeah!â
You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.
Heâs swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.
The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, âNeed a ride?â
Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.
He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.
Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.
His eyes shift to the three people by you, âYou know them?â His left index finger wiggles between them.
You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you donât know these people. Theyâre just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, âNo. I donât know them.â
They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.
Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, âSheâs with me.â
You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize heâs leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.
Mystery Man climbs on the bike, âI donât have an extra helmet on me. I wasnât expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,â and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.
Youâve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good youâve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.
Heâs hot. Not as in oh heâs hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.
Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.
When you donât take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, âYou can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.â
Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and canât stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.
He licks his lower lip, âHowâs it fit?â
âA bit big, but feels good.â You wink.
The man groans, âJesus Christ.â
His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, âActually, itâs-â you give your name.
He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, âBucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.â
Summary:Â You're a hockey reporter who is diabetic. You're in the middle of interviewing the assistant captain, James 'Bucky' Barnes, and end up passing out where you are taken to the hospital from your low blood sugar. When you're released, the assistant captain obsesses over your health and breaks their self-imposed 'no dating colleagues in the league' rule because he can't seem to get you out of his head.
Content warning:Â Reader is diabetic (I am not diabetic myself but a lot of people I know are so this is my observation of the disease), star assistant hockey captain Bucky with a left arm tattoo sleeve who is obsessed over you, little hockey talk/terms, bff Scott, and FLUFF.
"Ready for the interview?" Your cameraman and sound engineer Scott asked.Â
"Ready as I'll ever be."Â
You adjusted the microphone and the lapels of the blazer you wore while steadying yourself. The head coach of the team, Tony Stark came out of the dressing room to speak with the media.Â
He coached your city's hockey team, The Shield and had just won their second game of the playoffs.Â
"Mr. Stark." You put your hand up to ask your question.Â
Tony glanced at the crowd of reporters and rolled his eyes. It was a well-known fact that he hated doing any kind of interview but was always forced to because of his position. Usually, the assistant coach covered for him, but Phil Coulson was still in the locker room, and everyone in the media room was getting restless.Â
"Ms. Y/ln." Tony pointed to you.
"Yes, thank you coach. Congratulations on your win tonight. How do you prepare the team going into tomorrow night's game knowing you're up two games to none and heading into an environment that is hard to play in?"Â
"Hydra isn't a team to be taken lightly. They attack the neutral zone strong, their defense is solid, and their fanbase are rabid. We're ready and looking forward to playing there." Tony smirked at you.Â
You nodded and let the press conference finish.
Once he left the podium, you waited to see what two players the team was going to send out. You adjusted your microphone and looked at Scott who gave you the thumbs up when you saw two players come out and sit at the table.Â
Steve Rogers, Captain, and James Barnes, assistant captain.Â
Of course it was them.Â
The only player in the entire league that made you more nervous than Steve Rogers was James 'Bucky' Barnes. James was always a relentless flirt whenever you interviewed him, having to keep yourself composed and neutral was the hardest part of your job. None of the other guys on the team and in the league for that matter made you stutter, fumble with your microphone, or blush more than him and it annoyed you.Â
You were a professional and having a star athlete make you nervous was a rookie move.Â
Seeing them both freshly showered with dripping hair and flushed faces only made your insides contract and face heat while they settled themselves in the chairs. You looked over your questions you wanted to ask and sighed before you raised your hand up.
"Yes?" James winked at you while Steve chuckled.Â
"How do you prepare for the next two games knowing you're going to be playing in a hostile environment?"Â
Steve shrugged and said, "We're prepared just fine. Their arena and fans don't bother us one bit."Â
Steve looked over at James who agreed making the people in the room chuckle.Â
Cocky bastards.Â
A few more questions were asked by other reporters when you raised your hand up again.Â
"Yes?" Steve asked.Â
"Question for James. You took a puck to the ankle in the 2nd with that nasty slapshot you blocked. Do you have any concerns with it for the next game?"Â
James glared at you for a brief second before he scoffed and said, "It's all good. Nothing to worry about."Â
You glanced at one of their trainers who was in the room and he rolled his eyes. You made a note to probe further once the press conference was done.
đđŤđ
"Did you see Y/n sniffing around Parker, asking him about your ankle?" Steve asked Bucky who was putting some things away in his locker.Â
"No, I didn't."Â
Bucky side-eyed his friend and captain wondering why he was watching you. Of course you were asking about the puck he blocked, or rather his ankle accidentally getting in front of a slap shot from the point.Â
His ankle was currently swollen like a balloon and was showing off the colours of the rainbow in which he would need to ice the shit out of it when he got home. Peter and the training staff cautioned him not to mention the injury to anyone.Â
James smiled to himself.Â
You had been in the back of his thoughts all god damn season with your shiny hair, expressive eyes, and pretty smile, but you're off limits. He doesn't date reporters or anyone close to the hockey world as he likes to keep that separate from his private life, but you were proving to be a challenge for his self-imposed rule.Â
"Probably looking at digging up information to expose your weakness to Hydra. Be careful with that one." Steve cautioned making Bucky chuckle.Â
"It's not fucking espionage Steve, it's hockey. They know I got dinged in the ankle so they may go after me next game. It's payoff hockey." Bucky shrugged, putting a few things in a bag then locking his cubbie in his locker stall.Â
The team was flying out the following afternoon to Jersey, so he had made sure to give the equipment guys what they needed to pack before he left the arena.
đđŤđ
"You're all packed then?" Scott asked while you lingered in the hallway of the arena.Â
"Looks like it."Â
You were looking over your itinerary for the away games you were going to be covering. You stood with a few other reporters and radio announcers while waiting for your bus to the airport. Reporters, media, and team employees usually travelled with the team and for the playoffs, there seemed to be a few more who were along for the trip. You looked at the time and saw you had about 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to pull up.Â
"I'm just going to check my blood sugar."Â
You stepped aside and used your scanner on your arm. The beep of the app sounded, and you looked at the screen and saw it read 5.6.Â
"Thank god." You mumbled. You had been having a hard time with your sugar levels lately so seeing a normal readout for the first time in a while was a relief.Â
"Bus is here." Scott announced down the hall.
đđŤđ
You boarded the plane and sat in the front where media had their assigned seats. You watched as the players boarded in their suits; some acknowledged you and some walked by. Even though the league has relaxed their dress code rules, the team still travels wearing suits, something they decided to do as a group.Â
You had to admit, seeing the players in their suits was the highlight whenever you travelled with them. An even better perk to the job that no one knows about was, once the players boarded the plane, most, if not all, stripped out of their suits and changed into comfy clothes in the middle of the aisle for the flight.
When you first started with the team, you had sat down in your seat, but you forgot your notebook in your carryon, so you got up to get your bag in the overhead bin. You stood and looked to the back of the plane where a few of the guys stood shirtless in the aisle and were changing.Â
You almost dropped your bag on Scott seeing their toned bare chests and underwear clad bottoms in the aisle. You immediately sat in your seat clutching your bag to your chest with a red face making Scott chuckle at your reaction. He thought it would be funny not to tell you they did that for your first away game.Â
Yeah, really hilarious Scott, but you're used to it now.Â
Now, you try not to sneak a peek when the assistant captain shucks off his white dress shirt exposing his tattooed left arm sleeve, then slowly folds it and places it in his bag while making eye contact you the entire time; something he does on every flight.Â
Like you told yourself countless times before, cocky bastard.
đđŤđ
You watched the practise at the Hydra arena in Jersey with Tony Stark barking plays and line combinations out to the players while they skated. From your observation the team looks dialed in and ready as they skated their drills.Â
"Y/n?" Wanda Maximoff tapped you on the shoulder.Â
"Hi Wanda."Â
She stood next to you with her tablet and cell phone in hand. For being the teams head of PR and social media, she was remarkably always put together.Â
"I've secured you a one-on-one interview tomorrow after the game. We want it to be fun and playful for our socials"Â
"Oh? With whom?"Â
Inside, you were wishing it was ANYONE but James Barnes.Â
"Barnes."Â
Crap.Â
"Sounds good."
 You usually liked doing one-non-one interviews with the players but anytime you interview James Barnes one-on-one, it was always challenging for you since he flirted relentlessly with you.Â
"I'll email you the list of questions later." She tapped on her iPad and then headed down the hall to the dressing room.
đđŤđ
You sat in your hotel room and went over the questions for the one-on-one Wanda had sent. The questions were straight forward, mostly cute personal ones which should be an easy breeze for you to ask. You had a bunch of food in front of you, mainly some juice boxes and chocolate bars seeing as how your blood sugar levels were lower lately.Â
You had made reminders in your phone to check your blood sugar levels more often for the following day since it was a game day which usually means lots of on-camera reporting and filing reports before, during, and after the game.Â
Add in the new interview Wanda asked you to do, and it was going to be a long day.
đđŤđ
"You got all your snacks in there?" Scott pointed to your tote bag.Â
"Think so. I feel good today, so I'm sure I'll be ok. I just want to get my readings back to normal."Â
Scott knew you were diabetic and was always looking out for you. You had set yourself up for your pre-game coach's interview.
You saw James Barnes saunter down the hall in his workout shorts, flip flops, and long-sleeved black compression top looking mischievous.Â
"Y/n." He nodded at you.Â
"Hello." You squeaked out.Â
He stopped and leaned into you and said, "I'm looking forward to our one-on-one after the game." He flashed a wink at you before disappearing into the players locker room.Â
Scott chuckled at the face you made because it looked like shock mixed with a grimace and maybe a blush.Â
"Let's just get this over with." You shook that interaction off, following Scott to the interview room.
đđŤđ
You had jammed a granola bar in your mouth while you went over notes, players, lines, and the pre-interview requests but it wasn't enough.Â
"Here."Â
Scott handed you half a turkey sandwich he found in the dressing room, so you managed to eat a little of it.Â
"Thanks."Â
You pushed on and did a few sound checks, reports, repositioned the camera, and did a small interview with the radio team on what to expect for the third game in the series, and by the time you had finished, the game was starting.Â
"You good?" Scott looked over at you, and you shrugged, saying, "I feel fine. Your sandwich helped from earlier. I'll get something after the game."Â
You hadn't checked your sugar levels, but you felt fine, just as you replied to a few texts from the network and started your game notes.
đđŤđ
"Overtime?" You groaned watching the players from both teams exit the ice surface.Â
You had almost filed your game report, but Hydra scored with 2 minutes left in regulation, tying it up. Your phone was dinging with new requests for small updates to the sports shows, so you were busy filming a few of those followed by a live interview.Â
"You, ok?" Scott asked when he heard you groan.Â
"I think so."Â
"Let me get you something to eat..."Â
"There you are." Came a booming voice from behind you.Â
"Nick." You bravely smiled at the network executive standing in front of you even though you were starting to feel a little funny. Nick Fury owned the network you worked for, so he was technically your boss' boss and anytime he came to a game, he always wanted to meet with the reporters and media.Â
"Hello sir."Â
"Y/n. How are things going on the road for you?"Â
You inwardly cringed at having to stop and chat with him. He was always nice to you, but you never wanted to make him angry; he knew too many people. Scott watched you take a few steps to the side and chat with him while he ordered some food for you.
đđŤđ
"Did I miss anything?" You asked, heading back to your spot after your conversation with Nick Fury.Â
"Nah, you're just in time." Scott replied, looking around for the food he ordered.Â
You settled in for the puck drop but Scott got called away by the radio crew needing him to fix something, so you were left alone. The more you watched the overtime, the more you're convinced James is injured since he didn't look like himself on the ice. Every stride and push-off he did on his skates seemed to make him wince more.Â
Overtime lasted only 9 minutes when Clint Barton ended up knocking in a rebound from Bruce Banner's slapshot, ending the game. The bench cleared while you watched the team celebrate on the ice with boos reigning down from the agitated Hydra crowd.Â
"Thank god." You said, stomach grumbling while you made you way to the hallway for the post game interviews.
đđŤđ
The team sent out OT goal scorer Clint Barton and Bruce Banner, for their post game interview so you managed to ask them some questions and got your answers you were looking for.Â
You looked at your watch and that's when it hit you.Â
"Crap."Â
"What?" Scott looked over.Â
"I should eat..."Â
"Shit, I forgot I ordered food for you, but they must not have dropped it off since I wasn't there..."Â
"There you are!" Wanda smiled wide.Â
"Shall we?"Â
She escorted you to an empty room that had two chairs, a camera, and lighting set up. You had wobbled a little on your feet when you walked with her, telling yourself you were unsteady for it being late.
"I figured we may as well start now." She grasped her iPad tight.Â
"Right...I was about to go and get..."Â
"Where do you want me, ladies?" James strolled into the room, looking fresh as a daisy from the grueling game he just played.Â
Your eyes focused on his ankle, but you didn't see him limping or hobbling. The trainers must be magicians.Â
"Right here." Wanda pointed to the chair.Â
"And Y/n will be there." She gestured to the other chair, smiling wide.Â
"We'll be over there." She waved to the corner of the room where a few more social media people were.Â
"Right then." You cleared your voice and fumbled with your notes.Â
You were starting to get a little shaky.Â
"You, ok?"Â
James watched you sit but there was something off about you.Â
"I'm fine James." You plastered on a smile.Â
"Call me Bucky." He winked at you.Â
Your vision started blurring but you quickly blinked and the feeling had passed.Â
Everyone was watching you and waiting for the interview that would quickly be edited so it could get out the following day to the team's social media pages.Â
You cleared your throat and settled yourself in. From the questions, you figured it would only take you about 30 minutes at the most to get through all of them so you could run and grab something to eat from the restaurant at the hotel lobby before you settled in your room for the night.
đđŤđ
You were listening to James reminisce about some of his playing days on his junior team when you felt your heartbeat start to race and your vision was starting to blur.Â
Fuck no, not now, please God.Â
Your shakes were getting worse and the anxious feeling mixed with dizziness had come on strong. You gripped the arm rests of the chair you were on intensely while trying to keep it together.Â
"So, James...telllll meeeeeeeee..."Â
You swayed slightly then slumped over, dropping your notes as you went down with the darkness that surrounded your vision.
"Holy shit!" Bucky blurted out.Â
When he walked into the room, he noticed your face was pale and you were quieter than normal. He figured you were tired from working and the slight time change, but he never thought this would happen. When he first discovered you would be the one to interview him, he was excited because it meant he got to spend more time with you.Â
Even though he has a self-imposed rule of no dating media or people in the business, he somehow can't seem to get you out of his head. He watched you grimace as you smiled to Wanda before starting the interview and he couldn't help but feel a little defensive thinking you were not excited about interviewing him, but he quickly realised that wasn't the case at all.Â
Something was off about you.Â
Bucky looked over at you when he was finished and he saw you sway slightly, but then your face paled then you slumped over mid-question, collapsing in the chair you sat in, notes crashing to the floor. He quickly sprang into action, helping you down to the ground, careful not to injure you.Â
"What's wrong with her?"Â
Scott came running into the room and he froze.Â
"Shit!" He yelled, running towards you.Â
"Do you know what's wrong?"Â
"She's diabetic. Probably low blood sugar, which can be dangerous."Â
He looked you over. The team doctor came running in and assessed you with the paramedics following.Â
"She's diabetic?" Bucky asked, looking you over.Â
He held your hand in his while the doctor checked on you. When the doctor lifted your arm, Bucky saw the small round disc attached to the back of your arm. He'd never noticed it before. He looked at your face and he was worried.Â
You were so pale and you weren't responding well to anything since you were so out of it. The paramedics strapped you to the stretcher, and you were whisked away to the hospital.Â
"Go with her." Wanda waved to Scott who nodded.Â
He followed the stretcher, leaving Bucky in the room.Â
"I'm sure she'll be fine." Wanda patted his arm before she left to answer some calls.Â
"What hospital is she going to be taken to?" Bucky asked, but no one seemed to know.Â
He groaned and ran a hand over his face before he ran back to the locker room, grabbing his wallet.Â
"Where are you off to?" Steve asked.Â
Bucky replied with, "I'll text you when I get there." Then he was off, typing frantically on his phone for an Uber.
đđŤđ
You smelled the sterile cleaning products and instantly knew you were at the hospital. Your eyes were heavy as you struggled to open them.Â
"Mmfph..."Â
You moved slightly but it felt like your limbs weighed triple what they did.Â
"...Low blood sugar"Â
"...Dangerous..."
 "...Take better care..."
 Deep voices and words came in spotty patches while your mind tried to clear itself and wake up.Â
You moved a little more and wanted to sit up, but your right hand was blocked. You had a hard time moving it.
 "...waking up..."Â
Your eyes fluttered open and the bright sterile room you were in came into view.Â
"There she is." You heard Scott's voice from your left side.Â
"Scott?" You mumbled.Â
Your eyes focused on him while you took in the view. He sat on your left side, his eyes seeming to have dark circles around them.Â
"You gave us quite the scare."Â
You blinked a few times, clearing your vision but was squinting.Â
"Oh, let me turn these lights down a little."Â
He got up and headed to the door to where a light switch was and flicked it down.Â
"Thanks."Â
You smiled at your friend and co-worker. You heard a throat clear on your right, so you looked over and froze, eyes wide.Â
"Bucky?" You blurted out.Â
"I'll go and get the doctor..." Scott tapped your side then he left the room.Â
"Wh-what are..." You tried sitting up but felt weak.Â
Why is he here?Â
You looked down at your right hand that he held in his, fingers laced together.Â
"Shh...here, let me help..."Â
He let go of your hand and managed to help you sit up a little in the uncomfortable hospital bed you were laying in.Â
"Better?" He asked, making sure your pillow was fluffed.Â
"Y-yeah..."Â
You were still confused on why the assistant captain for the Shield was next to your hospital bed, holding your hand and watching you.Â
"You scared me." He softly said, moving a strand of your hair from your face.Â
"H-how...why are you here?"Â
"We still have to finish our interview silly..." He smiled wide.Â
"Interview?"Â
You thought back and that's when it hit you. You passed out when you were in the middle of asking him questions.
 "Our interview? Now?"Â
You were confused and Bucky felt bad for teasing you.Â
"Just teasing you sweetheart. I wanted to make sure you were ok."
You glanced out the window and found the daylight creeping through the blinds.Â
"What time is it?"Â
Bucky looked around and shrugged.
 "Around 7:30 am?"Â
"How long..."Â
"Hey, hey, shh...the doctor's coming back, he can explain everything."Â
"You sat at my side?"Â
"Had nothing else going on."Â
"Really? You guys won in OT, no bars to visit, or parties to go to and celebrate?"Â
Bucky shook his head no.Â
"Playoffs doll. We only have one thing in mind and that's to win the cup. No parties for us until this is all over. Team pact and everything." He stated proudly.Â
You knew Steve Rogers and him commanded the locker room and whatever they said, the team followed which is why they've been so successful this year.Â
"Then why are you here? You must be so tired..."Â
"Surprisingly, this chair is comfortable." He adjusted his large body in it which groaned under his weight making you chuckle.
Scott walked into the room followed by a nurse and the doctor.Â
"Hello."Â
"Oh, I should head out. I've got a morning radio session to help with." Scott looked over at you and smiled.Â
"Glad you're back with us. I'll see you later."Â
He patted your foot through the blanket and left the room, leaving you there with Bucky and the hospital staff.Â
"You gave us all quite the scare with that low sugar level."Â
The doctor seemed to scold you while he was typing on his laptop.Â
"We managed to correct it and adjust some things, but overall, you're going to be fine. I've already sent your chart to your own doctor, and you have an appointment with them when you get back, but other than that, you should be good to leave here this afternoon."Â
"Ok." You lamely replied, still confused why Bucky was at your side.Â
"Good thing your boyfriend was here with you to keep you company."
 You looked at the door where Scott was, then over at Bucky who gave you a sheepish smile. "Right, boyfriend."Â
Bucky reached out and held your hand in his. His very big, calloused hand that felt somehow soft in yours.Â
"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone. I'll be by in a few to check on you again."Â
The doctor flashed you a wink then tapped his nose before he left the room with the nurse following.
"I didn't know you were diabetic." Bucky quietly said.Â
"Yeah, well...surprise." You waved your left hand up and wiggled it like 'jazz hands' making him chuckle.Â
"So, boyfriend?" You raised your eyebrows up at him.Â
"It was the only way I could stay with you."Â
"You could have just left..."Â
"Pfft, nope. You passed out in front of me so I felt it wouldn't be right if I left you alone."Â
"Oh, well, thanks."Â
Your face flushed at his little confession.Â
"Everyone's going to he happy you're ok."Â
"Everyone?"Â
"You gave us all quite the scare back at the arena..."Â
"Sorry..." You mumbled.Â
"It's all good." He lifted a shoulder and sighed. "Well, I should head to the hotel to catch a little rest. Coach Stark gave me the morning practise off today."Â
"Sorry you had to miss that..."Â
You felt bad Bucky was with you all night.Â
Bucky squeezed your hand and made sure to get you some water on your side table before he left.Â
"I'll see you later." He nodded at you then headed towards the door.Â
An orderly had walked into the room carrying a food tray then left it on your table.
 "Make sure you eat that." Bucky pointed to the tray before he left the room, leaving you alone.
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"So, he was with me the whole night?" You asked Scott who had picked you up from the hospital.Â
"Yup."Â
"Huh."Â
"He had gone to two other hospitals before he found where you were. When he came into the room, he was frantic, asking the doctors about your condition and why you were still asleep. Seemed really concerned."Â
You were shocked.Â
"He told the staff he was your boyfriend so he could stay with you all night. I was there, but then I left for a few hours. When I returned shortly before you woke, he was sitting at your bed, watching you."Â
Scott pulled into the covered entranceway to the lobby of the hotel and stopped, helping you out.Â
"You don't have anything scheduled tonight. Game four is tomorrow and Fury said you don't have to cover it if you aren't feeling it. He can have someone else fill in for you..."
 "I'll be there Scott. I feel fine right now. All I want to do is rest a little more, but I should be good to go for the game tomorrow."Â
Scott looked you over but agreed. Your colour was back and you seemed more alert and focused. Your latest sugar levels were fine from the reading you did at the hospital before you were discharged.Â
"Ok. Schedule is still the same. The bus will pick us up in the morning. Text me later so I know you're still ok and if you feel funky, let me know and I can get you back to the hospital, so this doesn't happen again."Â
"I know, and thanks Scott."Â
"We've upped the food and snacks for you tomorrow so you should be ok."Â
"I appreciate it." You waved then headed to the bank of elevators to take you to your room. You wanted a shower, to eat something, then you were ready to flop into bed for the rest of the day.
You got into your room and dropped your purse at the door, locking it. You turned and froze, seeing a giant bouquet of red roses sitting on the desk in the room. You walked to it and smiled, smelling one when you took the card and read who it was from.Â
"Hope you're feeling better. From Fury and associates."Â
You looked at the bouquet then turned and was startled. On the bedside table was a giant gift basket full of food, snacks, fruit, crackers, and drinks.Â
"Woah." There was a card taped to the cellophane.Â
"This should be enough to get you through for tomorrow. Remember to take care of yourself. Bucky. PS â We still have to finish our interview."
You smiled and chuckled, examining the basket of food. Well, between this and the food Scott has ordered, you should be ready to go.
đđŤđ
You worked game four without issue seeing the Shield win and sweep their playoff series with Hydra. Scott had almost over ordered on food and snacks for you and made sure you updated him on your sugar levels which were back to normal thanks to the time you made yourself. You scolded yourself for not taking care of your condition since you have lived with it most of your life.Â
You did your post game interviews and filed your reports as normal when you saw Bucky walk up to you in the hallway.Â
"Are you doing, ok?" He asked, his blue eyes searching your face.Â
"I'm fine, thank you. And thanks for the basket of food. I hope I can get it all packed in my bag to take home with me." You teased making him chuckle.Â
"Good, I'm glad."Â
He leaned in close when an equipment manager wheeled a large crate behind you. You were able to smell his cologne from his shower.Â
"Congrats on the win again." You said before you turned to head to the bus to take you to the terminal.Â
"See you on the plane." He called after you making you wave over your shoulder.
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"Why aren't you sitting with me?" You asked Scott who was in the row behind you.Â
"Figured you could lie down and relax for the flight back."Â
"Scott, I'm fine, really. Maybe a little tired, but I'm feeling good, honestly."Â
You threw your carryon in the overhead bin. Just as you sat at the window seat, you saw the players board, excited from their win and to get home to their families. You buckled yourself in and waited until everyone was seated, grateful to Scott for giving you some extra room.Â
You had dreams of stretching out and reading your book, but those thoughts ended when you saw a large body standing in the aisle in your row.
 "Bucky?"Â
"Hey." He said, placing his carryon on the seat next to you.Â
"What are you doing?"Â
Players always sit at the back of the plane and only come to the front if they have a question for the medical staff or coaches.Â
"Sitting here." He shrugged off his black suit jacket.Â
"But...but why?" You watched as he started slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt.
 "Figured, I'd keep you company."Â
He shook off his shirt exposing his toned chest you always admired and grabbed a black t-shirt from his bag and slipped it on. Once he was set, he placed his bag in the overhead bin and flopped down next to you.Â
You turned and looked over your shoulder at Scott who hid a chuckle.Â
"Ok..."Â
Bucky settled in the seat and did up the seatbelt, leaning over you to look out the window. His shoulder brushed your arm when he did, making you feel his warm body heat.Â
"Should be a smooth flight." He said, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.Â
"Right." You were still frozen in your seat gawking at Bucky, unsure what to say or do with this large hockey player in your space.Â
No one else seemed to care that he was sitting at the front of the plane, so you just went along with it. As the plane taxied down the runway, then got set for takeoff, Bucky reached for your left hand and held it, lacing your fingers together while the plane lifted off. You didn't dare say anything or move your hand seeing as how it was firmly in his for the entire flight. It felt like you were floating as he held your hand; like you were back in middle school with a crush.
Bucky made sure you were feeling fine, asking you every so often if you were ok, it was almost getting annoying, but you understood his concern. You would be worried if you witnessed someone pass out in front of you, then see them being whisked away to the hospital by an ambulance.
The plane landed and Bucky finally let go of your hand when it came to a stop. He got up and grabbed his carryon as everyone deplaned. You got your suitcase and had ordered an Uber when Bucky came up to you.Â
"So, you'll be ok then?"Â
"Yes, I will, thanks. I've got an Uber on the way, so I'll be fine."Â
You stuffed your phone in your pocket. He watched you carefully, almost like he was committing you to memory then he nodded, seeming to be ok with your answer.
đđŤđ
You finally finished your interview with Bucky, the one where you passed out in the middle of it. Shield had made it into the finals playing against the Commandos and you had been busier than ever.Â
Your sugar levels were good, and you had no other issues apart from learning how to deal with an over-protective assistant captain who has been constantly checking in on you every chance he gets.Â
"Bucky, I'm fine, really." You insisted while going over your game notes.Â
The series was tied with game seven at the Shield arena, when you spied Bucky watching you from the doorway to the locker room like he didn't believe you.Â
"I'm fine." You assured him with a glare.Â
"Ok, sheesh, put the knife down doll." He teased, holding up his hands and slipped into the dressing room to prepare for their warm-ups.Â
"He's been obsessed with you lately." Scott teased.Â
"Ugh, I know. It's..."
 "Cute? Romantic?"Â
"Crazy." You huffed making your hair flutter around your face.
đđŤđ
"You ok over there?" Steve asked his assistant captain.Â
"All good."
 "Hmm..."Â
"What?" Bucky glared at his friend.Â
"You've been obsessing over the reporter lately."Â
"Have not." Bucky snorted while Steve gave him a look.Â
"Since she was hospitalized."
 "Just making sure she's ok."Â
Bucky put his shoulder pads on and did up his elbow ones.Â
"You know I have my rule..."Â
"Fuck your rule. You're head over heels for her, so why not ask her out?" Steve shook his head at his stubborn friend.Â
Bucky finished putting on his shin pads and pulled up his socks, all while thinking Steve may be right. He'd been low-key obsessing over you for a while and the hospital visit seemed to put everything in perspective for him.Â
He only had another year or two left to play out his contract and retire as a member of the Shield, so why not go for it? He's fairly certain you like him back, but would you accept a date with him if he asks you?
đđŤđ
"Holy crap, they won the cup!"Â
Scott gave you a side hug while the team celebrated on the ice. The fans were going crazy in the stands with the win which only made it louder in the arena for you to concentrate. You watched the team celebrate, hug each other and laugh while the trophy was brought onto the ice.Â
You had your press pass out and showed it, allowing you on the ice with Scott following. You had gotten a lot of celebratory shots of everyone and a few on-ice interviews from the excited players, when you had Scott get into position while the trophy was going to be presented.Â
"There." You pointed to a spot next to another news crew who were setting up.Â
The players were handed their Championship hats while they skated around the ice. Some were holding onto each other, and others were waving to their friends and family in the stands when you felt a body stand behind you.Â
Scott had a small hand-held camera he had started, getting you candid shots the network's social media team could use.Â
You turned and smiled wide at Bucky who was sweaty and red from celebrating; his hat on slightly crooked.Â
You shoved the microphone at him and said, "How do you feel right now?" Which made him smile wide.Â
"I feel amazing doll." He winked at you.Â
You froze at his term of endearment he had been using on you lately, unsure how to respond.Â
"Right, well... We can't use that Scott..."Â
You looked over at Scott who gave you an eye roll.Â
"Why not?" Bucky asked.Â
"Well...I..." You couldn't think of anything to say while he watched you try to find words.Â
The team was getting into place as the commissioner was heading to the ice to present the team the trophy.Â
You stood with your microphone, unsure of what else to say when Bucky leaned down and planted a kiss on your lips.Â
A few catcalls and whoops were heard while his lips devoured yours. You dropped the microphone and grabbed his sweaty jersey, kissing him back.Â
You finally separated when you saw Steve Rogers whistle and smile wide at the two of you. He placed his arms around your shoulders and said, "Finally!" Before he let go to head to where the trophy was.Â
You snapped out of it and composed yourself, picking your microphone up from the ice.Â
"You can edit that out." You said to Scott who shook his head no.Â
"Actually, we're live." He mouthed making your face pale.Â
Frig.Â
"You ok?"Â
Bucky was suddenly focused on you, seeing you pale.Â
"Did you eat? How are your sugar levels?"Â
"I-I'm fine. We're live. That was live. Everyone saw." You mumbled, face turning red.Â
"Yeah they did." Bucky smiled wide, leaning over to kiss you again.Â
"Bucky!" You blushed.Â
"Anything you want to ask me?"Â
"Uh..."Â
Your mind was soup at what he did, but you quickly composed yourself.Â
"What are your plans with the offseason?"Â
That was the stupidest question to ask you chastised yourself. There would be no way any of the players would be thinking that at this moment in time.Â
He leaned back, a little caught off guard but he smiled.Â
"I plan on celebrating the whole night with my team and hopefully you at my side. Then, tomorrow, I plan on taking you out on a date, THEN I plan on volunteering my time with the Diabetes Association in the off-season."Â
He faced the camera as he spoke.Â
"Someone important to me has diabetes and I want to help in every way I can."Â
Your mouth was open in shock before he skated away with a wink and joined Steve where they accepted the trophy. The fans were cheering loud as they watched the team hoist the cup in the air with Scott giving you a thumbs up from behind the camera.Â
summary: youâre a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that youâre both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ contentâ smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention đ, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state⌠imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the roadâ friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, andâ like youâ on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the carâ low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the carâ at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how longâ and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motelâ"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out hereâ stretched wide and emptyâ and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomesâ a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presenceâ the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be thereâ and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hiâ" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowlyâ your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might runâ and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. thenâ
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place isâ and always will beâ a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, iâ"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'knowâ" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can doâ"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked inâ a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothingâ a brush of denim against your sleeveâ but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fastâ or at least you think it does.
some time laterâ you're not sure how longâ a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a soundâ a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes againâ metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lotâ and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leewayâ you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feetâ wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptionsâ and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylightâ still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a poolâ or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and thenâ almost like he has a death wishâ he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alrightâ" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt onâ it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but thenâ
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anywayâ in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and thenâ just slightlyâ he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoingâ the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust andâ trevor was rightâ there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks onâ surprisinglyâ with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulnessâ dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliarâ unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the tableâ the only table in the roomâ and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turnâ just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composureâ the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heardâ and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn'tâ all of the ways this could end horribly for youâ before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it allâ of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at youâ not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning toâ to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.Â
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible lineâ asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into troubleâ they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrongâ show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your yearsâ and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's didâ not with hunger or entitlementâ but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his questionâ lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourselfâ a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tiredâ really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of characterâ you have the scars and the pain to prove itâ but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heatâ or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.Â
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.Â
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits youâ blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckysâ
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.Â
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout outâ
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keepsâ" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i justâ"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have toâ"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fractionâ not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering youâ it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twistâ but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soapâ the grit hidden underneath the cleanâ and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabricsâ a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socksâ but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glanceâ that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as buckyâ younger, happier, and clean shavenâ a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had saidâ white, clean, and untouchedâ and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes itâ just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft onesâ and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step whenâ
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeahâ" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smellsâ like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way sinceâ never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the timeâ talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhereâ meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomachâ to that areaâ and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strangeâ being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant periodâ like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop itâ soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guardâ but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the backâ or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the windâ it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body;Â guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out butâ" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the soundâ small, satisfied, toothyâ like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"heyâ they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able toâ"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozensâ if not hundredsâ of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look atâ almost instinctivelyâ are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "theâ you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away fromâ the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eatingâ but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtleâ something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answerâ and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i justâ" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about samâ" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosityâ or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you makeâ overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together onceâ an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back thereâ with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, umâ where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt meâ a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you displayâ at being seen like thisâ but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rotâ but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you eitherâ he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he wasâ he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i wasâ god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of meâ"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediatelyâ no pause, no hesitationâ like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long timeâ the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is thatâ"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for meâ"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with youâ or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupidâ and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"wellâ" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with youâ the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboardâ 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unrulyâ memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left homeâ but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous itemsâ a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shutâ but then he smirks.
"like i saidâ" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. thatâ that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places areâ no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't wantâ bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative strokeâ
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your handâ almost like it senses your desperationâ trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"fasterâ god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowlyâ not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clockâ 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky'sâ because who else would pull over into this fuckass motelâ but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you onceâ almost habitualâ before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you doâ after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread itâ trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks onâ a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hotâ" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in thâ"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"heyâ slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happenedâ what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, myâ just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he wasâ" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but buckyâ"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you justâ" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinaryâ almost domesticâ and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the foodâ not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.Â
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you canâ" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fitsâ"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning toâ for a long, gruelling secondâ just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothingâ barely thereâ but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurtâ you tried not toâ but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking aboutâ"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do youâ" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stopâ"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.Â
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumaneâ a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find frictionâ any frictionâ but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, pleaseâ"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweetâ so sureâ that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they wereâ" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuckâ" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonnaâ"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, buckyâ" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about toâ"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's stillâ fuckâ trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your beingâ everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymoreâ no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, butâ"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk awayâ it's the responsible thing to doâ but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay forâ" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touchĂŠ."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
⪠Prompt | Therefore I Am - Billie Eilish | âI don't think I caught your nameâ
⪠Summary |Anonymity is the name of the game. But what happens when he keeps coming back?
⪠Warnings + Tags | Allusions to sex but not described, Congressman Barnes really just needs a hug, 'Peach' used as a nickname for reader
⪠Phoenix Chirps | Idk where this came from y'all. I will say though, that it's my favorite trope. So who knows, maybe down the line I'll explore more with them :3
⪠Word Count | 300
⎠Prev | Masterlist ⯠Event Masterlist | Next â
"Peach? He asked for you again."
It was like clockwork. Every other day the man you knew as Congressman Barnes ducked into your suite of the top secret brothel, operating under wraps in DC.
When he had asked for you by name initially, you had admittedly bristled. Normally when clients made a request for a specific woman, it was because they had a wild fantasy to fulfill.
And yetâŚthe first time you provided service to him, all James wanted to do was lay his head against your chest, and talk. About anything, about nothing, or just simply took a brief nap while he listened to your heartbeat.
He tipped you well before he left after his allotted time, thanking you in a whisper.
This went on for months, and you could count on one hand the times he shyly requested to be intimate. The gentleness that was concealed by his massive frame that could've easily snapped you in half nearly made tears spring to your eyes the first time. It had been far too long since anyone had been as attentive to your body as he was.
After a particularly charged session, something had felt like it snapped when his fingers, mouth, and cock had all made you fall apart over and over.
"Wait," his hand shot out to grab your wrist, large fingers as gently as could be holding you to keep you from leaving. "I don't think I caught your name."
Biting your lip, your true name was at the edge of your tongue. It would be easy to say, but you couldn't bring yourself to. "You know my name," you offered instead.
"Not your stage name, Peach," his glassy blue eyes were pleading. "Your real one. I want to take you on a proper date. Please."
Summary:Â What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancĂŠâs betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.
Warnings/Tags:Â Cheating Ex-FiancĂŠ, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously RespectfulÂ
Word count:Â 10.9k
Music:Â
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift
Feather - Sabrina Carpenter
Ocean Eyes - Billie EilishÂ
Begin Again - Taylor Swift
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! I will link each part together once theyâre all posted, Iâve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well⌠Iâve really flushed it out for sure đ I hope you all love this as much as I do!Â
The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.
All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where theyâd dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.
Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when youâd stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who shouldâve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancĂŠ blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.
Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man sheâd nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.
You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because youâd been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didnât know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.
You remembered saying, very quietly, âDonât.â
That had been the end of it.
No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life youâd already started arranging furniture in.
The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.
So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when youâd tried to tell them you didnât want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, theyâd looked at you like youâd lost your mind.
âHe ruined a relationship,â Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because youâd been too numb to pack. âHe does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.â
So here you were.
A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girlsâ trip in denial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. âYou decent?â
âDepends on whoâs asking.â
Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. âHey.â
âIâm fine,â you said automatically.
âLiar.â
You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.
âYou donât have to go out tonight,â she said. âWe can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. Iâll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.â
From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, âI heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.â
You smiled despite yourself.
Lena squeezed your shoulder. âIâm serious.â
âI know.â You swallowed. âI just⌠I donât want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.â
âIt wonât.â
âIt already kind of is.â
âIt was,â she corrected gently. âThe first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?â She lifted one brow in the mirror. âTonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didnât end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.â
You barked out a real laugh at that.
âThere she is,â Lena said softly.
You looked down, blinking hard. âI hate that Iâm still this upset.â
âOf course youâre still upset.â
âItâs been weeks.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I should beâŚâ You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. âBetter.â
Lenaâs voice went very quiet. âYou were going to marry him.â
That landed in the room with all the weight youâd been trying not to feel.
Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadnât just cheated on you. Heâd made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.
Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. âYou do not have to be over it on anyoneâs schedule,â she said. âEspecially not yours.â
Your throat tightened. âI really, really hate crying with mascara on.â
âSo donât cry.â Her mouth curved. âCome let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.â
From the bedroom, Mia called, âWe are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.â
âAnd Iâm starving,â Tori added.
âTragic,â Jess deadpanned. âThoughts and prayers.â
Lena held out a hand. âCâmon.â
You stared at it for a second, then took it.
The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.
Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.
Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one anotherâs plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.
By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.
By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.
âAbsolutely not,â Jess said, pointing with a french fry. âPublic cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.â
âThat is unfortunately a classic,â Tori agreed.
Lena tilted her head at you. âYour thoughts, wounded party?â
You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. âI think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.â
âRenewed annually,â Mia said.
âWith references,â Jess added.
âAnd an essay portion,â Tori said.
You grinned. âMinimum one thousand words.â
The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.
Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrongâtoo close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to beâand the air seemed to thin.
It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.
You set your glass down too carefully.
Lena noticed first because of course she did. âYou okay?â
âYeah,â you said, already halfway out of your chair. âI just need a second.â
Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, âText if you need me to come glare at strangers.â
You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.
The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.
This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.
You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.
âNot your night either, huh?â
The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.
You turned.
He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.
Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.
Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.
But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.
Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man whoâd spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.
His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. âSorry,â he said. âDidnât mean to startle you.â
âItâs fine.â Your voice came out softer than intended. âI was justâŚâ
âEscaping?â
A faint laugh caught in your throat. âThat obvious?â
He took a small sip from the bottle. âYouâve got the same look I do.â
âAnd what look is that?â
âLike if one more person asks if youâre having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.â
You stared at him.
Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The manâs mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.
âOkay,â you said. âThat was kind of funny.â
âKind of?â
âDonât get cocky.â
His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. âToo late.â
There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.
You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.
He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. âBucky.â
You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. âBucky?â
âYeah, I know.â
âNo, I like it.â You slid your hand into his. âIt just surprised me.â
His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.
It should not have affected you as much as it did.
âSo,â Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, âwhat are you escaping from?â
You should have lied.
You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.
Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, âThis was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.â
His expression changed instantly.
Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.
âSupposed to be?â he asked carefully.
âI caught my fiancĂŠ cheating.â You looked out toward the dark line of the water. âThe trip was non-refundable.â
For one beat, he said nothing.
Then: âHeâs an idiot.â
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.
âYou donât even know him.â
âDonât need to.â
That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.
You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. âMy friends agree with you.â
âSmart women.â
âThey are.â
He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. âThey the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?â
You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized sheâd been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.
A smile tugged at your mouth. âYes.â
âGood.â
Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. âGood?â
âYeah.â His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. âYou got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.â
There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but Iâm different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.
That, more than anything, disarmed you.
âYou always this honest?â you asked.
âOnly when Iâm trying to make a good impression.â
âThat your plan?â
âWasnât, originally.â
âAnd now?â
His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. âNow Iâm thinkinâ Iâd like to keep you talking.â
Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.
You folded your arms loosely. âThat a line?â
âNot a very polished one.â
âNo.â
âI can do worse, if it helps.â
You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.
Lord. It changed him completely.
The seriousness in his face didnât disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.
Dangerous thought.
You cleared your throat. âSo what are you doing out here, Bucky?â
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. âFriendâs birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.â
âAh. Fellow escape artist.â
âSeems that way.â
âYour friends keeping tabs on you too?â
He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.
Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.
The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like heâd been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.
And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
âYep,â Bucky said dryly. âLike a zoo exhibit.â
âYou say that like youâre not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.â
âFair point.â
The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that youâd come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like heâd stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.
You should probably go back inside.
That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.
Instead you heard yourself say, âSo what happens now?â
Buckyâs brows drew together faintly. âNow?â
âYouâve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. Thatâs a high-risk move. Whatâs your follow-up strategy?â
His mouth twitched. âWell. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like youâve already got one.â
âVery observant.â
âCould ask you to dance.â
You blinked.
Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.
Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.
âOr,â he added, âI could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever youâd rather.â
There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.
It had been a long time since anyoneâs instinct had felt like care.
You looked at him for a long second.
Then you said, âYou know what? Ask me properly.â
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.
âWould you let me have this dance?â
Oh.
That was unfair too.
You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.
And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.
But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.
He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didnât dare interrupt.
Buckyâs hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after youâd already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.
âStill okay?â he asked quietly.
You looked up.
He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.
The question wasnât about dancing. Or not only about dancing.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
âYeah,â you whispered. âStill okay.â
He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.
The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.
You hadnât expected that either.
âYouâre good at this,â you murmured.
âDancing?â
âMaking a woman feel like sheâs the only person in the room.â
Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.
âMaybe,â he said, âthatâs because right now you are.â
Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.
âBucky.â
âToo much?â
You shouldâve said yes.
Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.
His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.
At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.
You caught sight of her over Buckyâs shoulder and snorted.
âWhat?â
âMy friends are conducting a silent tribunal.â
He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. âYeah, I see that.â
âThey mean well.â
âI know.â
âTheyâll probably interrogate me later.â
âThat so?â
âOh, absolutely. Theyâll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether youâve ever hurt a womanâs feelings, your stance on emotional availabilityââ
âGot good answers for most of that.â
âMost?â
He looked down at you, mouth curving. âMight fail the social security one.â
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.
You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.
Your breath slowed.
His did too.
He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.
Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, âYouâre very intense.â
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. âSorry.â
âI didnât say I hated it.â
That landed.
He went very still, his eyes on yours.
From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.
But Bucky didnât move closer. Didnât presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.
It made your chest ache in a whole new way.
âYou know,â he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, âI was gonna be a gentleman.â
âWere you?â
âTryinâ to be.â
âAnd now?â
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. âNow Iâm thinkinâ Iâm in trouble.â
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.
Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.
You tilted your head. âThat sounds like a you problem.â
His smile was slow and devastating. âCould be.â
The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.
Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.
It didnât.
âYou should probably get back to your friends,â Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.
âI probably should.â
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.
The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.
You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. âThis wasâŚâ
âYeah,â he said softly. âIt was.â
You searched his face. âAre you going to ask for my number?â
One dark brow lifted. âWould that be okay?â
The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.
You smiled. âYes.â
By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.
Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. âWell?â
Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. âBefore anything else, hydrate.â
Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. âHeâs hot.â
âThank you, Tori,â Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. âCan we focus?â
You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.
Mia gasped. âOh my God.â
âWhat?â you demanded, already defensive.
âYou like him.â
âShut up.â
âYou do,â Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.
âIt was one dance.â
âOne very charged dance,â Tori said.
Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. âAre you okay?â
The question quieted everything.
You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.
And then you looked back up at your friends.
For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didnât feel complicated.
âActually,â you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, âI think I am.â
âââââââââ
The first thing you became aware of was the light.
Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.
Aggressive light.
Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision youâd made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.
You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.
Something crinkled beneath your cheek.
You opened one eye.
A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.
Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lenaâs suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.
This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.
You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.
Then the memories began filtering in.
Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.
Bucky.
Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.
Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way heâd asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before heâd let go.
Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.
You squinted at the screen.
9:47 a.m.
Three notifications from your group chat.
One missed photo drop from Mia.
One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.
No text from Bucky.
Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.
It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation⌠it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.
Still.
Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.
Nothing.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.
From the other bed, Jess rasped, âIf youâre dying, do it quietly.â
You lifted your head just enough to look at her.
Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.
âYou look incredible,â you croaked.
âDonât flirt with me,â she muttered. âIâm vulnerable.â
Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.
âWhy is the sun yelling?â she whispered.
âBecause you ordered a round of shots called âThe Bad Decisionâ at midnight,â Jess said without moving.
Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. âThat does sound like me.â
The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.
âAlive?â she asked.
âNo,â Jess said.
âEmotionally?â Lena asked, looking specifically at you.
You groaned and flopped onto your back. âWhy are you all like this?â
âBecause last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,â Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. âAnd now we require updates.â
âThere are no updates.â
That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.
Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.
Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. âOw. Alsoâwhat?â
You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. âNo text.â
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jess said, âI knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.â
Lena shot her a look. âJess.â
âWhat? Iâm not saying we send him hate mail yet. Iâm just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.â
You pulled a pillow over your face. âCan everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?â
âNo,â Tori said immediately. âBecause he had vibes.â
âHe did have vibes,â Lena admitted, though reluctantly.
âVery intense, careful, âI chop firewood but also ask about your feelingsâ vibes,â Tori continued.
âThatâs a suspicious combination,â Jess said.
You peeked out from beneath the pillow. âHow is that suspicious?â
âBecause men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. Itâs how they get past security.â
Lena pointed at Jess. âThat is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.â
You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. âHe could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.â
âOr gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,â Tori said.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.
You hated that you cared.
That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.
It was caring at all.
After everything with your ex, youâd promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a manâs attention feel like proof of your worth.
And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.
Lenaâs expression softened when she saw your face.
âHey,â she said, quieter now.
You shook your head before she could continue. âI know. I know itâs dumb.â
âItâs not dumb.â
âIt is,â you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. âI met him last night. I had one dance with him. Iâm notââ You stopped, pressing your lips together. âIâm not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.â
Jess was quiet for once.
Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.
Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. âYouâre not spiraling over him,â she said gently. âYouâre bracing.â
That hit too close.
You looked away.
Lena lowered her voice. âThereâs a difference.â
The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last nightâs cocktails⌠it all seemed to go still for a second.
âI just donât want to feel stupid again,â you said.
It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.
Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. âYou were never stupid.â
You gave her a look.
âNo,â she said firmly. âAbsolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.â
âI missed so much.â
âYou didnât miss anything,â Lena said. âHe hid things.â
Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. âAnd now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.â
âThat is unfortunately very accurate,â you muttered.
âWhich is why,â Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, âwe are maintaining cautious optimism at best.â
âSupportively suspicious,â Tori added.
âExactly.â
You laughed weakly. âSupportively suspicious.â
âThatâs our official stance,â Lena said. âWe liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.â
âBalance,â Jess said.
âHealthy,â Tori agreed.
A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.
âIs everyone decent?â Mia called.
âNo,â Jess yelled.
The door opened anyway.
Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.
She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.
âI come bearing caffeine and judgment,â she announced.
Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.
Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. âHe hasnât texted.â
âHow did you know?â
âBecause you look like youâre trying to be chill about not being chill.â
Jess snapped her fingers. âExactly.â
You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. âI hate all of you.â
âNo, you donât,â Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. âYou hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.â
You took a long sip. âThat metaphor got away from you.â
âIt did, but I stand by the emotional truth.â
Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. âWeâre doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.â
âI am not checking it every eighteen seconds.â
Your phone lit up.
All five heads turned toward it.
You froze.
The screen showed only a weather alert.
Jess inhaled through her nose. âThe universe is tacky for that.â
You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. âNobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.â
Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.
The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Toriâs shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting âto women with standards and men who fear God,â which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.
You tried not to check your phone.
You failed six times.
No text.
By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little cafĂŠ with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.
Almost.
The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.
You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.
Mia immediately opened the menu and said, âI need potatoes in a spiritual way.â
âI need eggs,â Tori said.
âI need silence,â Jess muttered.
âYou need toast,â Lena told her.
âI need justice.â
You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.
Once.
A real buzz this time.
Not a weather alert.
Not the group chat.
A single notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number:Â Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but Iâm starting to think I may have overcorrected.
Your entire body went still.
Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.
Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.
âOh my God,â Tori whispered. âIs it him?â
You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.
Lena leaned in. âRead it.â
âNo.â
Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. âRead it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.â
âYou are in no physical condition to climb anything.â
âTry me.â
You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.
There was a collective pause.
Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. âThatâs cute.â
Mia looked deeply conflicted. âThat is⌠unfortunately a good text.â
Jess narrowed her eyes. âRespectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.â
Lena pointed at Jess. âDo not sound impressed. It weakens our position.â
âIâm analyzing the enemy.â
You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.
Bucky had texted.
Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said heâd remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. Heâd apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.
Possibly both.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
You:Â Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.
You stared at it.
âToo much?â you asked.
Mia leaned over. âPerfect.â
Jess nodded. âDry, mildly flirty, not desperate.â
âThank you for grading my trauma texts.â
âAnytime.â
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
The reply came faster than expected.
Bucky:Â For the record, the restraint was difficult.
Tori made a sound like sheâd been wounded.
You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.
You:Â Thatâs a bold confession before noon.
Bucky:Â Iâve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.
You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.
Lenaâs face softened when you showed them.
âOkay,â she said. âThatâs⌠kind of sweet.â
âKind of?â Tori demanded.
âSupportively suspicious,â Lena reminded her.
âRight. Sorry.â Tori straightened. âSuspiciously sweet.â
You huffed a laugh and typed back.
You:Â Seven? Thatâs either disciplined or alarming.
Bucky:Â Little of both, probably.
You:Â Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.
Bucky:Â Worked last night.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.
âCan I start you ladies with drinks?â he asked.
âFive mimosas,â Mia said immediately.
Lena lifted one finger. âFour mimosas and one coffee.â
Jess pointed at herself. âCoffee is for me. Iâm recovering from an incident.â
The waiter smiled politely and fled.
You looked back at your phone.
You:Â Did it?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Bucky:Â I got your number, didnât I?
Your cheeks went warm.
Mia slapped the table softly. âOh, heâs good.â
Jess grimaced. âAnnoyingly.â
Lena took a deep breath. âI am trying so hard not to approve.â
âHeâs making it difficult,â Tori whispered.
You typed under the table this time, not because they couldnât still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.
You:Â You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.
Bucky:Â I was getting there.
You:Â Were you?
Bucky:Â Eventually.
You:Â Very smooth.
Bucky:Â Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.
Oh. There went your pulse again.
You stared at the words for too long. Interested.
Not youâre hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.
Lena studied your face. âGood text?â
You handed her the phone without speaking.
She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.
Mia snatched the phone next. âOh, damn.â
Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. âHmm.â
âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing.â
âJess.â
She handed it back. âI hate that I donât hate him.â
Tori beamed. âProgress!â
You were about to reply when another message came through.
Bucky:Â Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. Iâm not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.
The table went quiet.
For a moment, even Jess didnât have anything sarcastic to say.
Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.
Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when youâd gotten used to flinching.
You swallowed and looked down at your lap.
Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.
âYou okay?â she murmured.
You nodded.
Then you typed carefully.
You:Â I liked talking to you too.
You hesitated, then added:
You:Â And dancing with you.
His reply came a moment later.
Bucky:Â Good. I was hoping youâd say that.
Then another:
Bucky:Â My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.
You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.
Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.
Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.
You slowly lowered the phone.
Four faces stared back at you.
âWhat?â Mia asked.
âHe invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.â
There was an immediate eruption.
âUs?â Tori squealed.
âAll of us?â Lena asked.
Jessâs eyes narrowed. âInteresting.â
Mia grabbed your phone. âLet me see.â
You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.
Tori looked delighted. âThatâs so cute.â
Lena looked thoughtful. âInviting the whole group is good.â
âStrategic,â Jess said.
âRespectful,â Lena countered.
âCould be both.â
Mia was already reading the message again. âSam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. Thatâs funny.â
You took your phone back. âWe donât have to go.â
All four of them looked at you like youâd suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.
âExcuse me?â Tori said.
âI mean, we just met them.â
âCorrect,â Jess said. âWhich is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.â
âThat sounds ominous.â
âIt is.â
Lena folded her arms, still considering. âWhere is it?â
You typed.
You:Â That sounds fun. Where would it be?
Bucky:Â North end of the beach, past the public pier. Thereâs a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.
You showed them.
Mia nodded slowly. âPublic place. Group setting. Reasonable time.â
Jess pointed a finger. âWe are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.â
âThatâs reassuring,â Tori said.
âStatistically.â
âLess reassuring.â
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. âYou guys, itâs okay to say no.â
Lena looked at you carefully. âDo you want to go?â
The question quieted the table again.
You looked down at the phone. At Buckyâs name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadnât saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.
Did you want to go?
Yes.
That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.
You wanted to hear his laugh again.
You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.
You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether heâd ask before touching you again, whether heâd look at you like he had on that terrace.
And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.
âI donât know,â you said softly.
Lenaâs expression didnât change. âThatâs not what I asked.â
You exhaled, staring at the table.
Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, âYes.â
Toriâs whole face melted.
Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. âThen I guess weâre going to a bonfire.â
Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. âTo questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.â
Lena clinked her glass against Miaâs. âTo staying together as a group.â
Jess added, âTo background checks conducted in real time.â
Tori raised hers last. âTo hot men with manners.â
You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.
âTo supportively suspicious friends,â you said.
They all drank to that.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
You:Â Weâre in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.
His reply came almost immediately.
Bucky:Â Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.
Your chest squeezed again.
A second message followed.
Bucky:Â And my friends are nosy too, so itâll be fair.
You smiled down at your phone.
You:Â Should I be worried?
Bucky:Â About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.
You:Â That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.
Bucky:Â Heâs already a problem. But heâs mostly harmless.
You:Â Mostly?
Bucky:Â Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.
You read the last two words three times.
Pretty women.
Mia saw your expression. âWhat did he say?â
âNo.â
âRead it.â
âNo.â
Jess leaned across the table. âOh, itâs good.â
You held the phone away from them, laughing. âIâm allowed to have some private dignity.â
âNot on this trip,â Tori said.
You typed:
You:Â Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Bucky:Â Woman. Singular.
Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.
The girls exploded.
âWhat?â Lena demanded.
âWhat did he say?â
âYou canât react like that and not tell us.â
âThatâs illegal.â
You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said.Â
Tori actually squeaked.
Mia slapped Lenaâs arm repeatedly. âIâm sorry, I know weâre suspicious, but that was hot.â
Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. âI hate men.â
âNo, you donât,â Tori said.
âI hate that one might be doing well.â
Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.
There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lenaâs watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.
âYou need something breezy,â Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. âBut not too sweet.â
âWhy not too sweet?â Mia asked.
âBecause she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.â
âI am sitting right here,â you said.
âAnd we love you,â Tori replied without missing a beat.
Jess took a sip of coffee. âNo white.â
Everyone looked at her.
âWhat?â
âWhite reads bridal adjacent. Weâre not doing that.â
You grimaced. âAgreed.â
âBlack?â Mia suggested.
âFor a beach bonfire?â Lena made a face. âSheâll look like sheâs attending a seaside funeral.â
âI could be,â you said. âFor my engagement.â
âToo soon?â Tori asked.
You considered it.
Then you shrugged. âNo, actually. That one was funny.â
Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.
It felt good.
That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.
After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.
Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.
Bucky:Â Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because heâs in charge of food, not because this is a trap.
You laughed out loud in the dressing area.
Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. âBucky?â
You nodded, reading the text aloud.
Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, âTell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.â
You typed:
You:Â No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.
Bucky:Â Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.
You:Â She is. Fear her.
Bucky:Â Noted.
Then, after a beat:
Bucky:Â What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.
You snorted.
You:Â Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.
Bucky:Â Bullied?
You:Â Affectionately.
Bucky:Â Good. Iâd hate to have to defend you from a sundress.
Your smile went soft before you could stop it.
You:Â You think you could?
Bucky:Â Against the dress? Probably.
You:Â Against my friends?
Bucky:Â Absolutely not.
That one you showed the group.
Jess nodded once. âSelf-aware. Good.â
âHe knows his limits,â Lena said.
âGreen flag?â Tori asked.
âDonât get greedy,â Jess replied.
In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.
You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.
But the deep blue one made you pause.
It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasnât trying too hard. It didnât feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.
It just felt like you.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.
Your stomach dipped. âBad?â
Lenaâs expression softened. âNo.â
Mia pressed a hand to her chest. âAbsolutely not bad.â
Tori clasped her hands together. âBeach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.â
Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. âThatâs the one.â
You looked back at the mirror.
For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldnât love her correctly.
Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.
Pretty.
Interested.
Maybe even beginning again.
You bought the dress.
The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.
You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.
He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didnât send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.
At 2:13 p.m.:
Bucky:Â Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.
You:Â Please tell me you said no.
Bucky:Â I said hell no.
You:Â Strong leadership.
Bucky:Â Steve said I should compromise.
You:Â Did you?
Bucky:Â I compromised by leaving the room.
At 3:02 p.m.:
You:Â Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or âeveryone says casual but somehow looks beautifulâ casual?
Bucky:Â Iâm wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like heâs hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.
You:Â That answered nothing and yet told me so much.
Bucky:Â Wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Then, a moment later:
Bucky:Â But for what itâs worth, you looked beautiful last night.
You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.
The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.
You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.
A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant heâd done the work of loving you.
But Bucky had said it like he remembered.
Like he had thought about you after you left.
You typed back slowly.
You:Â Thank you.
That felt too small, so you added:
You:Â You didnât look so bad yourself.
His response took thirty seconds.
Bucky:Â That was smooth.
You:Â Iâm capable of growth.
Bucky:Â Proud of you.
The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.
Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. âYouâre giggling.â
âI am not.â
âYou are. Itâs disgusting.â
âLet her giggle,â Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. âShe deserves vacation giggles.â
Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. âVacation giggles are legally protected.â
Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didnât tease. She didnât need to. Her expression said enough.
Careful, but happy for you.
By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.
Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.
Then Mia clapped her hands once. âOkay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.â
Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. âI call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.â
âYou are emotionally a Victorian ghost,â Lena said.
âExactly. Respect your elders.â
The room became chaos again.
Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters.Â
Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasnât happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.
You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.
âYouâve been calmer this afternoon,â she said.
You met her eyes in the mirror. âHave I?â
âYeah.â
âI donât feel calm.â
âNo,â she said, smiling faintly. âBut you feel less like youâre waiting for the other shoe to drop.â
You looked down at your hands.
That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldnât quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Buckyâs steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.
Maybe interest didnât always have to feel like a trap.
Maybe attention didnât always come with a hook buried inside it.
Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.
Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. âYou know weâre going to be annoying tonight.â
âIâm counting on it.â
âGood. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, Iâm pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.â
âThat seems dramatic.â
âItâll look spontaneous.â
You laughed, then your phone buzzed.
Lenaâs eyebrows rose.
You picked it up.
Bucky:Â Do I get to tell you Iâm looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?
Your smile came before you could stop it.
You:Â You can tell me.
Bucky:Â Iâm looking forward to tonight.
A second message came right after.
Bucky:Â Maybe more than I should admit.
Your pulse warmed.
You:Â That was almost smooth again.
Bucky:Â Damn. Iâm improving too fast.
You:Â Careful. Expectations are dangerous.
Bucky:Â Iâll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.
You laughed.
You:Â Please donât.
Bucky:Â I wonât.
The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.
You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.
âHey,â she said softly. âBreathe.â
You did.
In. Out.
The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.
She looked different because she didnât look quite so haunted.
Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.
But not empty.
Not defeated.
By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.
âWater bottle,â she said, dropping one in.
âPhone charger.â
âMini sunscreen.â
âItâll be dark,â Jess said.
âYou can still burn if youâre spiritually vulnerable.â
âThat is not science.â
âBand-Aids,â Lena continued.
Mia looked over. âAre you packing snacks?â
Lena paused.
Everyone stared at her.
She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.
âLeadership,â Tori whispered.
You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.
It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldnât sink too badly into the sand.
You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.
Not because she was proving a point.
Not because she was running from pain.
Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.
That was all.
That could be enough for tonight.
Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. âHow are we feeling?â
âNervous.â
âGood nervous or bad nervous?â
You thought about it.
âBoth.â
âThatâs allowed.â
Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. âFor the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.â
âNoted.â
Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. âBut if heâs wonderful, we also support that.â
Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. âWe support you. Thatâs the actual thing.â
Your throat tightened.
You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend youâd planned. It wasnât the beginning of married life. It wasnât the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.
But it was yours.
The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.
All of it.
Yours.
Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.
Bucky:Â No pressure, but Sam just asked if Iâm going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.
You bit your lip against a smile.
You:Â Weâre leaving now.
His reply came almost instantly.
Bucky:Â Good.
Then, after a few seconds:
Bucky:Â Iâll be the one trying not to stare.
You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.
âWell?â Jess asked.
You slipped the phone into your purse. âHe says heâll be the one trying not to stare.â
Tori made an ungodly noise.
Mia pointed toward the door. âMove. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.â
The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.
The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.
The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.
Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.
But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.
You crested the wooden path toward the beach.
A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.
And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.
pairing ۜৠlighthouse keeper!bucky barnes x ghost!reader.
prompt ۜৠright place wrong time / dr john â june 4th entry for june jukebox scribbles, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles !
summary ۜৠin which, two ghost stories overlap and become a salt-air, liberating haunting.
a/n ۜৠi was rewatching âthe light between oceansâ when this idea swam to the surface of my mind, and iâm hoping one day iâll explore more of this!!
word count ۜৠ299 | divider creds ۜৠ@/angeliicide
Ocean waves briskly sweep across each other, celebrating the vastness of the heavens parting and gifting the water a glimpse of sunlight.
The lighthouse skims the wisps of heavenâs entranceâa place Bucky is forbidden from entering. Yet, being far away from the ground thatâs tried burying him on numerous occasions is serenity itself.
His company consists of a salt aroma warding off past gunpowder residue, seagulls discovering refuge after soaring past the window he longingly gazes out of, and a reminiscent tale citizens on the mainland whispered about when the waves clamoured loudly.
Youâre supposably a myth birthed from Poseidonâs wrath, summoned to ensure collisions of tidal waves wreak havoc against soul-filled boats.
They warned him of you, but they must have used the wrong line, for your presence settles the rampant ache in his chest.
Youâre an eidolic, mimicking his once hollow self. You drift where the world allows you, and as his dog tags, lying lazily on the desk, jingle peacefully against the faint, whirring rhythm of the lighthouseâs ticker, your otherworldly nature gracefully appears.
âYou can keep them, if youâd like,â The corner of Buckyâs lips curl upwards as he watches your fingers delicately brush against the metal, âSaves you creepinâ up on me.â
âYouâre used to me creeping up on you.â
âI am,â he muses, âBut a calling would be nice. Itâd at least let me fix myself up first.â
A ghostly smile flickers on your mouth. His charming spirit is unbreakable. Not even the ocean could drown it, no matter how many times heâs been knocked down.
Your souls may be barricaded from heaven, but not from this lighthouse. Here, when storms arise and the beacon shines, creatures both above and below the surface yearn for the contentment shared between a lighthouse keeper and a ghost.
Summary: Tony's soundproof tech protects people's ears, not their eyes.
Warnings: some smut, poorly written story, unprotected sex (wrap it up), pet names (Sweetheart, baby), proofread but i'm not good at that
Word count:Â 455 (flash-fic)
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
[A/N] Just a slight idea I wrote. I started off on a roll but it quickly fizzled. I wanted to post something though so I might extend it later when inspiration strikes again.
Bucky was good in bed. Everyone in the tower knew that by now because you werenât exactly quiet. How could you be though? You had never been fucked this good in your life. Youâve truly been missing out. Youâre making up for lost time with all those exes of yours and climbing on Bucky every chance you get. It got so bad that Tony actually soundproofed both of your rooms.
Of course, sometimes you didnât make it to either of your rooms which caused you to be temporarily banned from that area âuntil further noticeâ
Bucky actually preferred to have you in one of your rooms, cause then he could see if he could make you scream any louder. One of these days he is actually going to split you in two. At least thatâs how it felt.
Today was no different. Bucky had you faced down on the mattress, relentlessly pounding into you. His fingertips gripping your hips so hard they were surely going to leave permanent dents.
You were boneless. Sprawled over the mattress, your ass only now slightly in the air since your knees gave out. You were gone. As far as you were concerned right now, you were in space due to how many stars you were seeing. All you could do was moan and scream and let out the occasional heavy breath.
The soundproof system Tony built worked for the ears of the people on the outside. But there was a slight flaw. Some people just donât think before entering.
You were too lost in pleasure to even process what was happening other than the feeling of Buckyâs thick, long cock buried deep between your thighs but you felt him slow down.
"OH MY GOD!" the intruder yelled.
âCan I help you?â you heard Buckyâs deep voice say with a tinge of irritation laced in it. You felt a cool piece of fabric get draped over your sweaty bare skin and a hand placed gently on your lower back to keep it from moving.
âCan you lock the door?â you heard the other person say but you still couldnât tell who.
âThe door was locked!â
âBucky,â you whined, moving your hips against him.
âI know, sweetheart, Iâm here,â he whispered, his other hand reaching to gently stroke your hair. His head snaps to the intruder, âGet out, Wilson!â
âYou two need to calm down,â he said before rushing out the door and slamming it behind him.
âNowâ he started as he removed the sheet. He flipped you over onto your back and hovered over you, âWhere were we?â
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Bucky let out a deep chuckle at your neediness.
âDonât worry, baby. You know Iâll take care of you,â
⪠Prompt | Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel | âI'm gonna make her mine, all mineâ
⪠Summary | Bucky lays eyes on the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and is convinced he has a shot.
⪠Warnings + Tags | Fluff, mentions of alcohol and smoking
⪠Phoenix Chirps | Evidently I'm in a 40s Bucky kick. Aren't we all though? If only he were real...
⪠Word Count | 298
⎠Prev | Masterlist ⯠Event Masterlist | Next â
The Stork Club was not where Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes thought he would end up. An ocean away from home, next to his best friend who had just saved him from almost certain death, nursing a glass of whiskey that didn't quite have the same kick to it that it used to.
This was supposed to be a celebratory night, considering the surviving members of the 107th were now safe. Or as safe as could be considering they were in a war zone.
And yet, Bucky still felt like he was missingâŚsomething. A puzzle piece right at the edge of his needs and wants, that neither camaraderie nor alcohol was fixing.
That was, until the crowd - and even the thick cloud of cigarette smoke - seemed to part when the bell over the door jingled.
There you were, looking like you had stepped right off a cinema screen someone had produced just for him.
You barely glanced at the soldiers who all briefly vied for you attention silently. Yet when they realized you were more interested in finding whoever it was you were meeting, they turned away, dejected.
Bucky's eyes, though, tracked you through the crowd, until you found who you were looking for - Peggy Carter.
A convenience that Bucky didn't think he would've been afforded. At least now he sort of had a way to strike up a conversation with you.
"What's got you so starstruck?" Steve chuckled sliding in next to him against the bar.
Bucky just tipped his head in your direction, a smile finally appearing across his features. "See that girl? I'm gonna make her mine, all mine."
Steve followed his gaze, seeing you chatting animatedly with Peggy. He shook his head once, taking a sip of his own drink.
summary:: You have a bio exam tomorrow and you're nervous.Lucky for you â your boyfriend knows how to get you calmed.
warnings:: 18+,smut,fingering,HUGE size kink,reader is not described as small...but it's hinted,CHOKING,praise,reader is stressed. Oh-did I mentioned that he fingers her with his metal arm? So i guess metal arm kink lmao,he calls reader sweetheart
word count:: 3k
A/N:: as another warning I would like to add that this oneshot contains a lot of biology phrases.(Nothing serious, it's basically highschool level tbh) So don't get traumatised.
The desk lamp glowed honey-gold against the dark blue walls of your room, turning the mess of biology flashcards into something almost holy. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window.
You sat on your floor in an old sweater that smelled faintly like vanilla detergent, highlighter stains painted across your fingers like bruises. Your notes were everywhere â scattered open textbooks, half-empty coffee cups, desperate little reminders scribbled in the margins,like remember ATP â adenosine triphosphate.
You were drowning in mitochondria, cell division, Latin words that curled around your brain.
Right...brain! Cerebrum or whatever.
Your knee bounced anxiously while you reread the same paragraph for the fifth time, lips moving silently.âRibosomes synthesize proteinsâŚâ
Nothing stayed inside your head.You groaned softly, letting your forehead fall against the edge of the mattress beside you.God, you were tired.
A soft knock echoed through the apartment, sudden enough to make you jolt upright.Your pen slipped from your fingers.
For a second, your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You stared at the door, breathing shallowly while the rain tapped against the windows.
Another knock came,but slower this time...and familiar.You frowned, brushing hair out of your face. âItâs open,â you called weakly.
The handle turned and then he stepped inside.Bucky Barnes â loverboy.Tall, broad, impossibly solid in the dim yellow light of your room. His dark red henley clung to his chest from the rain outside, hair damp around his face, metal hand catching the low glow of your desk lamp.God,you loved that henley.
His eyes moved over the disaster surrounding you â biology notes spread across the floor, empty coffee cups, your tense shoulders curled inward like you were trying to survive yourself.
âI shouldâve never given you that spare key,you scared me.â you muttered, dropping your face into your hands dramatically.
Bucky closed the door behind him with a soft click.âNah,â he said quietly, toeing off his boots. âPretty sure youâd be dead by finals week without me.â
You peeked at him through your fingers.âIâm serious,â you groaned. âI think biology is actually trying to kill me.â
Bucky hummed sympathetically as he crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight.âCâmere, sweetheart.â
Your cheek pressing into the damp cotton of his shirt. His heartbeat was slow and steady. Nothing like yours.
Buckyâs big hand moved up and down your back awkwardly, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.âItâs just a test,â he murmured.
You pulled back immediately, staring at him in disbelief.âJust a test?â you repeated.Bucky blinked once. â...Yeah?â
A laugh escaped you.âJames Buchanan Barnes,â you said slowly, âif I fail this exam, my GPA drops, my scholarship gets reviewed, my future dies, and I end up living in a shoebox apartment surviving on instant noodles.â
His eyebrows lifted slightly.âYou already survive on instant noodles.â
You gave him a lookâBucky.â
âRight. Sorry.âHe tried again.âYouâre smart,â he said carefully, like he was placing glass on a shelf. âSmarter than anyone I know.â
You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. âThat doesnât help either.â
âRight,â he muttered under his breath.The room fell quiet.Bucky looked genuinely distressed now, metal fingers flexing against his knee. You could practically see him trying to fight an invisible enemy and losing horribly because the enemy was your nervous breakdown over molecular biology.
Back in the forties, he probably couldâve fixed things with a cigarette, a kiss to the forehead, and stealing somebodyâs car.But this?Biology finals at one-thirty in the morning?This was defeating him.
Bucky sighed, a deep rumble vibrating against his chest. His large, warm hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers gently kneading the tense muscles at the base of your skull.âThatâs enough, sweetheart.Pack it up. Bedtime.â
âNo, no, no,â you stammered, pulling your head away and immediately throwing yourself into a defensive position. You slid back down to the floor, grabbing your ATP flashcards with both hands like a shield. âI canât sleep. If I sleep now, my brain will perform a factory reset. Have you heard of sleep-induced information purging? Because I just made it up, and it feels scientifically accurate.â
His eyes stayed serious. He dropped down onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out carefully between the minefield of open textbooks.âYou didnât make up a science rule, you just drank your body weight in espresso,â he pointed out, gesturing with his metal index finger toward the stack of empty mugs in the corner.
âLook at you. Itâs past two in the morning. You donât even know your own name right now, let alone the... what is this? Whatâs a mitochondria?â
âThe powerhouse of the cell!â you blurted out instantly, sounding like a malfunctioning robot.
âSee? You know it,â Bucky nodded, nudging his shoulder against yours. His damp hair smelled faintly of the rain outside, but his body was throwing off pure heat. âBut if you donât get at least a few hours of shut-eye, youâre gonna collapse right onto your exam paper tomorrow. Your head wonât be in the game. I know that look. Guys in the trenches used to get it right beforeââ
âDo not use trench warfare as a metaphor for my biology final, Barnes!â you groaned, burying your face back into your hands. âI wonât be able to sleep anyway. My brain is vibrating. If I close my eyes, I just see chromosomes pulling apart. Iâm losing my mind.â
Bucky watched you quietly for a beat, his jaw shifting as he weighed his options. Then, without a single word of warning, he reached out, scooped his arms under your knees and back, and hoisted you right off the floor like you weighed absolutely nothing.âBucky! What are you doing?! Put me down!â
âRescue mission,â he muttered shortly. He turned and carried you the two short steps over to your bed, navigating the cluttered floor with terrifyingly perfect balance, making sure not to step on a single notebook.
He dropped you onto the mattress with a soft thud, but the second his hands left your waist, you were already scrambling backward. Your hands gripped the edge of the blanket, your eyes darting back toward the floor where your flashcards lay scattered.âBucky, Iâm serious, I need to look at meiosis one more timeââ
âNo, you donât,â he said, his voice dropping an octave. He didnât follow you onto the bed right away. Instead, he stood at the edge, unlacing his damp boots and tossing them aside. When he looked up, his blue eyes were dark, fixed entirely on you. âI told you to rest. Youâre not listening.â
âBecause I canât!â your voice cracked slightly, the sheer exhaustion and caffeine making you desperate. âMy brain wonât turn off. I canât just lie here and stare at the ceiling. I need to study, Bucky, pleaseââ
âSweetheart,â he interrupted, and there was a new, low vibration in his tone that made the breath catch in your throat. He crawled onto the mattress, his large, heavy frame looming over yours until you were pressed back against your pillows. He trapped you between his arms, his metal hand resting flat against the mattress right next to your head, pulsing cold against the sheets while his human hand gently caught your chin. âI know you canât turn your brain off. So Iâm going to do it for you.â
You blinked up at him, your heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. âWhat?â
Bucky didnât answer with words. He leaned down, his damp hair brushing against your cheek as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He pressed a warm, slow kiss right against your pulse point, inhaling the scent of your vanilla detergent and sweet sweat. A soft, involuntary shiver wrecked through your body, your hands automatically coming up to grip the fabric of his red henley.
âBucky...â you breathed, but it lacked any of the protest from before.
âShh,â he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing your jawline. âDonât think about the test. Donât think about biology. Just focus on me.âHis human hand slid down your neck, over your collarbone, and down to the hem of your oversized sweater. His touch was burning hot against your bare skin as he slowly slid the fabric up, his eyes never leaving yours.
Before you could even process the shift in the room's atmosphere, Bucky shifted his weight, sliding down your body. His large hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the bed as he parted your legs, settling himself comfortably between them on his knees.
âBucky, wait,â you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets. âThe notesââ
âForget the notes,â he whispered, his hot breath fanning across your inner thigh, making your toes curl instantly. His metal hand slid up to cup your hip, holding you perfectly still. âLet me take care of you, sweetheart. Just lay back and take it.â
The cool metal of his index finger brushed against your inner thigh, a stark, shocking contrast to the intense heat radiating from the rest of his body. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening into the mattress as he aligned himself. Bucky didn't rush. He watched your face closely, his blue eyes dark and heavy with an intense, protective focus.
Slowly, deliberately, he worked his metal finger inside you.The sensation made you arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, your back curving as a wave of pure pleasure crashed through the exhaustion fogging your brain. The smooth, unyielding surface of his vibranium hand was completely different from anything elseâperfectly sculpted, rhythmic, and incredibly precise.
âThere you go,â Bucky murmured, his low voice vibrating right through your skin. His human hand remained firmly anchored on your hip, heavy and warm, keeping you grounded while his metal finger slid deeper, finding a rhythm that made your head tilt back into the pillows.
"Bucky, oh god," you whined, your previous anxiety completely evaporating, replaced by the overwhelming feel of him.
He flexed his hand slightly, curling his finger inside you to hit a spot that made your breath catch entirely. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, seeking more of the sensation. A low, dark rumble of satisfaction approved from his chest.
âI told you,â he whispered, leaning up slightly so his warm breath fanned over your stomach, his damp hair framing his face like a shadow. âJust focus on me. Nothing else exists right now, sweetheart.â
He added a second finger, the intricate plates of his hand moving seamlessly together.You reached down blindly, your hands finding the thick muscles of his shoulders, clinging to his red henley like a lifeline as he began to move faster, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
The slick, friction-heated metal of his fingers slid deeper, and your walls tightened around him in a desperate, subconscious reflex. A dark groan tore from Buckyâs throat at the sensation, his broad shoulders tensing as he felt just how tightly you were gripping him.
âGod, sweetheartâ he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you beneath his heavy warmth. âLook at you.Taking me so good,bet you could take my cockâ
Your breath hitched at his words, the blunt weight of them hitting you harder than the pleasure rippling through your core. You looked up at him, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, your hands gripping the damp fabric of his henley even tighter. The sheer size of him looming over youâbroad-shouldered, thick-chested, and completely overpoweringâmade the thought of it feel impossible.
âI can't,â you gasped out, your voice cracking slightly as your hips twitched against his hand. âBucky, no... you're too big. I couldn't.â
âIs that right?â he murmured, his gravelly voice vibrating against your lips as he leaned down, hovering just inches from your face. âToo big for you, sweetheart?â You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.
You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.Buckyâs smirk widened, a wicked, knowing glint flashing in his dark blue eyes. He didnât slow the relentless, perfect rhythm of his metal fingers, but he leaned in even closer, the heavy heat of his chest pressing flush against yours.
âDon't give me that,â he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, teasing purr that vibrated right through your collarbone. âI notice how you look at me. Especially lately, since I've grown more muscles. You look at me like you're drooling, sweetheart.â
The heat in the room felt stifling as a mix of embarrassment and realization washed over you. You tried to glance away, but the intensity of the moment held your attention, making it impossible to look anywhere else but into his eyes.
Gathering what little courage you had left, you looked up at him through your eyelashes. âBucky?â you whispered, your voice trembling, smaller and more fragile than it had been all night.
âYeah, sweetheart?â he rumbled, his gaze locked onto yours.You bit your lower lip, shifting beneath his heavy weight.
âCan you... can you do something for me?â You hesitated, the next words catching in your throat before coming out very, very shyly. âCould you put your other hand on my neck?â
Buckyâs fingers stilled inside you for a fraction of a second, the sudden pause making your hips hitch in protest. His brow furrowed slightly, his blue eyes searching your face, dark and unreadable.
âWhy's that?â he asked, his voice dropping an octave, rough and careful all at once. âWhy do you want my hand there?â
âUm... to...â You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, mortified but desperately craving it. âJust to apply pressure there. Please.â
The request hit him like a physical blow. You opened your eyes just in time to see the exact moment Bucky went completely feral.âChrist, sweetheart,â he rasped, his voice entirely ruined.
In a flash of movement, his large flesh hand came up, his thick fingers wrapping completely around the front of your throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but the weight of his palm was heavy, instantly pinning you into the pillows. The sudden, intense pressure against your windpipe sent a shocking jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.
âYou want me to choke you?â Bucky growled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath scorching hot. âYou want to feel how heavy I am? You think you're too small for me, but you want my hand right here while I make you come?â
You let out a fractured, high-pitched whine, your hands flying up to grip his thick wrist. You weren't trying to pull his hand away from your throat; you were just trying to hold onto something stable while your entire world spun out of control. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, desperate for the friction, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in tight, frantic pulses.
âYeah, just like that. Squeeze me,â Bucky ordered, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted back. His dark blue eyes burned down into yours, watching your pupils dilate, tracking every flush of color on your skin. âTake it all, sweetheart. Don't you dare close your eyes.â
The combination of the restricted breath, the heavy, dominant pressure on your neck, and the wicked speed of his hand was too much for your coffee-addled, exhausted brain to handle. The anxiety of your biology final was completely incinerated, replaced by a blinding, white-hot crest of pure pleasure.
Your back arched off the bed, a breathless, choked-off cry catching in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clamped down on his metal fingers in a violent, helpless rhythm, milking him for everything you were worth.
Bucky let out a low, victorious sound, keeping his hand firm on your neck for a few seconds longer, riding out the peak of your climax with you until your hips finally stopped trembling and slumped back into the sheets.Slowly he slid his fingers out of you, the sudden absence leaving you feeling completely breathless and empty.
He released the pressure on your throat, his large flesh hand immediately sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear of pure overstimulation from the corner of your eye.
âGood girlâ he whispered, his voice softening, though his chest was still heaving from his own exertion. He crawled further up the bed, pulling your limp, shivering body straight against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. âNext time, you're gonna take all of me.â
i hope this isnt weird, but i felt like i could ask you since i like your writing and the way you put things into words, especially the physical aspect.
if it is weird, feel free to ignore this, but smut. how do you write it?? like ik the info, but its so hard for me to write it like i do other things.
anyway⌠yes. thanks for even reading this absurd question.
ahhhhh not weird at all!!!!!!! thank you for liking my smut, now, class is in session (imagine me saying this with the silliest voice)
for smut thereâs a few different things that we can englobe, and if you want me to dive deeper in any of them, let me know!!! (i loved this question so much i told aluri and she made a graphic like how rad is thissss)
foreplay is one of the ones i feel like is the less hard ones for me to write, not that itâs easy, but thereâs more variety in the wording.
when making out, focus on how it feels, you wanna make the reader feel like theyâre kissing your character, like theyâre right there!
are his lips soft? how does he kiss? calm, taking his time? little pecks? teasing? Or is he just taking taking taking and licking into your mouth and demanding? Is it frantic? teeth clashing? or is it drunk and silly goofy and you can barely actually kiss in between giggles? lip biting?
for blowjobs: my favorite thing to include is reader looking up at steve/bucky before even pulling their pants down, im a big eye contact girlie and i think that translates into my writing as well.
i try to describe the feel/fabric of the clothes theyâre wearing, the way theyâre breathing, etc. scenes usually bloom in my brain like a movie, and since itâs impossible to upload it to the inter web for yall to watch, i wanna make sure Iâm over describing things so you can picture it too!
thereâs tons of way to describe a penis in oral, how hard is it? how does it feel in readerâs hand? how does steve/Bucky feel when you have your hand around him? does he shudder?
and then you have way more than just penis to describe, right? describe their facial expressions, the furrow in their brow, the hitch in their breath, a little curse here and there, how does it make them feel to see you so willing to just give them pleasure? describe how hot your mouth feels, etc., where are their hands? are they brushing hair away from your face so itâs not covered in spit?
now if youâre talking about technique⌠TMI thatâs just for me from personal experience and also from reading a lot. i read somewhere in here that thereâs a difference in how you give a blowjob and how you write one, and there is, however thereâs an overlap.
and again you can always inbox me abt any of this if it doesnât make sense, but thereâs more to a blowjob than just cock in mouth, right? itâs hands on whatever you canât fit, ball stuff, slurping sounds, gagging, go slower, go faster, tease the head, kiss the length, etc
for eating pussy: ya gotta describe the cooch, mmkay?glistening folds? not wet yet? itâs not uncommon for women to need some grinding and heavy petting to get wet, even with the love of their life. no one walks around perpetually wet i donât think (unless youâre near steve or bucky)
same thing, BIG eye contact girlie so writing that is my favorite, how does it make steve/bucky feel that theyâre the ones making you moan and hiss and whimper? where are their hands? what are your facial expressions? what are you hips doing?
technique wise thereâs always various ways to describe the pace, their mood, what theyâre wanting to accomplish: do they wanna overstimulate the reader? do they wanna tease and edge? is it loving? hate fucking? proving her wrong? SO MANY OPTIONS, MAMA.
a tongue can be flat, it can tense up and circle the clit, it can tense up and go tease the entrance, flick of the tongue on the clit over and over again, and etc, and then how it makes the reader feel? legs twitch? thighs close around his head? whimper, hips buck, head throws back, or maybe sheâs looking down at him in a trance panting like she ran a sprint with her hands in his hair.
which brings me to HANDS: where are they? is he holding you down? are they digging into your hips? are they soft? calloused? are they roaming around and pulling and tugging and squeezing?
where are YOURS? are they tangled in his hair? doing what? scratching? pulling? Tugging? Shoving? Are they gripping the cushions? if so, describe the fabric.
how do his lips feel? soft? plush? hungry? warm?
itâs also a wholeeeee other thing to include any links to any of that (like the spit kink in the latest steve piece)
the hardest one for me to write is p in v, because thereâs only so many ways to write that you got the weinering of your life, you know?
i usually go about like i do everything: describing it piece by piece. how does it look? is his dick flushed and needy and leaking? is it hard? how long is it? whatâs YOUR reaction to it? did your pussy clench looking at it anticipating it being inside?
it just depends on what your plot/scene is, but my advice is to always over describe and take it slow. thereâs no shame in any of this, sometimes i get shy about writing some kinks and Iâm like YOU KNOW WHAT!!!!! IM LETTING MY FREAK FLAG FLY!!!!!
whew! okay now Iâm horny.
edit to say: aluri came up with the bible puns and instead of new and Old Testament itâs new and old testicles and i canât stop laughing
âŚď¸ â SUMMARY. Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves heâs incapable of acting normal about this information.
WARNINGS. established relationship, MDNI, 18+, porn no plot, Bucky has a raging breeding kink, soft smut, unprotected pnv, creampie, cumplay, mentions of lactation kink, domestic intimacy, no use of y/n.
NOTES. scheduled post bc your girl is on a break. also thank you for 4000 followers, what the hell đĽš
The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.
The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk.
You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the bed, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them.Â
He'd seen this exact scene before â you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on â and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours.
He almost did.
His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating.
The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach.Â
Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent.
He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside â not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs.
A star.
He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him.
He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months â the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know.
To him, this wasnât some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges heâd been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.
He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.Â
He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working.Â
He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.Â
He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me."
The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper.
"Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes."
Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct.
He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed.
"You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing.
"I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me."
"It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder
"Pages worn soft from reading it."
"Bucky â"
"Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel⌠with her breeding kink book on the nightstand."
A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time."
You went completely still.
"Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby."
A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want â"
"I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just â thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead.Â
He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots."
You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him.
Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly.
Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy."
A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow.
"Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
"Please â"
"Please what baby?"
"Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it â" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.Â
Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room.Â
When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in.
His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way."
"Bucky â"Â
"I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots."
You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room.
"I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing."
"Yes â please â"
"These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?"
A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound.
"Aren't you, baby?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want â"
"Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that."
"More â please â Buckyâ"
He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.Â
His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me."
You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved.
"Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"
"Bucky â"
"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"
You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl."
Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him.
"You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.
"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."
"Please â I'm so close â"
"I know, baby⌠I know. Say it first."
"Make me a mommy â" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please â make me a mommyâ"
That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there
"Take it â take all of it â every drop, baby â"
He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could.
He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word.
When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs.
He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it.
Your whole body twitched. "Bucky."
"Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go.
"I know what you're doing," you said.
"I know you do." He didn't move his hand though.
A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there â one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach.
He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what.
"You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there.
"No," he said.
"Either one."
"No."
You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move.Â
Oneshots | STALKER!WINTER SOLDIER X BOOKSTORE OWNER!READER
summary:: The Winter Soldier was trained to kill, not to love. Then he sees you â stalks you and eventually plans on rocking your world <33
warnings:: 18+, A LOT,Stalker!Bucky,Dark winter soldier,reader has a personality lmao (she likes pink roses,books,wears vanilla perfume),reader turns out to be not that innocent either,she kinda matches his freak,PiV,no protection, questionable aftercare,public sex,sex on a motorcycle lmaoo,mentions of Hydra,trauma,masturbation,dubcon,predator/prey,orgasm denial,he cums on reader's tits and stomach
word count:: 7k
A/N:: I love love love this so much
The Winter Soldier doesn't love anyone, heâs got a heart made of Siberian ice and a soul that drowned in the dark waters of his past.A past he canât even remember, leaving him completely numb to the world.
They built him to be a cold-blooded killer, a weapon wrapped in tactical gear, moving through nights like a phantom. He doesnât know the touch of a real romance, he doesn't know how to hold a girl's hand without feeling the weight of a trigger.He only understands the darkness.
His metal arm is freezing to the touch, smelling of gun oil, cheap gasoline, and the bitter copper of old blood. It's a flawless piece of Soviet machinery designed to break pulchritudinous things into a million little pieces.
He has seen too many empires fall, too many cities burn, and too many innocent people beg for their lives. Thereâs no softness left in his damaged mind, no vintage love songs from the quadragenarian years playing in his head. The only sound it the loud static of old military radios and a long list of names he was programmed to erase from the earth without a single spark of pity or regret.
He is a monster masquerading as a god, a beautiful nightmare that you just can't wake up from no matter how hard you scream. When he breathes, itâs just the freezing air of a perpetual winter filling up his hollow chest.
He is not a human, heâs just a ghost trapped in a body of muscle.A hollow shell where a manâs soul used to live before they tore it out and replaced it with wires and Soviet steel. He does not feel, he doesn't know what itâs like to have a warm heart beating against his ribs. He doesnât feel the sting of the freezing rain on his face, he doesnât feel the ache of loneliness in the middle of the night, and he certainly doesnât feel a single drop of guilt when his hands are wrapped around someoneâs throat in a dark alleyway.
You could cry right in front of him, you could bleed all over his black leather boots, and those storm-colored eyes wouldnât even blink, because there is no pity inside him, no tenderness.
So why is it that every time he sees you in your little bookstore, tucked away between the dusty old paperbacks and the soft glow of the lamps, he swears he feels something?âa terrifying little spark that cuts right through his chest?
Itâs probably a glitch in his programming...right?An agonizing malfunction that shouldnât exist in a man like him. Every time he looks at you, the heavy static in his brain suddenly clears, replaced by a strange warmth. It feels like a forgotten memory of a summer sun he hasn't seen in fifty years.
It makes no sense to an asset like him; it scares him more than any bullet ever could, because he doesn't know how to handle the sudden weight of being almost human again.
Because of that terrifying feeling, heâs been stalking you for months now. And he's completely unable to stop himself from drifting toward you. Heâs become a permanent fixture in the shadows across the street, parking his motorcycle.
He watches you through the rain-streaked glass of your shop as you dust the shelves, drink your black coffee, and read those sad, romantic books until closing time. He knows the exact time you turn off the radio, he knows the sound of your keys jingling in the front door lock, and he has completely memorized the way your perfume smells when you step out into the night air.An intoxicating mix of expensive vanilla and something he can't name.
He tracks your movements like a predator, knowing which train you take, which street corners you cross, and exactly how long you linger at the flower shop down the avenue.
Pink roses are your favorites,he has learned.
He hates himself for it, he hates that a cold-blooded killer like him is utterly hooked on the simple, mundane sight of a girl who doesn't even know his name. Heâs an addict, unable to tear his dead eyes away from you.Because in a world full of blood and white noise, you are the only thing that makes his heart beat against his metal ribs.
He tried to forget you, god knows he tried to wipe the very memory of you from his damaged mind. He went back to the dark streets of foreign cities, trying to forget you. He threw himself into the violence, losing himself in the familiar comfort of high-stakes missions and the sound of gunfire.
He was desperate to let the adrenaline wash away the soft light in your eyes. He stared at the cracked ceilings for days, trying to force his brain back into the icy state of a perfect soldier. But none of it worked, absolutely none of it, because no matter how many miles he put between himself and your shop,it just didn't work.
Mostly, he just canât get your soft lips out of his mind. Itâs a sick obsession that keeps him awake in the dead of night A cold-blooded killer shouldn't know longing, but he craves the thought of your lips more than his next breath, imagining how incredibly soft they would feel against his own unholy mouth.
He imagines the sweetness of you on his tongue even when heâs surrounded by the bitter smell of gunpowder and blood, a torture that makes his metal fists clench in sheer frustration. He is a monster completely ruined by the simple, devastating thought of your lips.
He canât get the thought of you on your knees for him out of his head.Itâs an obscene image that burns behind his eyelids every time he closes them. It's a vision so sharp it makes his breath catch in his hollow throat.
He imagines you there, small and completely surrendered on the cold hardwood floor of your little shop, looking up at him through your eyelashes with that soft innocence. He craves the total submission of it. He wants to look down and see you ruined by him
And your lips. God, your lips on his...
The thought alone is a lethal dose of adrenaline running through his frozen veins. He wants to feel the agonizing contrast of your warmth against his vile mouth. He wants to ruin your neat little world with his heavy, rough hands.
He wants to press his mouth against yours until the taste of blood and gunpowder is completely drowned in your sweetness, leaving him choked on a desire he has no right to feel.
Itâs a suffocating hunger. He knows he would break youâbut the dark, selfish part of his broken soul doesn't care. He wants to be the one who brings you to your knees, and he wants to be worshipped by your mouth.
He knows that this wrong. Every single cell in his genetically engineered body screams at him that this is a fatal error. A weapon doesnât crave the softness of a girlâs lips. A soldier doesnât dream of a submissive angel on her knees in the warm glow of a bookstore.
Itâs a betrayal of everything he is. Every time his mind drifts back to the vanilla scent of your skin, a cold sweat breaks out under his tactical gear, a raw panic that he hasnât felt since they first strapped him into the chair.
Because he knows what happens if Hydra finds out.They will come for you. They would see you not as a girl, but as a contagion. A weakness to be excised with surgical precision. They would hunt you down, shatter the glass of your pretty little shop, and paint those dusty paperbacks with your blood just to prove to him that he belongs to them.
They would make him watch. Or worse, they would re-program him, wipe his mind until his eyes are dead again, and force his own flesh and metal hands around your delicate throat.
The mere thought of Hydra discovering your existence sends a spike of pure terror through his chest. He can already hear the clinical voices of his handlers, the heavy clanking of the laboratory doors, and the terrifying phrase that strips away everything he is: Longing. Seventeen. Daybreak.
He should leave. He should turn the key to his motorcycle, speed into the freezing rain, and never look back at this street corner again. He should let the winter swallow him whole.
Itâs Valentineâs Day, but the flashing red and pink neon signs down the avenue donât mean a damn thing to you. Youâre standing inside your little bookstore, surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and dust, completely detached from the cheap, plastic romance that the rest of the city is buying into tonight.
You haven't cared about this day in years, closing your heart off to the hollow promises of drugstore chocolates and rushed dinners, choosing instead the quiet safety of your own solitude. Itâs not that youâre bitter; itâs just that you have these impossibly big, cinematic expectations of what love should be.A grand, dangerous kind of devotion that nobody in this mundane world could ever give you. You have these high standards built from the poetry and romantic novels on your shelves, and youâd rather spend your nights completely alone than settle for a lukewarm boyfriend who doesn't understand the depth of your personality.
You look out the rain-streaked window at the couples rushing past under their umbrellas, knowing that youâre waiting for a different kind of romance.
So it shouldnât bother you that all of your friends are out tonight with their partners, dressed up in their expensive, velvet clothes, drinking cheap red wine under the dim lights of fancy downtown restaurants. It shouldn't matter that they are whispering sweet, mundane little clichĂŠs into each other's ears.
But it does, it really does. You can feel your chest tightening with a heavy ache at the thought of spending another long night entirely alone.
Itâs always been like this though. Theyâve always had their fun, drifting through the easy phases of normal romance, while youâwell, you always stayed behind. A disastrous girl locked away in her own ivory tower of old paper.God,it sounds like you're a character in a Paula Fox novel.
You try to tell yourself that youâre above it all, that their drugstore version of love could never fulfill a girl with your kind of imagination. But as the hours tick away, the quiet of the bookstore becomes an absolute prison, and the crushing, agonizing realization that you are completely on your own in the dark.
Or...are you?
You glance at the clock on the wall and realize itâs finally time to close up, because the streets have been empty for hours and nobody is going to walk through that door tonight. I mean, who in their right mind would come to a dusty old bookstore on Valentineâs Day anyway?
You start moving through the golden shadows of the shop, your fingers lingering on the spines of the sad poetry books as you prepare to shut it all down.
You turn off the vintage radio, cutting off the melancholic jazz that was keeping you company, and the sudden silence hits your chest like a physical weight. You grab your keys, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room, ready to lock the door, completely unaware that the only man who has ever truly looked at you is still waiting out there in the dark.
You step out into the freezing night, turning the key in the lock until the bolt clicks firmly into place. You pop open your black umbrella against the pouring rain, pulling your trench coat tight around your chest as you take your first step onto the wet pavement.The wind is howling down the avenue, and youâre walking with your head down, just trying to escape the bitter cold.
You only take three steps before you crash hard into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and wet leather. A force so heavy it sends a sharp shock straight up your spine and makes your umbrella wobble in your hand.
You stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as you look up through the rain-streaked air, trying to make out the silhouette towering over you.Itâs too dark to see his face under the shadows of the street corner, but you can perceive his shoulders and the dark tactical gear strapped tight under his jacket.
Then you look down, and your heart skips a heavy beat.A single, delicate pink rose is lying in the puddle, its soft petals bruised by the cold water. It must have fallen from his hands the moment you collided.
âI'm so sorry,â you whisper, your voice trembling slightly in the freezing air as you lean down to gently pick up the flower.You stand back up, holding the bruised pink rose out to him. You wait for him to take it, wait for a curse, a brush-off, or the sound of his voiceâanything to break the awkward silence stretching out between you under the pouring rain.
He doesnât say a word. He just reaches out and takes the pink rose from your hand, his black leather glove brushing against your fingers for a brief second. He tucks the flower into his jacket pocket, turns around, and walks away into the rainy night, leaving you standing alone under your umbrella.
You stay there on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared. Your mind is spinning, completely confused by what just happened.
You wonder who this giant of a man was.You touch your fingers to your lips, still tasting the bitter scent of his gasoline and gun oil in the air.
You walk back to your apartment, the freezing rain soaking through your coat, but you can barely feel the cold. You climb the stairs, turn the key to your bedroom, and throw your wet clothes on the floor.You pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling.
Your mind is completely hijacked by him. You canât stop thinking about the dangerous contrast of his body against yours.Itâs a haunting image that keeps looping in your headâthis silent, terrifying monument of a man, carrying a single pink rose through the storm like a clichĂŠ.
You crawl under the blankets, wondering where the stranger was going.
You don't know that outside your window, tucked away in the alley, his motorcycle sits idling in the dark. The Winter Soldier feels so incredibly foolish, a cold-blooded assassin frozen in place by a girl who smells like vanilla and old books.
He looks down at the bruised pink rose resting on the leather seat of his bike. He hadn't planned on any of this. He had only intended to slip into your shop during the closing chaos, to leave that soft, stupid flower on your counter when you weren't lookingâa silent, anonymous token from a monster who has no right to feel like this.
But then the brass lock had clicked, you had stepped into the rain, and you had broken right against his chest.He couldn't even speak. A machine that knows how to order an execution in five different languages completely lost his voice the moment your hands brushed his glove.
Oh,he's pathetic.
Maybe it was because, for the very first time, he actually looked at you. Not through the distorted scope of a rifle, not through a rain-streaked windshield, but right there in the blackness of the street corner.
He saw the soft innocence in your eyes, the gentle way you rescued his bruised flower from the puddle. He feels trapped between his violent programming and the terrifying realization that your sweetness has officially conquered something inside him.
He decides itâs better to keep his distance, at least for a little while. He needs to pull back and disappear, if only for a single day, just to analyze the fatal error running wild through his system.
He needs to look at the situation with the calculating precision of the weapon he was built to be, rather than the desperate longing of a man who has lost his mind over a bookstore girl.Yeah..he's pathetic.
Few hours later he sits in a cheap motel room on the edge of the city. The bruised pink rose sits on the nightstand next to his silver handguns and his black tactical knifeâa delicate little intruder in his violent world.It's kinda ironic.
He tells himself that one day away from your bookstore will cure this sickness, that twenty-four hours of isolation will put the ice back into his veins and force the vanilla scent out of his head. He promises himself he will stay away, that he won't drive past your street corner, and that he will find a way to become himself again.
And then...the air in the motel room is thick. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his tactical gear half-undone, staring at that pale pink rose on the nightstand until his vision blurs. He tried to think like a soldier, he tried to run the numbers, but the cold analysis completely shatters under the memory of your body breaking against his chest in the pouring rain.
His heavy leather glove hits the floor with a dull thud, and he reaches down with his bare human hand, his fingers trembling with hunger he hasn't felt in a lifetime.Or has he? He knows what he's doing,how to...but why? He knows pieces are missing from his brain.
He closes his eyes, and suddenly heâs not in this rotting room anymoreâheâs back in the golden glow of your bookstore, watching your soft lips part, visualizing you shape,your submission as you drop to your knees on the hard wood floor just for him.
He touches himself with a rough slowness, his breath catching sharply in his hollow throat as the image burns behind his eyelids. He visualizes his metal fingers tangled ruthlessly in your hair, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch of him.You look up at him with those innocent eyes,that tear up a bit,and he gets harder at the thought. Every stroke is fueled by adrenaline and a fatal error in his system that makes his muscles lock up and his chest heave as he chases the taste of your skin and your sweet, ruined mouth in the dark.
He groans into the empty room, a low sound that tastes like sins, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm against his own bare hand. Heâs completely losing his mind in the red neon light of Valentine's day, hallucinating the friction of your soft thighs against his waist.
He pulls his own hair with his metal hand, wanting the sharp sting of pain to wake him from this wicked dream, but heâs too far gone, too deeply drowned in the fantasy of ruining you. His imagination ahifts from the bookstore.He imagines pinning you down into this mattress, your delicate wrists held captive above your head by his silver fingers.
He is chasing a high he was never meant to know, driving himself closer and closer to the edge with the devastating thought of your lips stretched wide around him.
His muscles lock, veins standing out against his neck as an electric jolt of adrenaline tears through his frozen spine. With one final thrust against his own hand,it hits him like a physical blow, that leaves him completely undone in the bleeding red light of the neon sign.
He gasps, a low sound echoing against the peeling wallpaper. He collapses back onto the damp sheets, his human hand slick and his silver fingers trembling against the mattress, completely paralyzed.
The static in his brain is gone, replaced by a silence that offers no comfort,and terrifying realization that he didn't wash you out of his system at all. He just let you entirely inside,his heartbeat slowly drops back into the freezing dark.
...
Two days. Two whole days of absolute silence.
He managed to stay away from your street corner for forty-eight hours, hiding out in the dark. Trying to cure himself of a wicked addiction. He cleaned his weapons, and tried to pretend that the sweet scent of vanilla had finally faded from his leather jacket.
He told himself that the error in his system was corrected, that the cold-blooded killer was back in control, and that your little bookstore was just a hallucination he had successfully left behind in the rain.
But it was all a lie, a delusion he built just to keep from tearing the city apart. Every single tick of the clock on his nightstand felt like a blow against his ribs. He didn't cure the sickness; he just let it fester in the dark, his hands shaking under his tactical gloves every time he pictured your soft lips.
Two days of playing dead was all his broken soul could take. He needed you.During those two days, you felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Part of you wanted the dangerous stranger to reappear out of the rain, to prove that the shock of your bodies colliding wasn't just a figment of your wild imagination. But as the hours dragged on and your shop remained empty, the ache in your chest began to soften into a familiar numbness.
You told yourself it was for the best. You cleaned the shelves, reorganized the poetry section, and drank your black coffee in silence, slowly letting the memory of his heavy leather jacket and the bruised pink rose fade into white noise.You had almost forgotten the whole thing, convinced yourself that he was just a nameless stranger passing through the dark, never to be seen again.
He can't take the distance anymore, and he sure as hell doesn't do polite invitations.So he writes you a letter.Itâs not a soft, romantic Valentine's card; itâs a rough piece of paper torn from a tactical notebook, written in aggressive black ink that nearly rips through the page. Itâs short, blunt, and so utterly typical of the Winter Soldier that itâs almost funnyâa dangerous machine trying to command a girl who smells like vanilla.
Midnight.The old abandoned observatory on the hilltop. Under the broken dome.Donât make me come fetch you.Be there.
He slips the note straight under the front door of your bookstore right before closing.You find the paper lying on the hardwood floor, your heart doing a dangerous flip against your ribs as you read the crude ultimatum. He isn't asking for a chance,âhe is ordering a surrender.
You hold the rough piece of paper in your hands while the cold adrenaline starts to flood your veins. Your mind is racing, honey, frantically trying to piece the puzzle together as you stare at the ldark ink and the aggressive handwriting that feels more like a tactical order than a love note.
You find yourself wondering who could have possibly slipped this under your door. Who even knew you were here...well,you have a lot of costumers. So it could be anybody.
But deep down, in the dark corner of your soul, you already know the answer. Or at least, you desperately hope you do.
You know itâs crazy, you know a smart girl would tear the paper to pieces and lock her bedroom door, but your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs because the thought of him waiting for you up on that star-lit hilltop is a drug youâre already too weak to refuse.
You spend the next few hours in a fever dream, the minutes ticking away on the wall. You step into your bathroom, the mirror fogging up with warm steam as you try to wash away the mundane exhaustion of the day.
You pick out your clothes. You slide into a soft, dark slip dress that clings to your curves, and pull your heavy leather trench coat over your shoulders to protect you from the freezing night air.
You don't put on much makeup, just a touch of your signature expensive vanilla perfume behind your ears and on your wrists. You stare at your reflection one last time.
The winding mountain road is completely black, swallowed by the suffocating silence of the pines and the cold mist rolling off the hills. You drive up the dark asphalt, while the radio hums a slow melody.
When you finally reach the crest of the hill, the abandoned observatory rises from the darkness. Its massive, rusted dome looks like a fractured skull against the midnight sky, with jagged shards of broken glass catching the brilliant light of the stars above.
You cut the engine.You step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath your boots.And then, you see itâtucked away beneath an old oak tree, the dark silhouette of his motorcycle sits in the dark, its guttural purr vibrating straight through the ground and up into the soles of your shoes.
He just watches you step closer in your dark slip dress and leather trench coat, his jaw clenched tight as he realizes you actually came.
He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence on the mountaintop hits you both. He swings his leg over the seat, stepping off the motorcycle with a predatory grace that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes a long step toward you, his massive combat boots crunching against the gravel.
âYou came,â he mutters.
âI didn't think you'd actually show up,â you whisper.You try to sound brave, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays every high expectation and desperate hope you've been nursing for the last two hours.
He leans down just a fraction of an inch closer, his hot breath brushing against your cold cheek.âYou've been in my sights for a very long time.â
He grabs your wristâhis grip tight but not breaking youâand leads you up the rusted iron steps of the observatory, toward the highest observation ledge right under the open sky.
When you reach the top, the entire world opens up below you. The city is distant, completely insignificant compared to the silver cosmos stretched out over your heads.He walks right to the edge of the stone platform. He sits down, letting his heavy combat boots dangle over the ledge into the empty blackness, and nods once toward the space beside him.
You take a slow breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sit down right next to him. The contrast is devastatingâyou in your delicate black silk, and him wrapped in cold tactical gear and wet leather.
Your bare shoulder brushes against his heavy jacket, and the electric warmth of his body almost makes you shiver. You both look up at the infinite dark, completely isolated from the rest of the living.You sit there on the cold stone ledge, your bare legs dangling into the empty blackness right beside his heavy combat boots.
âWhich one is your favorite?â you ask softly. You tilt your head back, your eyes search the silver dust of the Milky Way.
He doesn't look up at the sky. His storm-colored eyes stay fixed on the side of your face, watching the way the starlight hits your cheekbones.
âI don't look at them to admire them,â he grunts. He reaches down with his human hand, his rough fingers tracing a line along the seat of the ledge. âIn Hyâ where I was trained, the stars just meant we had three hours of navigation left before dawn. They aren't pretty, They're just coordinatesâ
You let out a soft laugh, turning your head to meet his intense gaze. âI know who you are Bucky.â
The realization that you knew exactly what he was didnât scare him; it liberated him.He leaned in closer, the scent of rain and old leather completely erasef the sweet vanilla on your skin.
âGood,â he growled. âThen I don't have to pretend anymore.â
âYou know what I am,â he stated, his human hand moving from the stone ledge to grip the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, anchoring you in place.âYou know what these hands have done. And you still drove up a pitch-black mountain just because I told you to.â
He tilted your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze wasn't romantic; it was hungry. It was the look of a predator claiming territory it had been stalking for months. He looked at your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lower lip with just enough pressure to part them. He didn't want a sweet, innocent kiss. He wanted you on your knees, entirely consumed by him, surrendering every piece of yourself to his control. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else.
âMaybe I don't want a softnessâ you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but holding your ground. âMaybe I wanted exactly this.â
A dangerous silence fell between you. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Your answer was the green light the predator inside him had been waiting months for.
With a single, effortless movement, his human hand tightened on your neck and he hauled you up off the stone ledge. He didn't do polite. He marched you backward into the deeper shadows of the observatory, until your lower back hit the cool, metallic frame of his motorcycle.
You submissively started to sink toward the gravel, your knees going weak as your instincts told you to kneel for him. But before your knees could even touch the ground, his metal hand shot out. His vibranium fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep, arresting your descent with effortless strength and pulling you right back up.
âNo,â he growled. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. âNot tonight. You save that for the next time I command it. Tonight, I want to look into your eyes while I take you.â
He didn't give you a chance to process his words. His flesh-and-blood hand moved down to the hem of your dark slip dress, bunching the soft silk upward in his rough palm. His calloused hand dragged against your bare thigh.
He gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly and placing you right onto the leather seat of the motorcycle. He stepped his heavy combat boot between your thighs, opening you up and claiming every inch of your space.
âLegs up,â he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough growl.You didn't hesitate. You wrapped your bare legs around his waist, the soft skin of your thighs pressing tightly against the rough canvas of his tactical pants. The position placed you perfectly at eye level with him.
He stepped his heavy combat boots closer, crowding right between your thighs until his massive chest was pressing you back against the handlebars. You were completely trapped between his heavy frame and the cold metal of the bike, your delicate black silk dress bunched up around your waist.
His large human hand slid up your bare thigh, his rough fingers hooking into the delicate elastic of your underwear. He didn't ask for permission. With one deliberate tug, he ripped the lace right down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric onto the gravel below without a second thought.
Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden display of dominance. You were completely exposed to the freezing night air now, shivering against the seat of the motorcycle.
He didn't bother taking off his leather jacket or his tactical gearâhe wanted to keep you warm, and honestly, he was too far gone to care about undressing completely. Instead, his human hand moved down to the front of his tactical pants. You watched with wide eyes as his fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper, aggressively freeing his thick length into the cold air.
âLook at me,â he muttered, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. âI want you to remember this.â
He didn't push in yet. Instead, he just pressed his hot length right against you, teasing the entrance while his storm-colored eyes tracked the desperate, shallow breaths escaping your lips.
âBuckyââ
His human hand clenched tighter around your hip, his thumb digging into your skin to anchor you. âDon't call me Bucky.â
You blinked through the darkness, your breath hitching as your hands clutched the rough leather of his jacket. âThen... what do I call you?â
âSoldat,â he growled.
You didn't fully understand what it meant to him, or what dark memories it triggered in his conditioned mind.You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up into his unyielding eyes.
âSoldat...â you whispered softly, the word tasting strange on your tongue.
His eyes blew out completely black with lust, and without another second of hesitation,he drove all the way inside you.
A breathless scream tore from your throat, as the sudden fullness stretched you completely open. Your legs instantly locked tighter around his waist, your boots digging into his lower back as your fingers clawed blindly through his jacket.
He didn't slow down. The rhythm of his hips remained heavy, each deep thrust making the motorcycle shift slightly beneath you. His combat gear and heavy leather rubbed roughly against your bare skin, a constant reminder of his sheer size and power.
âI watched you for months,â he growled against the skin of your throat, his breath scorching hot as he drove into you again. His metal fingers dug firmly into your hip. âI sat in the dark across the street and counted the minutes until you opened the doors.â
A needy gasp escaped your lips, your body clenching tightly around him. Hearing him confess to the unfiltered depth of his stalking didn't scare youâit sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making you tighter and completely undone.
âI know,â you cried out breathlessly. âI knew you were there... I saw the edge of your jacket in the pines. And I liked it, Soldat.â
Buckyâs entire body went dead still for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving violently against yours as your words registered in his mind. The realization that his target hadn't been an innocent victim, but an active participant playing the game right back with him, completely shattered the last of his restraint.
âFucking whore,â he muttered.His grip on your waist turned entirely feral, lifting your hips higher against the leather seat, and he began to drive into you with a relentless pace.
âYou liked it?â he growled. He drove deep, bottoming out inside you until you let out a helpless sob. âYou liked knowing a killer was tracking your every move? You're a sick little girl.â
The leather seat of the motorcycle creaked beneath you with every ruthless strike.âLook at you now. Completely stretched out on my bike, taking every inch of me.â
âSoldat... pleaseââ you cried out, your legs tightening around his waist, your fingers clawing deep into the leather of his jacket.
âPlease what?â he muttered roughly. âYou belong to me now. Say it.â
âI'm yours,Soldatâ you gasped.
âDamn right you are,â he growled. He pulled back just enough to drive back in with a heavy thud that made your vision spot. âYou don't get to come until I tell you to. You hold it in for me, you hear me? You take every single thrust until I'm ready to give it to you.â
Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick leather of his jacket, your bare legs trembling violently where they were locked around his waist.
âI can't... Soldat,â a helpless sob tore from your throat. Your entire body was trembling violently beneath him, as the agonizingly sharp waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. âYou're... you're too deep. It's driving me crazy, please...â
âI told you to wait. I want to watch your eyes roll back when I finally let you break.â His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, while his flesh hand held your hip perfectly pinned to the leather seat of the bike.
âTell me what you want,â he commanded roughly, his face dropping down until his forehead rested against yours.âBeg for it.â
âPlease, Soldat... please let me come,â you sobbed out. You arched your back against the cold handlebars of the bike, your trembling thighs squeezing his waist as tightly as you could.âI'll do whatever you want... just let me come. Please.â
âGood girl,â he growled, the rough words vibrating straight against your wet lips.He didn't give you another second of warning. His hand slammed hard against your hip, holding you locked flat against the leather seat, while his left hand anchored the back of your neck. He picked up the pace.
The motorcycle creaked violently beneath the sheer force of his movement. You couldn't even breathe, let alone speak, as he ruthlessly drove you over the edge.
âTake it,â he muttered roughly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth bruising the soft skin over your collarbone. âCome for me now,sweet thing.â
The command was all it took. Your head fell back, a loud scream escaping your lips into the silent night.Hearing you break completely unraveled the Winter Soldier.
He let out a harsh roarâa sound of pure animalistic releaseâas his own climax hit him. His jaw locked so tight the veins in his neck strained.At the final moment, he shifted, pulling away to ensure the intensity of the encounter reached its conclusion outside of you.
The thick heat of his climax painted the dark silk of your bunched-up dress and the pale skin of your stomach and chest in long surges.He stood there shivering from the sheer force of the release, his chest heaving violently against yours.
The only sound in the ruined observatory was the frantic rhythm of your shared, breathless recovery and the distant, lonely sigh of the pines below.His thumb remained resting against your skin, tracing a slow line over your thigh as if he were trying to process the physical reality of what had just happened.
For a man who had spent decades living as a ghostâ who only left blood behindâthe sight of his own messy, unmistakable mark of possession on a living person seemed to completely stun him. He looked entirely trapped somewhere between the efficiency of the Soldat and the stunned awakening of a man who hadn't felt this alive in half a century.
His fingers aggressively pulled his tactical pants back up, tucking himself away before his metal hand yanked the zipper shut with a sharp, metallic clack. He reached for his tactical belt, tightening the buckle with a loud snap.Only when he was fully dressed and locked back into his soldier uniform did he look back up at you.
Was it normal to get aroused again just by looking at him? Probably not.
He reached into one of the side pouches of his tactical belt, pulling out a dark military-grade utility cloth.He didn't ask you to move. His large flesh hand gripped your thigh to hold you steady on the leather seat, while his left arm braced against the frame of the bike. He leaned over you again.
The cloth was dry and rough against your sensitized skin. He wiped the cooling smears of his climax from your stomach and chest with firm strokes. He didn't look into your eyes while he did it; his focus was entirely objective, cleaning your skin with the same detached, methodical thoroughness he would use to maintain a weapon after a heavy firefight. His fingers were rough, but he wasn't trying to hurt youâhe was just completely devoid of tenderness.
Once your skin was clear, he shoved the cloth back into his pouch. He reached down, grabbing the hem of your bunched-up dark silk dress, and pulled it back down over your thighs with a single, rough yank to cover you up.
âI need my underwear back,â you said.He looked down at the dark gravel between his combat boots, where the delicate, shredded lace was lying ruined in the dirt. He had ripped them off with zero regard for their survival, and they were completely useless now.He didn't bend down to pick them up. Instead, he looked back up at your face, his expression deadpan and entirely unbothered.
âYou're not getting them back,â he grunted. He took a single step closer, crowding your space one last time. âI tore them. They're mine now.â
âTake your coat,â he ordered. âThe mist is rolling in. You're going back to the city.â
He had taken your underwear, marked your body, and ordered you back to the city with military authority. He was already pulling away, retreating back behind the icy walls of the Soldat.But you weren't ready to let him go yet.
âCan I kiss you?â you whispered into the dark. Bucky went entirely still, his hand freezing on the handle of his motorcycle. In all his decades of programming, nobody had ever asked for his permission to touch him. Nobody had ever looked at his lipsâthe lips of an assassinâand wanted a kiss.
He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his hot breath brushing against your lips, teasing you with the very proximity you were begging for. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, deliberately parting them, but he kept his own mouth just out of reach.
âYou want a kiss?â he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly warning that rattled down your spine. âYou earn it first. Go back to your shop. Sit bare under that dress all night and think about what we did up here. If you're a good girl, maybe next time I'll give you what you want. Now get in your car.â
Summary: As it turns out, you canât outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.
Word Count: 17.7k
Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)
Authorâs Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, Iâm so relieved itâs finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but itâs rewarding to have it completed and Iâm so proud I didnât end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story âĄ
Masterlist | part one
This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.
But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that youâll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and youâll be able to land on your feet.
The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.
You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, youâre done.
Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.
You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.
Youâre no longer thinking, youâre just running.
Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you donât catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it.Â
Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now.Â
Heâs calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesnât sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.
You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.
But, as expected, the house doesnât simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom.Â
With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office.Â
It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury.Â
This is bad, this is so bad.Â
You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know itâs just one single set, but you also know itâs him.
Heâs advancing and you canât keep escaping.
A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Buckyâs voice sounds again, practically yelling your nameâno confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing.Â
But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you.Â
He doesnât look raging in the obvious way, but heâs lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you donât know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are.Â
Why just have you been so stupid, my god.
Heâs totally got you wrapped around his fingerâand dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it isâor you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot.Â
But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe itâs a little too late now.Â
He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization.Â
He doesnât look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.
He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what heâs going to do to you now but you donât know if you want to know that.
The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You canât breathe. You donât try to.
BuckyâJames, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the cityâdoes not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. âEveryone out.âÂ
His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder.Â
A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you.Â
Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They wonât meet your fear and they wonât step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But itâs clear that they donât. Theyâre his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens.Â
A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.
You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous.Â
You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.
There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order thatâs just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around.Â
He notices you looking, but you canât care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings.Â
Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life.Â
But he is none of those things. Youâre in this damn situation because heâs none of those things.Â
He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent.Â
His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.
Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.
The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips.Â
And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesnât make your situation better, but he already knows, so you donât have to pretend anymore.Â
And his face alters. Itâs as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.
He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass.Â
There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped.Â
But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now itâs stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. Itâs focus. Pure and frightening focus.Â
His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage.Â
His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and heâs still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew.Â
He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.
His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but itâs so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear.Â
âSweetheart.â
His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark.Â
But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. Itâs not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. Itâs almost formal in its restraint, as though heâs speaking across the lip of something thatâs close to breaking and heâs trying not to widen the crack.
And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesnât work. Itâs just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound.Â
His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. âThis looks bad,â he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. âI know it does. But it isnât what you think it is.â
The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.
He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. âWhat did you see, baby? What has youââ He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. âTell me what you saw.â
What answer could you possibly give him?Â
That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor?Â
That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?
That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though theyâve never done anything wrong?Â
Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands youâve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and youâve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.
These hands were your favorite things.Â
But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you arenât around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.
Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.
A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.
âWhat do you know?â he grits out through clenched teeth.Â
The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.
You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You canât answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it.Â
He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. âLook at me, Y/n. Please.â
You didnât know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe itâs better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his.Â
And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. Itâs right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it youâd say it looks distraught. As if heâs lost, his entire biography thatâs been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he canât find the next line.Â
Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesnât look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, heâs just confirming your worst fears about him.
âMy name,â he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, âis James Buchanan Barnes.â
Something in your face gives you away.Â
You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening.Â
Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces.Â
He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.
He goes very still.
âYou knew that already,â he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all.Â
Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.
He takes one careful step forward, and itâs not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more.Â
His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in.Â
âHow?â he asks, and heâs no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. âSweetheart, how did you find out?â
Your throat works around the answer. âYour tags.â It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out.Â
For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time.Â
His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like heâs finally run out of things to hold onto.
He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands.Â
It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold.Â
âAnd,â you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, âthere was a gun.âÂ
You want to explain, want to urge that you didnât mean to find it, didnât mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but itâs too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.
He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined.Â
His eyes stay on you, and all thatâs in there are things youâve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase.Â
He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.
âBaby, Iââ he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. âPlease listen to meââ
Your gaze snags on the knife block.Â
The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. Itâs without thought that you run to grab one.Â
It is graceless and frantic and you donât brandish it like someone brave in a film. You donât know how to do this well enough for that and you donât have the nerve to think about it.Â
Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether.Â
The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.
Bucky stops dead.
The whole room seems to stop with him.
His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear.Â
Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might.Â
You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive onâthe fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.
âHey,â he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.
You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.
His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no strangerâs cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. âHey,â he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. Itâs the way youâd talk to someone whoâs just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. âIâmâ Iâm not going to hurt you.â
Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. âDonât come closer.â
He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly.Â
âOkay.â The word is a single rasp. âI wonât.â He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. âI wonât come any closer.â
You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldnât see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.
âPlease believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,â he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.
This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. âI have a thousand sins on my head, and itâs no use to claim otherwise now,â he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. âIâve done a lot of things I canât take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didnât ruin,â he ends with a lacerated wince.
You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.
The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and heâd rather be struck than watched this way by you.
And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe youâd actually care, maybe youâd actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.
Itâs so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of whatâs happening.Â
The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.
The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye.Â
And centered in that manufactured peace is him.Â
James Buchanan Barnes.
The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of youâright to the most intimate onesâyouâve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.
It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.
But you see it now. And god, itâs so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious.Â
You were delusional, you know that. Itâs what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when youâre used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking donât ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didnât want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.
It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you donât dare ask whoâs baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, youâd keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.
He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And itâs your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.
Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.
Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.
His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.
The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen
And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize itâs something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced.Â
Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.
The tips of your fingers brush pearls.Â
And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat.Â
It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasnât meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.
This necklace, these shiny pearls, they arenât about you. Honestly, you donât think anything is about you. It never was. Itâs just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.
He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe youâre the luckiest damn girl in the world.
And you had been. But now youâre just the stupidest.
And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Buckyâs eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.
And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.
You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.
Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.
Across the kitchen, Buckyâs gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.
The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.
A gift.
From a man you didnât know.
Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.
Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.
You cannot stand it.
Your fingers curl harder.
Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.
He knows what your heart doesnât yet.
His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like heâs about to move toward you.
âHeyââ he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.
But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.
The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you canât think or react any differently.
Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.
The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.
tikâtikâtikâtikâ
Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.
The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.
A rain of little impacts.
A beautiful mess.
For a second you donât even breathe.
You just stare at themâthose small, perfect pearlsârolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.
Across from you, Bucky doesnât move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.
He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.
His mouth parts.
For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.
His eyesâthose confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensityâhave widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesnât seem to look like anger, or anything like it.
It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.
His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.
Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.
Because it is not rage.
It is not even disappointment.
It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.
His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.
You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.
The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.
Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.
For the first time since youâve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.
And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.
Tick.
Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesnât seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.
His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.
âWhat you think you know about me,â he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, âwhat youâve heard⌠what people say, it isnât the whole truth. It isnât even most of it.â
You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a cityâs rumor mill rabid by itself?
No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shatteredâthe shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mindâtender and terrible, gentle and catastrophicâand the fracture is making noise inside you.
He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. âI know how this looks.â
A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. âYou used me.â
The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They donât arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell donât spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.
His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.
âNo,â he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because heâs genuinely the greatest actor on earth. âNo,â he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. âNo, no, Iâ It's notâ I neverââ He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. âYou matter to me. Youâ God, shit, that doesnât even come close toââ
âStop,â you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.
âIâm not pretending.â
âStop.â
His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.
âI wanted to tell you,â he despairs, voice scratchy. âI was going to.â
You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.
âWhen?â you choke out. âAfter what? After I was stupid enough? After Iââ
âNo.â He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. âNo. When it was safe.â
The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.
He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. âListen to me,â he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. âI know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, youâd run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.â
Your tears keep coming and you donât have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart wonât ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. âSo you thought youâd just let meâ âfall in love firstâ âinto your life the way you did?â
He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. âI thought I would give you time,â he supplicates quietly, voice husky. âI thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.â The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. âWhich it seems like it has.â
Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You donât know because it didnât happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldnât ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost youâre just mad at yourself.
Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.
âIâm a patient man,â he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You donât hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. âI would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldnât hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.â His voice lowers further. âFor when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.â
You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.
And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, âBecause I love you.â
All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.
It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.
Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same timeâwhy should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?
You donât understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You donât understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.
âI was going to ease you into it,â he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. âSlowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.â His throat works. âY/n, Iâm so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.â
But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.
Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.
All you need now is a way out.
You donât want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.
He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.
âBabyââ And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesnât get the chance to keep on going with his drama.
The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.
A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.
And now all of them are pointed at you.
The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesnât seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who donât care that you are small and fearful.
Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.
You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.
Bucky pivots.
It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.
His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.
You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.
He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.
âGuns down.â
The response isnât fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitatesâjust a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstanceâand Buckyâs gaze lands on him so heavily, itâs as if he is deciding where to leave the body.
âI said,â he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, âif any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, Iâll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?â
His words are deadly. It doesnât even sound like heâs acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldnât think twice about doing it again.
Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.
You run.
There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.
You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.
But Bucky is faster.
His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before youâve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.
The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.
The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. Itâs not your skin.
The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.
And thatâs gotta be it. Youâre now totally and completely fucked.
The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.
For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.
But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.
He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.
âHey, hey, hey,â he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. âBaby, baby, stop. Pleaseâplease, donât do this, youâre gonna hurt yourself.â
You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.
âOut.â
It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.
Buckyâs hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.
âListen to me,â he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. âHear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobodyâs gonna touch you, nobodyâs gonna lay a hand on you. I wonât! I would never. You hear me? Youâre safe.â
Safe.
The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.
You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.
âIâm sorry,â he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. âJesus Christ, Iâm so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, justânot like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.â
You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehowâone more blurred line in a night made of them.
âI wasnât gonna let anybody hurt you,â he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. âNobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.â His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. âIâm still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if Iâm a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would neverâgod, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!â
But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles donât translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.
Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive dualityâa rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.
You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.
Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.
You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.
âThatâs it,â he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. âThatâs it, honey. I know. I know.â
You donât know what he means by that. Youâre not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.
He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesnât glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.
When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.
And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.
Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.
He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and itâs crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.
It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.
âThe way you looked at me,â he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. âThe way you looked at me in thereââ He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. âChrist. Iâve taken bullets that didnât hit like that. To have you look at me like Iâm something you need to survive.â
Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.
His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.
âIf I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,â he breathes brokenhearted. âEvery part of it. I would tell you sooner. Iâd tell you cleaner. Shit, I shouldâve just told you. I shouldâve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.â He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.
The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.
There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.
He says all of this like heâs offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.
He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.
You make a small sound thenânot a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breathâand he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.
His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.
âI know what I am.â He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. âI know what kind of man Iâve been, what people say about me, what theyâre right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where youâre standing.â His voice goes raw. âBut, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.â
The words enter you but you just donât know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truthâthe guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe itâs just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?
Itâs hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.
âI was selfish,â he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. âThatâs the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I shouldâve stayed away from you. I know I shouldâve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and Iâm neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And itâs been killing me. I let myself have you and itâs been so fucking selfish.â
His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.
âBecause you are...â He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. âChrist, sweetheart, you are the best thing thatâs ever happened to me. You couldnât ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.â
Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if loveâeven if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring handsâcan unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.
âIf you want to go,â he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, âIâll let you go.â
Your breath snags. You donât trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.
âI will,â he says, with more force now, as if he knows you donât believe him and cannot bear that either. âIf thatâs what you want, I will. Iâm not gonna keep you somewhere you donât wanna be. Iâm not gonna turn into that for you. But, babyââ and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, ââI am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.â
Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.
âI love you too much to let this be the end of it if thereâs anything I can do to stop it,â he croaks. âToo much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybodyânone of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.â
The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.
But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.
There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.
What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.
âIâll do whatever I have to do.â He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. âIâll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I donât care how long it takes, I donât care what you ask for, I donât care what I have to lay down at your feet. Iâll do it. I will.â He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. âI know I donât deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but Iâm asking for it anyway, Y/n.â
At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. Itâs not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.
His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.
The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. Youâre trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.
The worst part is that you canât just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.
Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really donât need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.
He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though heâs standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.
Itâs just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same spaceâthe gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.
If he were just a monster, you could run. But heâs a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.
âI should have asked more questions,â you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You arenât trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. âFrom the start, Iâ When you wouldnât tell me things. Iâ I don't know, I was scared, I guess.â
Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. âI think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.â
The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymoreânot him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.
Buckyâs gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.
âBut Iâ I still donât understand. I think.â Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. âI justâ I saw this gun, andâ,â you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. âIt was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was justâ you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldnât reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And Iâ I completely lost my mind because I realized I didnât actually know anything about you, and Iâve been so stupid, and Iâm really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. Itâs justâ this is so much to take in.â
Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.
How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. Itâs so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you nowâlike you are both miracle and mortal woundâand still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.
You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.
Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.
âYou lied to me,â you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesnât sound like a weapon youâre throwing at him. It just sounds sad. âYou made it so easy. I didnât even think about it. I justâ I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didnât even know you.â
You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. âYou let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.â Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still canât make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. Youâre supposed to be furious at yourself first.
You havenât used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.
And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.
The fact that you love himâand that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chestâseems to completely break his brain.
There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.
âYouâŚ,â he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. âDonât call yourself stupid,â he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. âNone of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.â
His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason youâre afraid of the dark.
âThe love was real,â he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. âEvery single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isnât a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.â His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. âI know how it feels from where youâre standing. But I wasnât playing some game with you. I wasnât trying toââ He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. âI wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didnât make you look at me like this.â
Like this.
The phrase feels unkind. Because yesâthere it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. ďżź
Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.
You donât want that thought, you honestly donât, but it does arrive.
Because he has not hurt you. He hasnât done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.
He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.
And it makes you weaker.
Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.
The story you are trying to tell yourselfâthat he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply falseâkeeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.
None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.
Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.
âI donât know what to do,â you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.
The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.
âYou donât have to know right now,â he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. âYou donât have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know youâre overwhelmed.â
Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.
Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.
Still, you know what he means.
Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.
You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he isâand God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his lifeâhis feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.
He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didnât, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.
And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.
But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.
Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.
âI know I lied by not telling you,â he says quietly. âI know that. Iâm not asking you to call it something prettier. Iâm just telling you it wasnât because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.â
The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. Itâs not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.
Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.
You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.
So all that is left is the simplest truth again.
You really are overwhelmed.
You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.
Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.
Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.
His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.
His focus hasnât left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.
You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.
âIââ you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You donât meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. âIâve seen them.â Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasnât shattered but still remembers the impact. âI've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.â
The words suspend themselves in the space between you.
Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.
âYeah,â he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. âI figured you probably had.â He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. âTheyâre not all lies.â
You hold your breath, but donât step back, donât let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.
He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.
âIâm not gonna stand here and tell you Iâm a good man,â he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like heâs building something honest out of wreckage. âIâm not.â
Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.
âIâve done things Iâm not proud of. Things most people wouldnât forgive if they knew the full story.â His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things heâs saying he unexpectedly doesnât look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. âAnd yeah, Iâll probably keep doing some of those things.â He doesnât force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. âBut not for the reasons people think.â
His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that theyâve actually been soft all along.
âI do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who donât have the power to protect themselves.â His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. âAnd sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.â
Your throat tightens.
âIâd do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if itâs me you want protection from.â
The kitchen feels very still.
You donât know what to say to that. Youâre not even sure there is something to say. The statement isnât a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and youâve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.
And he seems to notice that youâre listening nowâmaybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him outâand some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.
He doesnât move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, youâve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.
He still doesnât glance down at it. Heâs still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if heâs trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.
You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didnât protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.
âOh, no,â you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. âBucky, Iâ Your arm, Iâ I didnât meanâ This is my fault, I swear I didnât mean toââ
âHey,â he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. âHey, no, sweetheart. No.â He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.
His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesnât even spare a glance at his forearm.
âYou donât ever apologize to me for that,â he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. âYou were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?â He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. âThat is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.â The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. âIâve taken hits that shouldâve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.â
You shake your head in his palms. âBut, Iââ
âDoll,â he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like heâs bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. âThat little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.â
Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. Itâs not entirely unpleasant in its newness.
You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you canât help but feel a little unmoored.
âI donât know what Iâm supposed to do now,â you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.
Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.
âYou donât have to figure it out right now, darling,â he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. âYou donât have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to doâif you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face againâI will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.â
He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.
âBut please.â His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. âJust stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sunâs up, the car is yours,â he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. âIf you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I wonât follow you. I wonât look for you. If thatâs what it takes to make you feel safe, Iâll let you go.â
He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.
âBut god, I hope you don't,â he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. âI will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. Iâll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. Iâll show you the rest of meâthe real partsâif you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.â
He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.
âBut just stay this single night,â he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. âJust stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. Thatâs all. Just tonight.â
You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.
But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. Itâs all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.
You give him a small nod. âOkay. Okay, Bucky, Iâll stay the night.â
Buckyâs shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.
You donât know what comes when the sun is up. You donât know what loving a man like him means. You donât know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.
You donât know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldnât let your heart handle things anymore.
But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving nowâtruly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion foreverâthe image doesnât bring relief.
It brings something bleak.
Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you canât yet put into words for him to hear.
You could run from this house.
You could run from his name.
But you are not sure you could run from him.
âThe truth is rarely pure and never simpleâ
- Oscar Wilde
A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably couldâve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didnât feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.
As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading âĄ
I also wanted to gently address something else. Iâve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didnât, thatâs completely okay too.
What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because Iâm always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasnât for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes itâs okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. Weâre still a community here, and thereâs no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.
I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I donât think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotionânot perfection!
Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part âĄ
And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi âĄ
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesnât take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. â¤ď¸ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldnât overdo it.Â
As if he could ever say ânoâ to you.Â
âYou could smile a bit more, you know,â Steve teased, handing him a beer.Â
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. âI am smiling,â he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.Â
âYou only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,â Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Buckyâs gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.Â
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like youâd done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.Â
You were beautiful.Â
âCan you blame me for having a smile just for her?â Bucky asked.
âNot at all,â his best friend replied.Â
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didnât even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.Â
You and Sprout.Â
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.Â
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldnât help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.Â
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. âYou deserve this, you know.â
Bucky swallowed hard. It didnât always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, heâd either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
âSo, youâre saying I deserved to knock up my wife?â he joked to deflect.Â
The blonde snorted. âYeah, thatâs what Iâm saying,â he said, giving him a small smile. âAlso saying you deserve this life.â
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.Â
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
âThanks, punk,â he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
âJerk.â
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
âIs that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, sheâs fucking huge. How many are in there?â
The thought of domesticity and peace left Buckyâs mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.Â
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.Â
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasnât a friend of his or yours. He was only âinvitedâ because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.Â
That wouldnât happen again.Â
âBetter snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.â
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didnât want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
âYou know thatâs Barnesâs wife, right?â The assholeâs friend shifted uncomfortably. âSheâs really nice, and heâs⌠well, heâs pretty protective of her.â
Buckyâs gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Canât kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. âSo? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?â
âŚHeâs fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. âWant me to handle him?â he asked, his voice low.Â
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didnât like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.Â
This was his fight.
âI got this,â he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. âJust keep an eye out for a minute?â
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.Â
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldnât cause a scene out of respect for you.Â
But he wasnât going to stay silent.Â
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.Â
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.Â
âHey, man! You-â
âYou got something to say about my wife?â he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.Â
The manâs eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. âI⌠What?â
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.Â
âYou were talking about her.â Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. âMy wife.â
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.Â
âSay it again,â he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. âWhere I can really hear you.â
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. âUm⌠Barnes, I-â
âMy wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.â His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. âAnd you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I wonât do something about it?â
âI-It was a bad joke,â he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.Â
He wasnât.Â
âOh, now itâs a joke? You think youâre funny?â He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. âYou think Iâll laugh while you crack âjokesâ about my wife?â
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of âinterrogationâ was nothing. Childâs play.Â
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
âI-I really didnât mean-â
âDonât.â His voice dropped even lower. âDonât insult my intelligence.â
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
âYou know what I see when I look at her?â he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. âI see the strongest person Iâve ever met.â
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.Â
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldnât draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.Â
âIâll say it again. Sheâs carrying our baby. Sheâs uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like sheâs something to mock when sheâs the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen.â His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. âYou should be ashamed of yourself.â
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
âGet up, Chet,â he ordered.
âChetâsâ mouth fell open. âThatâs not my-â
âI know what your name is, and I donât care,â he cut him off, straightening up. âBecause you donât respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.â
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.Â
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didnât matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. âSorry.â
âIâm sure you are sorry now, but itâs a little too late for that.âÂ
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it wouldâve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they wouldâve missed the firm squeeze.Â
âMove.â
The prick didnât need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didnât make him leave, too.Â
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chetâs pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.Â
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.Â
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didnât want to add any stress to your plate.
âChrist, man,â Chet muttered.
âYou stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,â Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. âAnd donât you ever disrespect my wife again.â
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. âI wonât.â
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, âYouâll never speak about her like that again. Youâll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.â
âI understand,â he swore, his voice cracking.
âGood.â Buckyâs nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. âAnd the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.â
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.Â
Bucky pointed toward the street. âGet the fuck out of my sight.â
The idiot practically ran to his car.Â
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.Â
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.Â
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.Â
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.Â
âThereâs my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.â You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. âYou okay?â
Bucky stared at you in awe.Â
God, sheâs so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.Â
âI should be asking you that,â he replied, his brows furrowing. âAre you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?â
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didnât take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasnât the same.Â
âIâm just fine,â you assured him, and he knew you werenât just saying that for his benefit. âBut you didnât answer my question,â you added teasingly.Â
Always thinking of me.Â
âYeah,â he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. âEverythingâs fine now.â
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didnât falter under your gaze. There was no need to.Â
âEverythingâs fine now, which means it wasnât fine before,â you guessed.Â
Bucky sighed. He shouldâve known youâd feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.Â
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.Â
âJust⌠needed to throw some trash out,â he said carefully.Â
It was true.Â
Chet was trash.Â
âThatâs one way of putting it,â Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.Â
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didnât chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didnât care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasnât going to pretend otherwise.Â
âHey, Sprout,â he murmured, his entire expression softening. âYou behaving for your mama?â
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.Â
âSproutâs just fine, too,â you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. âYou sure youâre okay?â
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that youâd be a good mom. And how you didnât think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.Â
He wasnât about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.Â
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance youâd cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.Â
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, heâd do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.Â
And heâd take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. Heâd make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. Heâd silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.Â
I love you both so much.Â
âYeah, sweetheart,â he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. âIâm better than okay.â
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! â¤ď¸
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife.
warnings. 18+ NSFW, eventual smut, fake marriage, friends to lovers, mutual pining, former black widow reader, morally gray reader, accidental marriage, alcohol/intoxication, light angst, Sam being exhausted, Yelena being a menace, Valentina being Valentina, mentions of past trauma, truth serum, accidental poisoning, sex pollen, dubcon-adjacent due to sex pollen but with verbal consent, no use of y/n
