summary — jack used to press his thumb inside of your wrist, just to feel your pulse. he’s been thinking that lately. he’s been thinking about that a lot.
content / trigger warnings — 12.6k words. angst, heavy, heavyyy angst, emotional neglect, reader leaves jack, no explicit breakup scene, hurt/no comfort, medical setting, pulmonary embolism, pulmonary embolism most likely presented inaccurately based on what i could find on wikipedia, reader is unconscious, references to ptsd/ptsd implied, jack’s past military service mentioned, insomnia, crying, lots of themes of loneliness, dissociation compared to being a fugue state, grief, pining, jack not being the very best at this relationship so maybe ooc?
author’s note — yes i have no range all i can write is a yearning man after he massively messes up; i wanna try being more versatile though so send in requests so i can make an attempt at being a Little more creative. i wanted to get this out because i started writing it while season 2 was coming out
The coffee maker had been broken for three days because the carafe wouldn’t click into place anymore, so if you didn’t press down on it while it brewed, the coffee pooled around the base and ran out onto the counter. You’d been meaning to tell Jack. You kept forgetting. Or maybe you kept remembering at the wrong times—when he was asleep, when he was in the shower, when he was already halfway out the door—and so for three days you’d been holding the carafe down while scrolling on your phone with the other. The kitchen did permanently smell of burnt coffee because some of it still got under there and cooked against the warmer. Nobody had complained, though.
You were holding the carafe down now.
It was 6:47 in the morning. The light through the kitchen window was the same shade as weak tea. You’d forgotten your socks again, so your feet were going cold against the tile. You’d pulled the cuffs of your sleep shorts down as far as they’d go. You hadn’t slept. You’d gone to bed at eleven and lain in the dark for a while, just to get up at two and read on the couch. You’d ate a piece of toast at four.
He was meant to be home at six-thirty. It was 6:48 now. You checked the clock on the microwave, the clock on the stove, and the clock on your phone, all of which disagreed by between thirty seconds and two minutes, and none of which mattered because the only clock that mattered was the sound of his key in the lock, and you hadn't heard it yet.
You kept thinking about the fucking carafe.
You kept thinking if you told him, if when he came in that you had to hold the thing down, he’d put his hand over yours and it would become a thing. A small, but real thing. You'd been living on smaller ones lately. The other night he'd touched the back of your neck when he passed you in the hallway and you'd thought about it for two days.
The coffee finished. You let go of the carafe. You poured two mugs—his first, the one with the chip on the rim that he insisted he liked because it made the coffee taste better, which wasn't true but was the kind of thing he said sometimes, the kind of thing that used to make you laugh—and then yours, the one your sister had given you for your twenty-eighth birthday, the one with the hairline crack that had been there so long you'd stopped worrying it would split. You put two sugars in his. You put nothing in yours. You stood at the counter holding both mugs by their handles and you waited.
You’d been putting two sugars in Jack’s coffee for almost three years that you’d started doing it without thinking. You thought, briefly, about not putting sugar in his, about making his coffee wrong. You thought about whether he’d notice. You wanted him to notice. No, you didn’t want him to notice. You put the two sugars in, and stirred them with the small spoon you always used. The wrong coffee would have been a test, you realized, and you weren’t ready to give a test you already knew the answer to.
6:53.
You set the mugs down. You picked them up. You set them down again. You went to the window and looked out at the parking lot like you were sixteen and waiting for a boy to pull up, except you were thirty-one and you lived with him and there was no reason to be standing at the window except that you couldn't sit down. Sitting down would mean admitting you were waiting. Standing was a thing you happened to be doing in the kitchen near the window. It wasn't the same.
You heard the key jangle at 7:04.
Your body reacted the same way it had been reacting for three years now. There was an involuntary lift in your chest, this small gladness, and the fleeting, euphoric thought of oh good, Jack’s here. It happened milliseconds before you could decide whether you were allowed to feel it anymore; it happened in the half-second between the key turning and the door opening. You hated that it still happened. You hated that you were unsure whether you hated it.
He came in. He looked at you. He eyed the mugs on the counter. He looked back at you.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” you said.
He left his jacket on and held onto his bag. He stood in the doorway like a man who’d come into the wrong apartment and was figuring out how to exit without being mean about it. His hair was flat on one side from where he’d been pushing his locks through it. There was something on the cuff of his scrubs, a dried, dark spot. He—like always—smelled like the hospital, and underneath that he smelled like himself, and underneath that, faintly, he smelled like coffee that wasn’t yours.
He’d stopped somewhere on his way home.
You filed that thought away into this ever-growing compartment of Jack your subconscious mind had started months ago, and your conscious mind was just catching on. You were getting good at filing things away. You had a whole drawer of them now, in your head, organized chronologically: the night he hadn't come to bed; the morning he'd left without saying goodbye; the Tuesday he'd told you he was too tired to talk and then you'd heard him on the phone in the bathroom, laughing, low, at something somebody else had said. You didn't open the drawer. You just kept putting things in it. You'd open it later. You'd open it when you were ready.
“I made coffee,” you said, because that was how it was supposed to go. That was how it always went.
“I had some,” he said.
“Okay.”
He was looking past you, at the cabinet behind your head, at nothing, you realized. He’d hadn’t met your eyes since he came in, and you were realizing you had stopped considering it avoiding, because to avoid would mean he was putting in the effort to. When had this become the nature of it all? You couldn’t remember the last time he looked at you. You were going to remember the not remembering later. When had you become a thing his eyes had learned to skip over?
“Long night?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
You waited with bated breath. There used to be a ‘yeah,’ then a story. There used to be a ‘yeah, this guy came in, you won’t believe what he did to his hand.’ He’d sit at the counter and tell you, gesturing with his coffee, and you’d put your chin on your palm and listen with both ears. Sometimes you’d laugh and sometimes you wouldn’t and once you’d cried. He’d reached across the counter and put his thumb under your eye and say, “Hey. Hey. Come here.” And then you’d go around the corner and he’d hold you for a long time without saying anything.
You waited.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said.
“Okay.”
He moved past you without touching you. There was a moment—a half-second, less, the time it took for him to pass behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the table—when you felt the air shift. The possible moment he could have put a hand on your hip, on the small of your back, on the top of your head; when he could have done any of the small unthinking touches he used to do without thinking. But he moved through the space like you were a piece of furniture he was navigating around. You heard the bathroom door close. You heard the shower turn on.
You stood at the counter for a while.
You picked up his mug, the one with the chipped rim, and you held it with both hands. It was still warm. The two sugars hadn't dissolved all the way; you could feel the grit at the bottom when you tilted it. You thought about pouring it out. You thought about drinking it yourself. You thought about a lot of things.
You set it down.
You sat at the table. You hadn't sat down all morning. Your hands were colder than they should've been. You put them between your thighs to warm them up. You looked at the chip on the rim of his mug, the small white triangle of it where the ceramic had broken away two years ago—you'd done it, actually, you'd been washing dishes and you'd knocked it against the faucet and you'd stood there holding it and almost cried because it was his favorite, and he'd come up behind you and looked at it and laughed and said ‘Baby, it's a mug, it's fine, I like it better now,’ and he'd kissed the top of your head and taken it out of your hands and put it back in the cabinet—and a thought came unbidden to you, one of those with clarity that came in the morning after a night of no sleep.
He doesn’t love me anymore.
You hadn’t decided the thought. It arrived, came through the kitchen window like a weak-tea light and the scent of burnt coffee. The thought sat across the table from you with folded arms as it waited for you to say something back.
You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower run, and somewhere far away you could hear a car door slamming and a dog barking and the building above you starting to wake up, all of it the wrong sounds for this hour, all of it the sounds of a day beginning, and you sat at your kitchen table in your sleep shorts with your cold feet on the tile and you thought, okay.
The shower kept running. You got up to hold the carafe down for the second pot.
It was for you because the act of making coffee was the only thing your hands knew how to do at the moment, and your hands needed something to do or you were going to start crying at the kitchen table, and you weren't going to start crying at the kitchen table because if he came out of the shower and found you crying you would have to explain it, and you didn't have an explanation that would fit in the space he was willing to give you.
‘You don’t love me anymore,’ it’s not a sentence you could say out loud to Jack. It was a sentence you could barely say to yourself. You'd thought it once and now it was in the room and you needed to do something with your hands.
You filled the carafe at the sink. The water ran cold over your wrist and you watched the little bones move under your skin and you thought about how he used to take your hand sometimes and turn it over and press his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and hold it, like he was checking and making sure. You used to ask him what he was doing and he’d always say, ‘Nothing.’ Then, he’d add, ‘I just like knowing.’
You hadn't felt his thumb on your wrist in—you didn't know. You couldn't remember the last time. That was the thing about the things he used to do. They stopped happening and you didn't notice on the day they stopped, you noticed three weeks later when you reached for the memory of the last time and it wasn't where you'd left it.
You poured the water into the machine. You pressed the button. You held the carafe down.
The shower was still running. The shower had been running for twenty-two minutes.
The coffee maker beeped.
You let go of the carafe. You poured. You added milk—too much, your hand slipped, you didn't bother to fix it—and you took the mug to the table and sat down and you didn't drink it, you just put your hands around it and held on.
You thought about your sister.
You thought about your sister, the phone call you’d had with her four months ago in October. You’d been on a walk and she’d asked how Jack was and you’d said he was good.
She’d been quiet on the other line for a second too long, which meant she'd already heard the answer in your voice and was just giving you the chance to say it out loud. You’d told her you were fine, you were fine. You’d meant it. You were fine in October. You'd been worried about him but you'd been fine. And she'd let it go, because she was good like that, because she didn't push, and you'd gotten off the phone and kept walking and not thought about it again.
You were thinking about it now because you realized she knew before you did.
You were thinking about how lonely had been a slow leak. How you couldn't point to a day. How if someone asked you, later, about when it started, you wouldn’t have an answer that would satisfy them, you'd just have a list of small things and the dawning understanding that the small things had been a shape that had been apparent to everyone but you.
The shower stopped.
You looked up.
The silence after the shower was always loud, for the apartment adjusted, the pipes ticked, the bathroom fan still spun. You heard him moving around in there. The squeak of his palm on the foggy mirror. The click of the cabinet. The small domestic sounds of a man getting ready to come out and face his life. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug and you thought, very clearly, very calmly to not ask him.
Don't ask him what's wrong. Don't ask him if he's okay. Don't ask him if he still wants this. Don't ask him anything. If you ask him he will tell you and you cannot un-hear what he tells you and you are not ready, you are not ready, you are not ready.
He came out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, toweling his hair, as he balanced on his crutches. The steam came out with him in a soft cloud, and for one half-second—the half-second before he saw you sitting there—his face was open. Tired. Wrecked. Human. You saw him. You saw the man you'd loved for almost three years, the man who'd stood at this counter in October and pressed his mouth to the top of your head and asked, rhetorically, what he would do without you. The man who you were pretty sure you would have married if he'd asked, the man you'd been so quietly, stupidly, completely sure of that you'd never even let yourself worry he might not be sure of you.
He saw you and his face closed.
It was the smallest thing. It was a thing you'd seen happen maybe a hundred times in the last few months and never quite let yourself name. It was like a door shut behind his eyes. The towel kept moving in his hand but something in his shoulders went still, the way an animal goes still when it sees you coming.
He stood there with the towel around his neck. He was looking at the floor between you. He had a tan line on the back of his neck from his work badge lanyard, you'd noticed it last week, a small pale stripe. You'd thought about pointing it out to him and you hadn't, because you weren't sure anymore which kinds of small noticings were welcome.
You opened your mouth.
You were sitting at the table with your hands around your mug and you'd made yourself a promise eleven seconds ago and you opened your mouth anyway because some part of you was already past being careful, some part of you was already at the bottom of the hill and rolling, some part of you had decided it would rather know than keep not-knowing, and you opened your mouth and you spoke, “Jack.”
His gaze was still fixed to the floor. “What?”
“Are we okay?”
The towel stopped moving. The kitchen got very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears in the slow heavy way it did when you were about to be told something that was going to rearrange you, and you sat very still at the table with your hands around your mug and you watched him decide.
He took a long time to decide, enough that you understood what the answer was going to be. He was giving you mercy, you supposed, to prepare your body. You felt your shoulders settle. You felt your jaw loosen. You felt the very small private animal of yourself curl up tight somewhere behind your ribs and go quiet, the way it did before bad news, the way it had done in the doctor's office when you were nineteen, the way it had done at your grandfather's bedside, the way it had done—once, years ago, in a different life—when a different man had told you a different version of the same thing. You knew this feeling. Your body knew this feeling. Your body was already mourning.
He pulled the towel off of his neck and held it beside the crutches.
“I don’t know.”
You waited, eyes fixated on him.
“I don’t—” He started, then stopped. “I’m tired. I’m really tired. Can we not do this right now?”
“Okay,” you said.
“I just got off a fourteen-hour—”
“Okay.”
“Don’t—Please don’t ‘okay’ me that way.”
“What way?”
“Like that. Like you’re—” He lifted his free hand up from the hold on his crutch and gestured vaguely in your direction. “Like you’ve decided what I’m gonna say.”
“Have you?”
“What?”
“Decided.”
He looked at you for the first time since he’d come home. His eyes were on your face as opposed to something past it, and you almost flinched, because you'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen by him and the remembering hurt worse than the forgetting had. His eyes were red. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, even though he'd slept yesterday, you'd watched him sleep yesterday, you'd brought the blackout curtain closed all the way like you always did and you'd put a glass of water on his nightstand like you always did and he'd slept for six hours and woken up and gone to work and now he was standing in your kitchen looking like he hadn't slept in a year.
“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet. “Don’t push this on me right now. Not right this second.”
“When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? March?” Your voice was very even, you were almost impressed by it. “Just tell me when, Jack. I’ll write it down. I’ll wait.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head as he turned away. He was going to walk out. He was going to walk into the bedroom and close the door and you were going to sit at this table for another hour and then go to work and come home and find him gone again and the whole thing would go on, the whole thing would keep going, the slow leak, the quiet drawer, the small white triangle on the rim of the mug.
“I just—” he started, stopping at the threshold of the bedroom. He had his back to you. “I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”
You did not move an inch. You did not move and you did not move and you did not move. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug, watching the back of his head, for he had said it without facing you. He’d hadn’t been brave enough to say it to your face, even though that was the truest sentence he’d said in a month, he’d said it to a doorframe.
You set your mug down on the table.
The sound it made was very small. A soft tock. You'd set it down a thousand times before. You'd set it down this morning. The mug didn't know anything had changed. The mug was a mug. You looked at it. You looked at the small ring of moisture it had left on the wood. You looked at your hands on either side of it, palms-up, empty.
“Okay,” you said.
You went to work that day. You weren’t sure what happened, what you wore, who you talked to, whether you ate lunch, and you won’t be able to. The day will be a white space in your head. A fugue state boiled down to its lowest, least harmful level. Your body had gone to work and answered emails and sat in a meeting and microwaved something for lunch and your mind had been at the kitchen table in your apartment, hands around a mug, listening to Jack’s words like a bruise that keeps being a bruise even after you stop pressing it.
You'd sat in the parking lot of your building for eleven minutes before you'd made yourself get out of the car. You'd looked up at your window—third floor, second from the left, the one with the plant on the sill that you'd bought him for his birthday last year, a stupid little succulent he'd named Gerald for reasons he'd never adequately explained—and you'd seen that the blackout curtain was still closed, which meant he was still asleep. You had maybe forty minutes before he got up for his shift, and you'd thought about driving away. You'd actually thought about it. You'd thought about driving to your sister's, two hours north, and walking into her kitchen and sitting down at her table and letting her ask you what was wrong. You'd thought about it long enough that your hands had moved to the gear shift. And then you hadn't done it, because some part of you was still hoping, standing at the kitchen counter at six-forty-seven in the morning holding two mugs of coffee. Some part of you was going to keep standing there until he told you, in plain words, to stop.
His mug from the morning was still on the counter. The coffee in it had a film on top now, a dull skin you could break with the tip of your finger.
You sat on the couch in the living room and he got up at six-fifteen. You heard the alarm first—the soft one he'd set when you started staying over because the regular one had made you flinch—and then the rustle of the sheets and the soft thud of his feet on the floor and the particular small sound he made every morning when he stood up, a half-grunt, the huh of a man whose body had been disagreeing with him for years and who'd made peace with it. You'd loved that sound. You'd loved being the only person who knew it.
He came out.
He was dressed for work — black t-shirt, scrubs slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the shower he must have just taken, the second one in twelve hours — and he stopped when he saw you on the couch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You’re home.”
“Yeah.”
He stood there for a second like he was going to say something. You watched him consider it, as though there were random english words bouncing in his mind he was trying to piece together to get what he wanted. You didn’t know what. Or you did know what. You weren’t sure.
“You want me to turn on the light?” he asked.
“It’s okay.”
“Okay.”
He went into the kitchen. You heard him open the fridge. You heard him close it without taking anything out. You heard him fill a glass of water at the sink and drink it and set the glass down on the counter—on the counter, where you'd find it later and wash it and put it away—and then he came back into the living room and he stood in the doorway and he looked at you.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.
You looked at him, trying to force your lips to not turn downwards from the corner. “Are you?”
Your question came out sharper than you wanted it to. The edge had been put on it by the part of you that had been awake for more than a day and had realized, in its wake, that Jack had unlearned how to meet your eyes.
A muscle moved in his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry—yeah.”
“What are you sorry for, Jack?” Your voice still had that even thing in it, that surprising calm thing, like someone else was operating you from inside. “What part are you sorry for?”
“I don’t—” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
You shrugged stiffly. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I was short with you. I was tired. I shouldn’t have—”
“You told me you didn’t know how to do this anymore.”
He closed his eyes, and you could see the way his face twisted at the action. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t think straight when I haven’t slept and you’re—”
You cleared your throat. “Did you mean it?”
He didn't answer for long enough that you understood he was going to lie about it, and he understood that you understood, and you both sat in that mutual understanding for a second, in the gray light, in the quiet apartment, and you watched him choose.
“I meant I was tired.”
It was the worst possible answer. It was the answer of a man who knew that yes would end the conversation and no would be a lie he couldn't make himself tell, and so he'd found a third door and walked through it, and you stood on the other side of the door and you looked at it and you thought, oh.
Oh. He’s a coward.
This was not a thought you had ever had about him. You had thought he was a lot of things. You had thought he was guarded and tired and weighed down and difficult; you had thought he was kind, in a private way, in a way most people didn't get to see; you had thought he was the smartest person in most rooms and you had thought he knew it and didn't care; you had thought, sometimes, when he was sleeping with his hand on your stomach, that he was the love of your life. You had never thought he was a coward. You had never thought he was the kind of man who would refuse to answer a yes-or-no question from a woman who had loved him because answering would cost him something he wasn't willing to pay.
You were thinking it and you were watching your face not show it and you were watching him relax, fractionally, because he thought he'd gotten away with it, because you hadn't pushed and he thought the conversation was ending in the same manner the conversations had been ending for months now, with both of you agreeing not to look directly at the thing in the middle of the room. And some terrible new part of you—a part that had been born this morning at the kitchen table, a part you didn't recognize and weren't sure you liked—wanted to let him think it. You wanted to let him walk out the door thinking he'd managed it. You wanted to give him this one last small dishonest peace before you took everything else away.
“Okay.”
He looked mildly surprised, but he hardly showed it. “Are you okay? Are we good?”
“Yeah, Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second and you held his gaze, and his face flickered—a part of him that knew that your yes was one with a stone in it—and he chose, once again, to not ask. He chose, again, to be tired.
“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.” Then, he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
You nodded.
He started coming towards the couch. You hadn’t expected that. You'd been bracing for him to just leave, to grab his bag and go, and instead he came over to the couch and he stood in front of you and he leaned down and he kissed the top of your head—like he was your father, like he was your friend, like he was anyone but the man who used to kiss you on the mouth at any opportunity he received—nd his hand brushed the back of your neck, briefly, and he smelled like soap and like him and like the faint trace of the antiseptic that never really came off him.
He said into your hair, quietly, “Get some rest, baby.”
He hadn’t called you that in seven weeks. You had not meant to keep count. You had become aware, somewhere around the fifth week, that you were keeping count in the back of your head, the small ruthless math of being unloved by someone who used to love you. You were certain he was saying goodbye.
He didn't know he was saying it. He thought he was being kind. He thought he was patching it. He thought he was leaving for his shift and he'd come home in the morning and the two of you would keep doing what you'd been doing, the slow leak and the quiet drawer.
He had no idea, but your body knew. Your body had known since the kitchen this morning. Your body had been ahead of you all day. Your body was, even now, in the small private dark of itself, already at the door, already in the car, already three exits down the freeway with one suitcase and the mug from your sister already gone, already gone, already gone.
“You too, Jack.”
He pulled back and looked at you. You saw the whole man, you saw the version of him that loved you and the version of him that didn't know how to and the version of him that was about to lose you and didn't know it yet, all of him stacked up in one face for one stupid second in the gray February light of your living room, and you almost said it.
Don’t go. I’m going to leave you. I’m going to leave you tonight, while you’re at work. I’m going to be gone when you come home. This is our last chance. Look at me. Tell me to stay.
You let him go.
He picked up his bag from the chair by the door. He picked up his keys from the bowl. He paused, very briefly, with his hand on the doorknob—you knew you would lie awake and replay that pause and try to decide if it had meant anything, if he had almost turned around, if he had felt the thing you were feeling and chosen against it the way he chose against everything now— and then he opened the door and he went out and he closed it behind him.
It came up through your stomach. It came up through your chest. It came out of your eyes without your permission and without any of the sounds you'd been expecting, like a quiet steady leaking, the way a faucet leaked, the way a roof leaked, a small humiliating involuntary grief of a body that had been holding still for fourteen hours and couldn't hold still anymore. You sat on the couch and you cried and you didn't wipe your face, because there was no one to see, because the apartment was empty
Because the man who used to put his thumb under your eye and say ‘Hey. Hey. Come here’ was on the freeway going to the hospital and he was never going to do that again.
When you stood up. Your legs were stiff. You went to the bathroom and you washed your face with cold water and you looked at yourself in the mirror —your eyes were red, your mouth was doing a thing—and you decided to go to the closet.
You grabbed the suitcase and set it on the bed. It still had the tag from the August trip on the handle. Some hotel in Vermont. You'd gone for a long weekend. He'd held your hand on the walk to dinner the first night and you'd thought this was it, the thing you wanted for the rest of your life.
The tag had your handwriting on it, with his name and the hotel address as the contact—you'd filled it out for him at the airport because he'd been on the phone with the hospital—and you stood looking at the tag with your own handwriting saying JACK ABBOTT in your slightly-too-loopy capitals.
You took the tag off the handle. You set it on the dresser. You did not throw it away. You weren't ready to throw things away yet. You were ready to take things out of the closet and put them in a suitcase. You'd worry about throwing things away later.
The kid wouldn’t stop crying. Jack didn’t blame the kid. The kid was four and he had a piece of LEGO lodged so far up his left nostril that it was going to need a procedure room, and the mother was crying when she came in, and he knew she’d have to explain to everyone later it was only ninety seconds on the phone. Jack put his hand on her shoulder to stop her from crying, and she didn’t. So, for about thirty minutes, the kid and his mother were like a background noise that nobody had asked for.
He was washing his hands now. He'd gotten the LEGO out—it had been a small red one, a 1x2, and he’d held it up in the forceps so the kid could see, and joked that he’d grown a LEGO, and the kid had laughed once through the snot and then started crying again, and Jack had handed the LEGO to the mother in a specimen cup and told her she could keep it as a souvenir, which had been a joke, which she had taken seriously, and she had thanked him three times on the way out. He was thinking about whether he could get away with eating the second half of his sandwich before the next chart hit.
It was 10:47. The board was light for a Tuesday, which meant the q-word wasn't allowed out loud, which meant he was thinking it in his head, which counted, which meant somewhere in the city right now someone was about to do something dumb with a ladder. He'd been doing this long enough to know better. He kept thinking about it anyway. The board was light. He was going to eat his sandwich.
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
Dana, who’d decided this was her twice-in-a-blue-moon night shift, behind him.
“For what?”
“LEGO. I had a LEGO.”
“You bet on a LEGO? In a four-year-old’s nose?”
“Mateo had a marble. Shen took penny. Ellis took battery.”
He dried his hands. He turned around.
“Eat the sandwich,” Dana said.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna eat it, Dana.”
He went to the break room. The sandwich was where he'd left it on top of his locker—turkey on rye, the rye going a little stale at the edges, made by him—and he took it back out to the desk and ate it standing up.
He got two bites in before Ellis called from the desk, “Abbott.”
“Hm?”
“Pittsburgh General called. They’ve got a transfer they want to send us.”
“Why?”
“They’re full.”
“Liars.”
“They say they’re full.”
“Tell ‘em to go cry about it.”
“I told them you said that.”
“Really,” Jack drawled.
“I told them we had capacity. Female, early-thirties, came in two hours ago with shortness of breath, chest pain, hemoptysis. Clots in her lungs. Both sides. PE. She passed out in triage. They had to put a tube in to help her breathe and they started her on blood thinners but she's getting worse, not better. They want her transferred.”
Jack chewed. “How bad?”
“They’re scared her heart can’t keep up. They don't know if they need to push the clot-busters or just keep her supported and pray. They want a second set of eyes before they pull the trigger, and we’ve got the beds.”
He swallowed. “Fine. ETA?”
“Twenty minutes. They’re loading her now.”
“Bay?”
“Two.”
“Tell Mateo to set up. I want the ultrasound at the bedside before she rolls in, not after.”
“Already did.”
“You’re showing off.”
“I’m always showing off, Doctor.”
He took another bite of his sandwich. He set the sandwich down. He knew the sandwich would go unfinished. He knew it moment Ellis had opened her mouth, which was a thing he should have learned by now and somehow kept not learning. He looked at it for a second. He picked it up. He took one more bite for the road. He chewed it on the way to bay 2.
Bay 2 was ready. Mateo had the ultrasound at the head of the bed and a tray of intubation supplies on the side table and a runner had hung two bags of saline on the IV pole and the monitor was on, blank and waiting, and the overhead was at the low setting, which Jack liked, which he had asked for once two years ago and which had become a thing that just happened now when he was running the bay, the kind of small institutional accommodation a department made for an attending it had decided to keep.
“You good?” he said to Mateo.
“Always.”
Jack pulled a gown off the rack and shrugged it on over his scrubs. He pulled gloves out of the box on the wall and he stood at the head of the bed and he waited.
He liked the waiting.
This was something he had figured out about himself a long time ago, in a different uniform, in a different country. He liked the minute before. The minute when you knew something was coming and didn't yet know what it was going to ask of you. Other people hated that minute. Other people filled it with chatter or with checking their phones or with the small fidgeting of a body that didn't know what to do with itself. He liked it. He stood very still and he let his hands hang at his sides and he ran the algorithm in his head—bilateral PEs, borderline pressures, tachy to the one-thirties, possible RV strain—and he felt the small clean focus of his brain narrowing down to the work, and underneath the focus, almost imperceptible, the thing he wasn't going to look at directly, the small persistent low-grade hum that lived in his chest now and that he had stopped trying to name.
“Two minutes out,” Ellis called from the desk.
“Copy.”
He pulled his mask up over his nose. He flexed his fingers in the gloves. He looked at the empty gurney space at the foot of the bed and he waited.
The doors banged open at 11:04.
EMS came through first, two of them. The gurney they were pushing had a person on it and the person had a tube coming out of her mouth and her chest was rising in the small mechanical way of a chest being ventilated by someone else, and Jack stepped forward to the head of the bed and he said, ‘gimme the report,’ and the medic at the head said, “Thirty-three-year-old female, history per General is unremarkable, presented to them at twenty-one hundred with two hours of progressive shortness of breath, syncopal episode in triage—”
Jack was examining her chart. He usually took the chart in one hand and he scanned the top line for the name, DOB, the allergies, and that was his muscle memory. His hands started it before his eyes did. His eyes did it before his brain did. His eyes landed on the name on the top of the chart and his brain—
His brain stopped.
His brain stopped like a needle lifted off mid-song. The whole bay went very quiet, which it wasn’t, for it was full of sound—monitors pinging, the medics still talking, Mateo on the other side of the bed saying something—but inside Jack’s head, it was very, very quiet. It was a sort of quiet he hadn’t heard in a long time; it came before bad things, as a result of the absence of his own thoughts.
He looked at the name on the chart. He looked at it for what he would later think was a long time and was actually about a second and a half.
He looked up, and he looked at the face. The ace had a tube taped to the corner of your mouth. Your hair was—someone had pulled it back at General and tied it off with those rubber things they kept in the jar at every ER—
Your face. Your face was your face.
Your face was the face he had—your face was the face that had—your face.
Your face was older.
That was the first thing his brain managed to think after it had finished stopping. Your face was older by two and a half years. There were small things that were different. There was a barely-there line between your eyebrows that had not been there. There was a small softness around your mouth he was trying to name, but failing. Your hair was a slightly different color by a few shades. Maybe you’d stopped getting the highlights you used to. Maybe you’d started getting something different. Jack was clueless what you’d started to do differently, but he knew that you had.
Two and a half years had happened to your face without him, and his brain started taking a clinical inventory of the years he had not been allowed to see. His brain—for the first time in much too long—understood that time had been real. He’d understood time had happened, and you’d been alive for it. That you’d aged, and he’d not been there.
His eyes went down to your throat. He’d made an involuntary decision to look. There was a thin gold chain resting there he didn’t recognize. It was small and the kind of chain you’d buy for yourself or have given it to you from someone else. This chain, Jack realized, had been on your neck for an unknown amount of time, in some unknown place, during unknown evenings he couldn’t be a part of.
His eyes went down further. To your hand on the sheet. To your right thumb. The cuticle was bitten. The cuticle was bitten down to the bed of the nail, the way you used to bite it when you were anxious about something, the way you bit it the night before a big work meeting or the morning of a doctor's appointment or the time you were waiting to hear back from the bone scan on your aunt. The cuticle had been bitten recently. You had been anxious recently. He did not know what about. He did not get to know what about.
“Dr. Abbott?” Mateo called from across the bed, and it sounded like his voice came through a long tunnel. “Dr. Abbot, everything good?”
His hands were on the chart. His hands were still on the chart, and his eyes were on your face, and his mouth was not doing anything. His mouth was a part of his body he had forgotten about. He could feel his pulse in his neck. He could feel his pulse in his hands. He could feel the small mean drop of his stomach that he hadn't felt in two and a half years and that he recognized immediately, the way you recognized a smell from a place you used to live.
“Get me Dana,” he said to Mateo. His voice was the voice he used in the ER. His voice was a small miracle. He didn't know how his voice was doing that.
“Doctor—”
“Now. Please.”
Mateo scrambled off. Jack looked back down at you.
You were—the color was bad. He could see that without looking at the monitor. Your face was the wrong color, it was the exact one of someone whose heart was not pushing blood the way it was supposed to, and your chest was rising in the wrong way, because it was one that was being made to breathe. There was a small patch of dried blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on its way in, and your eyelashes—Jesus fucking Christ.
Your eyelashes. He had not—there had not been a single day in the last two and a half years when he had not thought about your eyelashes, not specifically, not the small fact of their existence, the fact that they sat on your cheeks when your eyelids were closed, the small fringe of them, the small fringe of them that he had—that he used to—
He stepped back from the gurney, his prosthetic causing him to stumble back slightly. He didn’t mean to, his body had done it. His body had taken one step away from you and his body was, right now, his body was making a series of very small decisions about him without consulting him, his body was the only thing in the room with any sense, his body was controlling him because his brain was haywire.
“Jack,” Dana said firmly at his elbow.
He couldn’t look at her.
“Jack. Look at me.”
He looked at Dana.
Dana had her hand on his elbow. Dana was looking at his face. And Dana. Dana was a woman who had known him for a long time and who was looking at his face and Dana's own face did a thing, did a small terrible quick thing, and then it didn't do the thing anymore, and her hand was on his elbow and her voice was very low and very even and she was saying, “Step out.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“No, Dana.”
“You can’t—”
“I know. I know what I can’t. Get Ellis. Ellis runs it. I want eyes on. I am not leaving.”
“Jack.”
“I am not leaving, Dana.”
She looked at him for a second that felt like a year, the small assessing look of a woman who had run more codes than most cardiologists and who was, right now, doing math, fast math, the kind of math that took into account him and her and the patient on the gurney and the resident across the bed and the medical board of Pennsylvania and whatever the fuck else lived in Dana’s marvelous head, and then she nodded.
“Stand at the head. Do not touch her. Tell Ellis everything you know.”
“I don’t—don’t anymore—”
“You know her, Jack. That’s what you know. Tell Ellis what you know about her medically. Allergies. Meds. History. Anything you have. Then you stand at the head and you keep your hands behind your back.”
He nodded, because words were foreign to him right now. So, he nodded.
Dana squeezed his elbow once and let go and turned for Ellis, and Ellis came at a jog from the desk. Jack moved up to the head of the bed and he stood there and he put his hands behind his back like Dana had said and he looked down at her face and he thought about the kitchen.
He thought about the kitchen for one second, the kitchen at six-fifty-three in the morning, the cold coffee on the counter and the key beside it and the small tag on the suitcase handle in the closet that he hadn't found until two days later when he was looking for something else, the small tag with her handwriting on it and his name on it.
He thought don’t. Not now. Don’t.
He looked at your face.
He cleared his throat quickly and said, “No allergies. NKDA. She—sulfa makes her stomach hurt but it’s not a real allergy; she’ll say it is because it’s easier. But write down sulfa. She—she was on a dose of OCP a couple years ago, but I don’t know if she still is. I don’t know what she’s on now. I don’t—”
His voice cracked, a little glitch it had not done in a long time. He cleared his throat again.
“She gets migraines, maybe twice a year, with aura. She used to take excedrin for them. I don’t know what she takes now. I don’t know what she takes. No surgeries. Tonsils when she was eleven. That’s it. Non-smoker, was. Is. Drinks socially.”
Ellis nodded. “Got it.”
“She’s—there’s family history. Her mom had a—fuck, she had a—a clotting thing. After her second pregnancy. She was on heparin for a while. Her sister got tested; she got tested. They were both negative. But it’s in the chart somewhere. It should be in the chart.”
“Okay.”
“It is in the chart, Parker. I’m telling you.”
“I believe you, Jack. We’ll look.”
“There’s—she’s got a thing. She said she doesn’t like the idea of being intubated in front of strangers. She’s scared of it. She told me she didn’t want it. If she can hear us, if there’s any way, I know she can’t, but if she can, somebody should tell her she’s safe.”
Ellis looked at him for a moment. “I’ll tell her.”
He nodded and made himself stop. He could feel the next thing he was going to say lining up behind his teeth and he made himself not say it.
‘She sleeps on her left side. She can’t sleep on her back, it gives her bad dreams. If you have to put her flat for any reason, she’s going to wake up panicking. Just—be ready for it.’ He could feel the small careful instruction-manual of you that he had been keeping in his head for two and a half years, the small useful nothings. ‘She likes the room cold when she sleeps and she gets cold hands when she’s scared. She wants water but never says yes to it, so just put it next to her. She always wants water.’
He understood, standing at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back, that none of this was medical. None of that was his to give. None of it belonged in Ellis’s notes about you. Ellis was looking at him for something useful, and the only thing he could think of was that you like the room cold. He could not say it, though what he would not give to be able to spill his guts about you, talk about you to anyone who listened until the sun came up and his throat was raw.
“She’s healthy,” he said. “She—from last time I—she’s healthy.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Ellis nodded again gently and looked at him.
She looked at him with a face he was going to think about later, as she understood in real time, and Ellis, to her enormous credit, the credit of a doctor he was going to think about with gratitude for the rest of his life, did not say anything about it. Ellis took the report from the medic and started moving.
“Okay, let’s get a repeat set of vitals,” she said, turning back to your bed. “Bedside echo, second large-bore IV if she doesn't have one, and someone get me the chart from General, the actual chart, not the summary. Mateo, walk me through the heparin dose.”
Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he looked down at your face and he did not touch you and he watched your chest rise on the ventilator and he watched the small dried patch of blood at the corner of her mouth and he watched your eyelashes on her cheek and he thought, please.
He stood at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back like a man at a funeral and he thought please, baby and he watched the ventilator breathe for you, and somewhere out at the desk a phone was ringing, and somewhere down the hall a kid with no LEGO in his nose was being discharged with a sticker, and the clock on the wall said 11:07, and Jack Abbott did not move and did not move and did not move.
He thought about how Ellis was good. He’d always known it. He had a file in his head about her, and it was filled it words like competent, fast, doesn’t panic, asks the right questions, and that file was being updated in real time tonight now. Because Ellis, right now, in this bay, with this patient, being the doctor Jack would have wanted in this room for someone he loved if he had been able to choose, which he had not been and could not be, and the choice was Ellis. And Ellis was good, and Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he watched Collins work and he tried not to be grateful in a way that would make his face do anything.
Mateo gave the probe to Ellis. She took it. She gelled it. She tucked the sheet down off your chest in the small careful way she would for any patient and Jack looked at the ceiling for a half-second because he could not look at your chest under fluorescent light with a stranger's hand moving across it, even Ellis’s hand, even the hand of a doctor he trusted. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling tile above bay 2 had a small water stain in the shape of nothing, really. The shape of a stain. He had stood under this water stain before. He had stood under it last month and the month before and probably a hundred times. He had never seen it before in his life.
He had the algorithm in his head. He could feel it running. He could feel the part of him that was a doctor doing the thing it did, the small clean calculation of everything to do medically. And underneath, he could feel the other part of him. He could feel the man who had once watched you sleep next to him for six-hundred-and-forty-three nights, and that part was making a sound he could not hear out loud, a small high frantic sound, the sound of a thing being held under water.
“What do you want to do?” Ellis asked.
He realized she knew what to do. Ellis knew exactly what to do. She was asking him because he was the senior attending and because asking him kept him in the room, kept his hands attached to a function, kept him from being a man standing at the head of a gurney watching the love of his life turn the wrong color under fluorescent light. She was throwing him a rope. She was throwing it casually, the way you would throw a rope to someone who didn't yet know they were drowning, and Jack looked at Collins and Collins looked back at him and Collins did not blink and Jack thought, Parker Ellis. Parker Ellis, you good and decent woman. I am going to remember this.
“Half-dose.”
“You sure?”
“She’s young. Full dose risks the bleed. We watch.”
“Agree.”
“Get the Radiology in case.”
“Already paged.”
“You’re showing off again, Ellis.”
“You’re slow tonight, Doctor Abott.”
They looked at each other, and the exchange was the closest thing to mercy he was going to get for a while, and they both understood it, and they both let it pass without naming it, and Ellis turned back to your bed and started working and Jack stayed where he was, at the head, with his hands behind his back, and he watched.
This was a thing he had observed about himself in difficult moments before, mostly in a different uniform in a different country; his perception narrowed in stages. First, the room got smaller; the room got quieter; the room developed a kind of underwater quality, where sound came to him on a small delay, where people's mouths moved a half-second before the words got to him. His own pulse was the loudest thing he could hear. He was at the underwater stage now. He had not been at the underwater stage in a long time. He had forgotten how it was almost peaceful, almost, the small mean peace of a brain that had decided it could not handle the regular speed of things and had slowed everything down.
Your hand was on the gurney with the palm turned up. Someone — the medic, probably, at General, hours ago — had put a pulse ox on your index finger and the small red light of it was glowing through the pad of your finger, and your hand was slack and pale on the white sheet and your fingers were curled in the soft way of a hand whose owner was not currently making decisions about it, and Jack looked at your hand and he thought to make himself stop thinking.
He could feel his thoughts coming behind him like waves, and he tried to brace and he tried to think don't hard enough that the memory would go around him instead of through him, and it didn't work, it never worked, he had been trying not to think about specific memories of you for two and a half years and he had not once succeeded in not thinking about a memory once it had decided to arrive, and the memory arrived like a crash.
It was a Sunday morning a long time ago, in his apartment, in the bed that had been his apartment's bed before it had been your apartment's bed before it had been his apartment's bed again, and you had been asleep on your side facing him and he had been lying on his side facing you, awake, watching you, in the way he sometimes did and never told you about, and your hand had been on the pillow between your faces with the palm turned up, the way it was turned up now, the small slack curl of your fingers, and he had reached out very slowly so he didn't wake you and he had pressed his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and he had felt it, the small steady beat of you, and he had thought ‘thank you.’
He had thought it as a sentence with no addressee. He had thought it the way men in foxholes thought it. He had thought thank you, and you had not woken up, and he had taken his thumb off your wrist after a while and you had slept on, and he had lain there for another hour watching you sleep, and that had been a Sunday in — he didn't know. He didn't know what Sunday it had been. He had a lot of Sundays like that one filed away and he had stopped, at some point, trying to keep them in order.
He was at the head of your bed and he wasn’t allowed to touch you.
Your hand was on the sheet with the palm turned up and the small red light of the pulse ox was glowing through the pad of your index finger and your pulse was being read by a machine instead of by him and Jack stood at the head of the bed and he did not move and he did not move and he did not move.
When the tPA went in, Jack knew it went in and it went around and it found the clot and it started to break it up, and you started to get better the way ice melted, slowly, in increments you couldn't see while you were watching, only in the aggregate, only when you looked away and looked back.
So the next twenty minutes were a vigil. The next twenty minutes were Jack and Ellis and Mateo and other people standing around your bed and watching the monitor and watching your chest and watching your color, and the monitor pinged in its small mechanical way and your blood pressure stayed at eighty-six and your heart rate stayed at one-forty and Jack stood at the head of the bed and breathed through his nose and counted, in his head, very quietly, because he had nothing else to do with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.
He counted to a hundred.
He counted to a hundred again.
He was on four hundred when his blood pressure went up by four points.
Jack looked at the monitor; he watched your blood pressure. He watched your blood pressure sit at ninety for a few seconds and then go to ninety-two. He watched your heart rate come down from one-thirty-five to one-thirty-two. He watched the numbers and he did not let himself feel anything about the numbers and he stood at the head of the bed and the small slow tide of the room came back up around his ankles and, even though he didn’t, felt like he had one, healthy breath he could take instead of the shallow ones he’d been taking.
He thought, okay. He thought it the way you’d said it that morning. He thought it in your voice, he heard it in your voice, and he stood at the head of the bed and kept repeating the word and he watched the numbers and they kept on being good.
Ellis exhaled. Jack hadn’t even realized Ellis had been holding her breath, and the only reason he noticed it was because she let it out. Ellis shook her head once, very small, and said, “Okay. We’re getting somewhere.” Then, she looked at Jack and said, “Abbott, sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said, not missing a beat.
“You’re gray, Abbott.”
Jack stayed silent because, frankly, he had no idea what color his face was. He had no information about his face—he didn’t care about his face—because it was somewhere far above him being operated by remote. But Ellis was looking at him with a look he’d never seen on her, at least directed on him, and Jack thought he really must’ve looked bad.
“Five minutes,” Ellis said. “Go sit down. Drink some water. I won’t leave her. I’ll call you if anything moves.”
“Please—”
“Five minutes.”
Jack looked at Ellis, then he looked at you. He was not going to win this one and that the smartest thing he could do was to take the five minutes she was offering and come back functional.
He walked through the bay doors and past the desk and past Dana, who did not look up from the phone, who knew not to look up, who was a woman of great and terrible mercies, and he walked down the hall to the supply closet on the left, and he opened the supply closet and he went in and he closed the door behind him and he stood in the dark for a second and then he turned the light on and he leaned against the metal shelving with the gauze and the saline and the small disposable speculums on it and he put his hands over his face.
Jack hadn’t cried in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure if he still could. The mechanism was there, somewhere, but he had not, since the morning he had come back home and seen your key on the counter and the cold, day-old coffee mug beside it, made it work. He’d come close. He had come close a number of times. He’d stood at his own kitchen counter for too long, his weight foot had gotten sore because of how much pressure he was putting on it, and the tears had not come. The only thing that accompanied him was this tug at his chest that started dull, then grew into this feeling of thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his ribcage.
He stood with his hands over his face and his back against the shelving and he breathed for a count of four in and a count of six out, which was a thing he had been taught a long time ago by a therapist with a kind face whose name he could not currently remember. He breathed and breathed, but all his brain could conjure up was the trip the two of you never made it on.
The cabin, the one you were supposed to be going to in June, only months after you left. You’d booked it in October, and you’d been excited about it. Jack had been so, so excited about it. You had a running list of things you wanted to do—a hike, a swim in a strange place, a restaurant with things neither of you had heard of—and you’d emailed him the list with the subject line, “june???” and he’d emailed back, “yes ma’am,” and that was that.
He’d gone to the cabin alone four months after you’d left. He’d taken the time off he’d already booked, gotten in his car, and drove four hours to the cabin. He’d checked in under his own name and the receptionist asked if there had been a change to the reservation, because there were two names on it. He knew it was downright silly to have expected you there; he hadn’t run into you in Pittsburgh, so there was no possibility you would have shown up here. He said no, the other person couldn’t make it. The woman at the front desk had nodded politely and given him the keys.
He’d done none of the things on your list. He had sat on the dock and looked at the lake and thought about you. He’d thought about whether you knew the dates of the trip you’d planned. Were you also thinking about the dates? He had thought about whether you were thinking about him thinking about you. He had eaten badly. He had slept badly.
On the third day, he had walked into the woods behind the cabin and he had sat down on a fallen log and he had stayed on it for an hour as his chest felt like it was caving in. The light had changed while he was on the log. The light had gone from the late afternoon kind to the early evening kind, and at some point he had registered that the light had changed, and he had gotten up off the log and walked back to the cabin, and he had checked out the next day a day early. He had driven home. He had not told anyone he had gone.
He took his hands off his face.
He looked at the ceiling of the supply closet. He turned the light off. He opened the door. He walked back down the hall. He walked past the desk. Dana, again, did not look up. He went back into bay 2.
Ellis looked at him and nodded, which he returned.
Your blood pressure was ninety-six over sixty. Your heart rate was one-twenty-eight. Your color, under the fluorescents, was — your color was a fraction less wrong than it had been five minutes ago. The ventilator was breathing for you in the same small mechanical way. Ellis started charting at the foot of the bed. The new nurse was checking the IV.
Jack went back to the head of the bed and put his hands behind his back.
He didn't know how long he stood there because he had stopped looking at the clock — there was a clock above the door of bay 2 and he had stopped letting his eyes go to it, because every time he looked at it less time had passed than he thought, every time he looked at it the small mean math of the clock told him that the universe was running slow tonight on purpose, and he had decided at some point that he was not going to look at the clock anymore.
“Jack?” Dana’s voice called.
“Mm?”
“Her sister’s here.”
He stood at the head of the bed and he looked at you and he held very still and he thought about something. He thought about the suitcase tag. He thought about your hand on the pillow on a Sunday morning a long time ago.
He thought about the small dried patch of blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on the way in and which someone, at some point, was going to have to wipe off, and he thought, very clearly, with the small clean clarity of a man in a supply closet, that he wanted to be the one who wiped it off.
He wasn’t allowed.
“You don’t have to, Jack,” Dana said when he didn’t respond.
“I’m going, it’s okay.”
Dana looked at him for a long second with the look she had, the look he had earned over years, the look that said that while she is, in fact, his nurse, she could be his friend or his mother or his nurse, if he needed her to be any of those for the next ten minutes. He looked back at her and he didn't say anything. She nodded, once, and she stepped aside.
He walked out of bay 2.
He could see your sister, standing at the desk, in a coat that was too thin for the weather, with her purse on her shoulder and her phone in her hand and her hair pulled back from her face, which he had only ever seen her do twice, the first time when your father had been in the hospital four years ago and the second time when she had come to yours and Jack’s apartment for Thanksgiving and burned the rolls and cried about it in the kitchen and let him hand her a glass of wine.
She had a wedding band on, which she had not the last time he’d seen her. The ring was a thin gold band. She had a small gold charm on a chain around her neck.
He knew her face. He knew the way she held her phone.
He knew, even from down the hall, that she had been crying in the car on the way over and had stopped before she came in, because that was the kind of thing your sister did, that was a specific habit she had, and he had liked her very much, once, and she had liked him very much, once. It was a kind of likeness that came from knowing the other person loved their mutual person right.
The last thing she had ever said to him out loud had been “She's okay. I just wanted you to know she's okay,” on a phone call four months after you’d left, and she had hung up before he could say anything back. She was the closest he could get to you without getting to you, because the one time he’d tried calling you, it rang five times before he, in the most honest words he could put it, chickened out.
When she turned and saw him, there was the flash of recognition. Then, he could practically hear her think ‘of course it’s you, of course it had to be you.’ Then her face did the thing he had been bracing for, the polite hard face of a woman who had not forgiven him and was not going to and was, right now, going to have to talk to him anyway because her sister was on a ventilator. She stood at the desk with her phone in her hand and she watched him walk toward her.
He put them in the pockets of his scrubs. He took them out. He put them behind his back. He took them out again. He let them hang at his sides.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked at him and seemed like she wanted to frown. “Hi, Jack.”
Jack had been bracing for cruelty. It was then he realized she was choosing to be kind to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. But the only conclusion he could come to was that she wouldn’t punish him for what he’d done, and instead let the world do it. The world was doing a fine job.
“She’s stable.” He cleared his throat because it sounded too heavy again. “She’s gonna—she’s gonna be okay. We're moving her to ICU in a little while. She's gonna be okay.”
She looked at him and Jack watched her eyes fill up. Your sister was, like you, a person who did not cry in front of people if she could help it. He stood there and watched her not cry, and he understood, with the clarity of a man who loved you and could not stop doing so, that she didn’t cry in front of people because you didn’t cry in front of people. Because the two of you had learned it from the same kitchen, the same mother, the same childhood with the same set of rules about what was and was not allowed to be done in a room with witnesses.
She let her eyes fill up and she looked at the ceiling for a second and she breathed through her nose and she looked back at him and she said, very quietly, “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”
“I didn’t—Doctor Ellis ran most—”
“Thank you, Jack.”
He gave her one jerky nod. Then, he looked at the floor and nodded again and he stood there.
“Can I—” he started, then stopped himself because he wasn’t sure what he was asking.
Your sister hummed, slightly urging him to continue.
“Can I see her? Once she’s in the ICU. Can I—I don’t have to go in. I just, I would really like to. Once, if that’s okay.”
This woman had stood in your kitchen one Sunday afternoon a long time ago and watched him put his hand on the back of your neck while you laughed at something the neighbor’s dog had done and who had thought, in that moment, that, yes, Jack is the one for her sister. This woman had also, four months later, sat with you on the phone while you cried in a parking lot in a different city. The look she gave him contained both of those things. It was a look that contained more than Jack could parse, and he stood in the hallway of his ER and he looked at your sister and he waited.
“I don’t know, Jack,” she said.
He nodded, and it was more unstable than before.
“I don’t know if she’d want that.”
“I know,” Jack said, and this time, there was no denying the shakiness accompanying his voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” Jack was nodding along to whatever she said now, because this, this, he’d have to make peace with. “I’ll see how she feels, and maybe I can bring it up—?”
He nodded and he could not say anything and he stepped back from the desk. Before he could turn around, another question slipped from his mouth, “Was—is she okay? In the last while, was she taking care of herself? Happy? Sleeping?”
He was making a mess of it. He could feel his face doing the thing it did when he was making a mess of it.
“She’s been okay, Jack.”
He nodded and nodded and nodded.
Your sister picked up her purse from where it had slid down her arm and she adjusted her coat and she looked at him one more time and she said, “It’s nice to see you, Jack.”
She said it like a small kindness she was giving him because she had decided, in these past few minutes, that she was going to give him this one thing. Like giving a stranger directions to a place you knew they probably weren't going to find. She said it and she meant it and she also did not mean it, and Jack stood as he watched your sister walk past him toward bay 2, where Dana was waiting to take her in, and he stood there until she was gone, and then he stood there a little longer.
Summary: You never wanted a roommate. You want one even less when he snoops in your room and comes across something that he was never supposed to see.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, vibrator, overstimulation, praise, fingering, ruined orgasm, enemies to lovers, sub!steve, dom/switch!reader, steve whimpers.
W.C: 6k+
a/n: i had a vision in my head about steve whimpering and i just had to run to docs.
୨♡୧
“Fucking asshole,” you grumble, digging through the organized mess on his desk. Face pulled tight with barely concealed anger, you finally find your wired earbuds underneath a pile of papers.
You bunch them up in your hand and shove them into your pocket with a grunt. This is the third time he’s taken something from you without asking, just this week. First, it was your favorite pen. Then it was the new toothpaste you bought. It’s a new habit he’s developed, on top of his already annoying ones. Like not closing cabinets. Like eating all of your snacks and leaving the empty boxes filled with nothing but crumbs.
Really, you never wanted a roommate. When you moved into your apartment, you finally felt free, finally felt like you could feel comfortable in your own space without the nuisance of other people. But your landlord got greedy. Upped the rent without warning.
And of course, he insisted that his nephew would be a good roommate. Would be able to split the cost with you. Sure, you could’ve turned him down. Could’ve begged him to let you handpick your roommate. But he never told you what an annoying fucking prick he is.
Two years living with him has felt like an entire lifetime.
“What are you doing in my room?”
Immediately, you spin around, heart plummeting, banging against your ribs violently. You jolt so hard that your hip slams into the desk painfully. “Jesus!”
“Chill, Princess.”
Steve’s leaning against the doorframe, one shoulder braced on the wood, blocking half of it. The hallway light spills in behind him, casting his body in shadow, outlining the broad slope of his shoulders and the messy curl of his hair.
He’s wearing an old, washed-out tee, the light grey fabric stretching across his torso. His legs are covered in dark denim that hugs the muscles in his thighs in a way you absolutely refuse to acknowledge. You grind your teeth together at the sight, fingernails digging into your palms so hard you’re sure they’re leaving dents.
“Don’t call me that,” you snap, teeth clenching.
Steve holds his hands up in defense and steps further into his room. “Sorry, is your highness better?
“Shut the fuck up,” you grunt, pushing past him, your shoulder checking into his.
At the contact, he stumbles back slightly, a low chuckle rumbling his chest. “What crawled up your ass today?” He asks, following after you like a lost puppy. More like a rodent. “Seriously.”
“You did!” You yell over your shoulder, plopping down on the couch. As you sink into the cushions, you hope the tension will bleed from your body. All you want is to relax, to enjoy the rest of your weekend in peace. Leaning forward, you pick up the remote and flick on the TV, some old romcom playing. Like the world is openly mocking you.
To your dismay, Steve slides in front of your view, his hands on his hips. “What did I do now?”
It takes everything in your body not to lunge up and yell in his face, to list off every single thing he does that drives you up a wall. But you don’t. Instead, you lean to the side, looking past his hip to glare at the TV screen. Noticing your shift, Steve steps to the side.
Anger tears through your veins, your teeth sinking down on the inside of your cheek. Your eyes snap up to his, chest heaving with barely concealed rage. “What do you think?” You breathe out, digging into your pocket and holding up your headphones.
Steve raises an eyebrow, tilting his head like he has no clue. “What? I made sure they didn’t get tangled this time.”
A soft puff of air comes out of your nostrils like a bull. “You took them.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Without asking, asshole!”
He just rolls his eyes, his hands dropping to his sides. “Okay? You take my sweatshirts all the time.”
An embarrassing heat creeps up your neck at the memory. You shake your head, as if you can shake the redness from your face. “That was once, and it was an accident! I thought it was mine!”
“My clothes are like, three sizes bigger than yours!” Steve crosses his arms across his chest, biceps bulging with the motion.
Slowly, you cross your arms too, mirroring his body language. “Leave me alone, Harrington. I’m seriously not in the fucking mood.”
“Yeah, I can tell. God, you’re so uptight all the time,” he says, flopping down on the couch next to you, taking out his phone. “You need to get laid.”
What?
Your head snaps over to him, your face heating up. You tell yourself it’s only from the pure anger coursing through your entire body. “Excuse me?”
“What? I’m serious. Maybe it’ll help you relax.”
At the sheer amount of audacity he’s throwing your way, you scoff. “What will help me relax is you leaving me alone and not stealing my fucking shit!”
“Mm. How long has it been?” He asks, not even looking up from his phone. The blank expression on his tilted-down face makes you want to send your knuckles into his jaw.
“That is absolutely none of your business!”
“A month? A year? What’s the deal, Princess?” He asks, a video playing low on his phone, as if this is such an everyday conversation. It just pisses you off even more.
“Fuck you,” you growl.
“Sorry, I’m not offering. You’re not my type,” he mumbles, smirking lazily up at you, his eyes finally flicking up.
God, if only you could strangle him.
Your teeth grind together, your nails digging into the meat of your bicep. The sharp sting is the only thing grounding you enough not to lunge across the couch and do just that. “Leave me alone.”
Steve just lounges back, his legs spreading, taking up even more unnecessary space. You jolt your leg back like his skin is acid when his thigh brushes yours. A low beep sounds from the device in his hands, a low vibrating following. “Ah, shit,” he mumbles. “Could I borrow a charger?”
Your jaw almost drops at his audacity. Instead, you keep your face pulled tight, trying not to let him burrow into your skin even more than he already has. “Absolutely not.”
“Please? I asked this time,” he offers, smiling like a proud kindergartener. He knows how much it pisses you off, knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Please?”
“If I say yes, will you go into your room and leave me the fuck alone?”
Seemingly considering it for a second, Steve just shrugs. “Fine. Where is it?” He asks, already rising off the couch. As soon as he stands up, the tension already melts from you. The further he is, the happier you know you’ll be.
If you have to sacrifice an extra charger, so be it.
“Top drawer, next to my bed,” you wave him off, focusing back on the TV. You grunt, realizing you’ve missed three entire scenes. As you pick up the remote to rewind the movie, Steve shuffles away, lowly whistling some tune you don’t recognize.
After a few moments, you hear the familiar screeching of your old drawer. The same one you have to open slowly at night, careful not to wake him up. All the color drains from your face as you suddenly remember why you only open that drawer at night.
Quickly, you bolt up off the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood floor as you beeline toward your room. “Wait! Steve, hold on-” You skid to a stop in front of your door, stumbling slightly as your socks slip from beneath you.
You hold onto the doorframe, chest rising and falling like you just ran a marathon. Your stomach drops to your feet once your eyes settle on him. He’s standing next to your bed, a large grey object in his hand.
Your vibrator.
His face is painted in shock, his lips pulled into a wide smile. “Princess, what is this?” He asks innocently, waving it around tauntingly. Laughter bubbles from his chest, too warm and bright for this situation.
Every part of your body is set on fire, humiliation building so quickly within you it almost makes you dizzy. “Steve, put that down!” You yell.
Steve just laughs even harder, promptly ignoring your demands. “No way. This is too good. Jesus, how many settings does this thing have?” He asks, tilting his head as he runs his thumb down the base of it. Slowly, he pushes one of the buttons, a low buzzing filling the room. “Oh, wow.”
“Stop it!” You stomp into the room, your voice shaking pathetically. It just adds to your embarrassment, to the pure anger ripping through your entire body.
His thumb finds another button, and the speed increases, the sound of the buzzing nearly matching the volume of the blood pumping into your ears. “Do you use it every night? How hard does it make you-” his taunts get cut off when you lunge forward, attempting to tear it from his hands. He just laughs, holding it high above his head, just out of your reach.
You jump up to grab it, growling when he dodges out of the way with another laugh. “I’m serious! Stop being such a dick!” Again, you jump forward, your fingertips just brushing the toy. At the contact, he almost trips over his own feet, stumbling backward.
“I can’t believe you have one of these, princess! Is this why you’re always so-” His words are interrupted again when you jump up and try to climb him to get it back. It almost slips from his hand, and he readjusts his grip. “Whoa!”
His feet slip out from under him when you advance on him again, your body colliding with his as hands shoot out to grab onto you. You both fall backwards, Steve landing with a loud grunt as his back slams on your carpeted floor.
You land on top of him in a heap, both of you a tangle of limbs. The vibrator still buzzes loudly in his hand between you two. Slowly, in a daze, you pull up, your eyes narrowing at him. He meets your eyes, deep honey pools staring up at you. Coffee strands fall over his eyebrows, his pink lips slightly parted.
“Give it back, Harrington.”
“Make me,” he says lowly, thinking you’re too embarrassed to make much of a scene. His thumb presses down on the button again, the speed increasing. He holds it between your chests mockingly, knowing you can feel the buzzing through your shirt.
With a downward twitch of your lips, you tug at the toy, giving him a warning glance. In response, his grip tightens, fingers brushing against yours as you both fight for control. “You know, you could just ask me to help you with this thing,” he says lowly, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Slowly, his eyes flick to your lips.
Although you know he’s just teasing, only trying to get under your skin, your heart thuds harder against your ribcage. Your grip on the toy tightens, and you find the off button. It clicks off, the low buzzing ceasing. The only sound between you is his low breathing and the pounding of your heart in your chest. With a triumphant smile, you tear it from his hand.
Just as you’re about to climb off of him, you feel something shift against your thigh. Hard. Firm. At first, you think it might just be the hard muscle of his thigh. But as you readjust, and you see the tick of his jaw, you realize exactly what it is.
“Are you…”
Steve swallows hard, realizing how easily you can feel his growing erection all the way through his jeans. But, he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hips gently move up into the plush skin of your thigh. “Maybe,” he admits, his voice lowering.
“You’re a pervert,” you mumble, though no venom laces your voice. Just like you wanted, you take back the toy, rolling off of him.
He sits up, watching you with a smirk. “You’re the one who jumped on me,” he says defensively. As you stand up, he adjusts himself discreetly, clearing his throat when you notice. “And for the record…”
“Shut up,” you suddenly snap, swallowing the lump of anger in your throat. Instead, it twists into something darker. Deeper.
It’s like someone has flicked a light switch deep within you, turning two years of pure rage into a storm of emotions in your stomach, twisting deep and ugly. You want to see that smirk wiped off his face, want him to be putty in your hands.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he smirks, watching your expression shift.
With a soft breath out, you grind your teeth together. “Sit down.”
His smile falters slightly at your sudden assertiveness. Steve raises an eyebrow, slightly intrigued. “What?” He crosses his arms, not making any motions toward the bed. “This an invite, princess? Because if so, I’m gonna need a real-”
Quickly, he stops talking when you hold up the vibrator in your hand. You’re eyeing him with a dangerous look he’s never seen in his life. The slow movement of his throat causes the fire within you to blaze even brighter. “On the bed. Now.”
Adams's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, his smirk fades completely. Slowly, he walks to the edge of the mattress, watching you warily. You can just about hear how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. A smile spreads on your face when he spreads his legs slightly without thinking, giving himself room. An action that previously made you want to rip all your hair out. Now, it’s nothing but convenient.
Shuffling over to him, you lean in close, your faces inches apart. Your eyes drag up and down his face, scanning each crease. Up close, you can admit how pretty he is. Freckles and moles dot his face like twinkling stars in the night, soft brown hairs grown above the curve of his top lip. Stubble lines the sharp curve of his jaw, enticing you to drag your lips down it. A light pink is crawling its way onto his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The wide, innocent look in his eyes is nothing but endearing, deep pools of honey staring up at you.
“You know, I think it’s time you got knocked down a peg, Steve,” you purr, your breath hot against his ear.
A shiver goes down his spine as the vibrator hums to life between you two, a low buzzing reverberating through your ribs. Steve looks up at you, conflicted between cocky and nervous. Leaning back slightly, his hands fist your bed sheets. “You wouldn’t-” he starts, but his voice cracks. Softly, he clears his throat, shaking his head as if it’ll stop the tremble of his words. You press the vibrator dangerously close to his crotch, the head just barely teasing the denim. “Princess, come on.”
Against his objections, you lean in closer, pressing the toy against the seam of his jeans. Inhaling sharply, his hands grip the bedspread tighter. “Fuck-” he huffs out, hips jerking involuntarily against the buzzing plastic. The pretty rose on his cheeks darkens, and his lips part. “Stop playing,” he says, but his voice is strained. Despite his words, his legs spread even wider. “You wouldn’t.”
With a smile and an innocent bat of your eyelashes, you turn it up a setting, pressing it even firmer. “Not so cocky now, huh, princess?” You mock.
His mouth falls open in a silent ‘o’ as the vibrator presses firmer against his hard length, his arousal undeniable with the denim stretching tight. Steve squirms slightly, very obviously trying to hold back a groan. “Fuck,” he whispers, biting his lip hard. Looking up at you, his eyes are wide with embarrassment.
“You’ve never used one of these, huh?” You tease, seeing it written all over his face.
“N-no, of course not,” he stammers, hips twitching against the vibration. His hands are fisted into the bedsheets, knuckles turning white. “I don’t- I don’t need one. I’m a guy, we don’t-” He cuts himself off with a choked sound once you adjust the angle, pressing the buzzing directly against the most sensitive part of him. “Oh, my god.”
You laugh mockingly as you watch a small patch of the denim darken with pre-cum. “You like that, don’t you?”
Steve doesn’t respond, his chest heaving. He follows your line of sight, groaning once he notices the dampness that has soaked through his briefs. Slowly, you sink to your knees, taking the toy off for just a moment. He looks down at you with glazed-over eyes once you begin to fiddle with the buttons. Eyebrows raise as you drag his zipper down, the sound echoing off the walls in the silent room.
He says your name, a low pathetic whine, followed by “what the fuck?”
Once you tug at his jeans, he lifts his hips to help you, revealing tight black briefs. The fabric leaves nothing to the imagination, pulled tight against the curve of his erection. Slipping your thumbs into his waistband, you tug them down his thighs. His dick springs free, hitting the soft curve of his tummy through his tee. It twitches in the cool air, the tip flushed a pretty pink.
Although this is meant to put a hit on his ego, you’re only human. So, you can’t blame yourself for taking a moment to rake your eyes down what your roommate is working with. A trimmed patch of dark hair sits at the base of him, stretching up the small strip of skin at his stomach where his shirt has ridden up. A long vein runs along the side of him, a drop of pre-cum trailing down it.
And, unfortunately, he’s big. Certainly more so than any partners you’ve had in the past. Girthy, too, which causes a thought to fly through your head. Quickly, you push it away, taking a deep breath.
“No wonder you’re so cocky,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around the base of him with one hand, the other wrapping around the toy again. Firmly, you press it against the underside of his shaft, right under the head.
At the contact, he gasps sharply, hips lifting off the mattress. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, hands flying to your hair. He doesn’t push you away, just grips the strands desperately, nails scratching against your scalp softly. “Jesus Christ, your-” His dick twitches against the toy, his whole body already trembling, despite the low setting. His mouth opens in another silent moan.
Eyes flicking up, you press it harder against him. “I’m what? Hm? Keep talking.”
“You’re not- You’re not supposed to-” Steve can’t form words, his hips bucking shallowly into your hand and the vibrator. Eyes roll back slightly, his face flushing a deep red. “This is- I’m supposed to be the one making you, ah-” a choked moan leaves his lips.
With a laugh, you turn it up a setting, smirking in triumph when he whimpers. “You’re supposed to be making me feel good?” You finish his thought. “How long have you wanted to do that? Huh?”
His eyes widen as he realizes what he said, his thighs shaking at the increased stimulation. “I was just…”
“Tell me, Steve,” you urge, eyes flicking up to his. Without warning, you flick it up a setting, the buzzing getting quicker, louder. In response, he whimpers through clenched teeth, eyebrows furrowing.
“A year,” he murmurs, throwing his head back, revealing the expanse of moles to your gaze. You try and fail to keep the emotion on your face at bay, a soft heat crawling up your own face. Never once, in your two years of living with him, had you thought he’d have those sorts of feelings toward you.
Desperate to hide the shift of your face, you rise slightly, dragging your lips across his fluttering pulse. The position is less than comfortable, so you sit down next to him on the mattress, turning your body toward him, attacking his tanned skin again.
“A year, huh?” You repeat softly, watching how purple blooms beneath his skin where your teeth just were.
Once you’re next to him, his hands fall back to the bedspread, fingers tightening around the sheets. You swipe your tongue out, tasting sweat and the remnants of his cologne that you’ll never admit you love so much. His dick jumps against the toy, pulling another whine from his throat.
“Three more,” you whisper against his skin.
“Three… What?” Steve murmurs, his eyes widening. You pull back, dragging the toy in circles, causing his hips to jerk up again.
“Settings,” you whisper, turning it up again.
Breath hitching hard, his knuckles begin to turn white against the bedspread. Steve moans loudly, the noise going straight toward your core. You’ve never heard a man make those kinds of noises before, no matter how good you know he was feeling. You especially never thought Steve Harrington would make those kinds of noises.
“Baby, I can’t, I can’t take more,” he whines out, turning and pressing his forehead against yours. Mint fans across your lips as he pants, his eyes squeezing shut, long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks.
The nickname spurs you on even more, and you turn it up even higher, the plastic vibrating harder against your palm. “Shh, yes, you can,” you urge.
Turning his head, he looks down at his lap, jaw hanging open as more pretty moans leave his throat. He looks down in awe, as if he can’t believe this is happening. If you’re honest, neither can you. But you definitely don’t hate that it is.
Pre-cum leaks in a steady stream down his shaft, seemingly never-ending. It drips down your knuckles from where your fingers are wrapped around his base, enticing you to drag your fist up and down slowly. The added stimulation pulls louder whimpers from his lips, loud enough to make you worry about your neighbors.
“Come on, where’s that bold Steve gone?” You tease.
“He’s-” Steve gasps, back arching as the stronger vibrations reverberate through his entire body, the muscles in his thighs tightening. His hips are bucking erratically now, completely losing control. “He’s dying right now, oh god,” he moans pathetically. “Please, please,” he begins to babble incoherently, completely at your mercy.
Your name falls from his lips, repeating over and over like a mantra, a prayer. “Please what, baby? Please turn it up?”
Seemingly too embarrassed to say the words, Steve nods, a few strands of hair plastering to his forehead. With a tut, you shake your head, smoothing back the strands. “Use your words, tell me what you need.”
“Please, turn it up, please,” he begs, honey eyes brimming with tears.
“Good boy,” you praise, the words surprising both of you. He whimpers, hips bucking into both your palm and the toy. At his request, you turn it up two more clicks, the settings maxed. Further than you’ve ever been able to handle.
His whole body goes rigid, a strangled groan escaping his lips as shockwaves of pleasure rip through his body. Eyes rolling back completely, his dick twitches sporadically against the buzzing. “I’m… fuck, I’m gonna-”
“Not yet,” you murmur, kissing his jaw sweetly, contrasting with how rough you’re being with him.
At your words, he whimpers, body trembling so hard you’d almost be concerned. You can tell he’s just teetering on the edge of orgasm, but holding back somehow. Sweat beads on his forehead, trailing down his temple. “Fuck you,” he chokes out, but there’s no heat in it, only desperation.
You laugh in surprise, raising an eyebrow. A soft whine, comparable to a kicked puppy, leaves his lips once you take the toy away. His eyes snap open, lips parting. Surprise flashes across his features, more tears brimming at his waterline. “Don’t talk to me like that, and I might let you cum.”
“I’m sorry,” he spits out immediately, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, please, please, I can’t take it.” His voice is hoarse, whiny.
“Hm,” you hum, tilting your head at him. His lower lip trembles, and you take the hand that’s still wrapped around his shaft away, instead dragging your knuckles against the pink skin. Gently, despite his state, he presses his lips against your skin, eyes pleading.
His hips grind up uselessly against nothing, a hand leaving the bed sheets. He wraps his fingers around your wrist, thumb brushing against your pulse point. “Please, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t steal from you, I’ll close the cabinets, fold the laundry.”
A soft smile twitches at your lips before you can stop it. “Will you stop stealing my snacks, too?”
Nodding quickly, he kisses each knuckle again, his lips searing into your skin. “Never again.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he whines again, blinking at you.
“Okay, fine,” you shrug, as if he’s not affecting you at all. In reality, it’s quite the opposite. It took the same effort on your part to take the toy away as it did for him to plead with you, if not more. Slowly, you press the vibrator right against the most sensitive part of him, his hips jolting at the shock.
It only takes a few more moments for him to throw his head back, for more pleas to leave his mouth. Except, this time, he doesn’t wait for you to answer. He cries out, body convulsing as he cums harder than he ever has in his life. White ropes shoot across the revealed skin of his stomach, some landing on his tee.
Before his whines can get even louder, you smash your lips against his, muffling his increasing whimpers. His tongue slides against yours, his fingers tangling into your hair as he presses you firmer against him. Once you’re sure he’s thoroughly wrecked, you flick off the toy, leaning over to place it on your nightstand.
Steve collapses against the mattress, his dick still twitching slightly, oversensitized from the intense orgasm you just gave him. He looks up at you with glazed-over eyes, a drop that could either be sweat or a tear sliding down his temple. Chest still heaving, he attempts to catch his breath. “Fucking hell,” he breathes out.
You go to the bathroom for a moment, bringing back a box of tissues. Gently, you clean up his release from his tummy, bringing even more scarlet to his cheeks. Crumpling up the tissue, you toss it in the trashcan next to your bed. Then, you sit with your legs folded beneath you next to him.
“How are you feeling?” You tease, placing your palm against his chest. Even through his tee, you can feel the rapid beating of his heart. Eyes rake down his torso, and a smile pulls at your lips as you watch the soft pudge of his stomach rise and fall with each deep breath.
“Like… Like you just broke me,” he says, managing a weak, shaky laugh. His larger hand covers yours against his chest, fingers intertwining. “I can’t feel my legs,” he whispers, looking at you with a dazed, adoring expression.
You smile down at him, gently pressing your lips against his. Slowly, you pull back, tilting your head. “You gonna be nice to me from now on?”
Nodding eagerly, he squeezes your hand gently. “I’ll be so fucking nice, princess, you’ll think I’m a different person.” The pad of his thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, the motion melting the ice walls you’ve put up in front of him. “I promise.”
“You know, if you pull the same shit again, I won’t stop next time.”
Steve shudders at your words, his thumb stopping its motions. “You’re a monster,” he breathes out, but there’s really no resistance in his words, just awe. “A beautiful, evil monster.”
Gently, you lower yourself next to him, propping yourself up on an elbow, peering down at him with a soft smile. He rolls onto his side to face you, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer weakly. Tired lips press against yours softly, his thumb stroking your jaw.
“How did you turn me into this?” He laughs softly.
“Into what? A pathetic puppy?” You tease, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“Ha, ha,” Steve rolls his eyes. “You basically just turned me into your little bitch. Didn’t think you had it in you, really.”
Your finger draws a pattern up his pec. “And I didn’t think you could make those noises,” you volley back with a shrug.
Embarrassment prickles at his face, his cheeks turning a bright scarlet. His eyes drop, as if he can’t even look at you.
“Hey, hey, no,” you say quickly, tilting his head back up. “Look at me,” you whisper, smiling once those familiar pools of honey find your gaze. “I liked it. Like, maybe too much. I’m happy I could make you feel that good.”
“Yeah?” He whispers.
“Mhm,” you hum. Slowly, a question comes back to the forefront of your mind. “Hey, did you mean it earlier? When you said you’ve wanted to do something like that for a year?”
Slowly, he nods, and you can tell he wants to look away again. But this time, he doesn’t, his gaze holding yours steady. “Maybe for even longer. And I don’t mean… You doing stuff like that to me. I wanted- I want to make you feel good. Better than any of those shitty exes I always hear you complain about.”
At his words, your lips part, the color in your face definitely matching his. You’ve never had anyone admit something like that to you without any ulterior motives, and the earnest expression on his face tells you that there are none. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nods, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can I? Is that okay?”
“Please,” you whisper, completely forgetting your original motive behind doing this in the first place.
A smile spreads across his face as he rolls you onto your back, using an elbow to prop himself up next to you. His fingers slowly trail down your body, finding their way to your center quickly. Starting with gentle circles, he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit through your shorts. “Like this?” he asks, although you know he can tell by the hitch of your breath.
Nodding, you close your eyes gently, a soft whimper leaving your lips. “Mhm.”
Fingers work against you slowly, deliberately, taking their time to explore what feels good. He’s in no rush, completely content in allowing you to feel each movement, each shift. “So pretty,” he whispers, learning you, memorizing your body language.
A soft breath leaves your lips as he applies more pressure, your legs spreading open for him. He watches your face carefully, adjusting his pressure and speed based on your reactions. When you bite your lip, he focuses on that spot, knowing it's going to drive you crazy. “Look at you, so cute.”
Slowly, his fingers slip underneath your waistband, sliding under your panties. “This okay?”
You nod enthusiastically, moaning once his fingers brush your clit, this time with no barrier. Steve picks up the pace just slightly, pressing a little harder. Slowly, his fingers dip lower, the middle one teasing your entrance. “God, you’re so wet, all for me?” He whispers, looking down at you in awe. “Makin’ me whine like that turned you on this much?”
All you can manage is a soft nod, followed by a whine once he presses the tip of his finger into you, sliding it against your walls. Working you slowly, he sinks it in even deeper, down to his knuckle. Despite only having one finger curled within you, the thick digit is already stretching you open.
“Gonna put in another one, okay baby?”
At your more than enthusiastic nod, he slides another one in, curling them with each shallow thrust. Burning ever so slightly with each movement. Easily, he finds that spongy part inside of you, the one that causes your back to arch off the mattress and stars to explode behind your eyes. Steve knows he has you right where he wants you when he feels your legs start to tremble against his forearm. “Come on, princess, let me hear you.”
He tears more desperate moans from your throat, which he promptly swallows when he leans over and presses his lips to yours. Pulling back, he rests his forehead against yours, breath mingling as you pant. “Feels s’good, Steve,” you whine, eyebrows furrowing.
Your back arches and your toes curl once the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circling so expertly you can’t help but moan louder. He laughs softly, pressing against that spot within you firmer. Before you can process anything, that familiar feeling builds quickly within you, knocking the breath from your lungs.
Walls clench around his fingers, pulling another chuckle from his lips. “You close?” He asks, although you know he doesn’t need to.
Nodding quickly, you wrap your fingers around his wrist, needing something to ground you. Unlike you, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate to pick up the speed, to curl his fingers even deeper with each thrust.
“I won’t torture you, baby, waited too long for this,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against yours again, already addicted to the feeling.
It only takes a few more thrusts of his wrist, a few more circles of his thumb for you to cry out his name, for that tightness in your stomach to release. Shockwaves tear through your veins, every part of your body trembling with pleasure. His name is on your lips, repeating over and over like a broken record.
Steve doesn’t let up, riding you through your orgasm, only slowing down when tears prick your eyes from overstimulation. Slowly, he pulls his fingers out, apologizing gently when you wince at the loss. You watch with wide eyes as he holds up his fingers in front of you both, the skin glistening with your arousal.
Then, he does something that forces another groan from your lips. He wraps his lips around his fingers, cheeks hollowing around them as he tastes you. Eyes rolling back, he moans at the taste of you on his tongue.
“You’re going to kill me,” you whisper, pressing your thighs together once the dull throbbing sharpens.
He smirks around his fingers, taking them out of his mouth slowly, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. Leaning down, he kisses you softly, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. With a shaking hand, you slide your fingers through his hair, scraping your nails against his scalp gently.
“Steve?” You murmur, pulling back slowly.
“Yeah?” He whispers, thumb stroking your bottom lip.
“Sorry for… also being a bitch to you. I haven’t been the best roommate either.”
Lips twitching into a frown, he shakes his head, a cute pout falling onto his mouth. “I wouldn’t wanna live with me either, baby, you don’t have to apologize.”
“Hey, no,” you whisper earnestly, cupping his jaw, smiling once he leans into your touch. “I’m glad we’re roommates, Steve. I know I never show it, but I am. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Yeah?” He asks, voice cracking softly, as if he finds it hard to believe you.
“I promise. Except maybe when you steal my snacks,” you joke, leaning up to kiss him when he begins to protest.
“I’m glad too, princess,” he murmurs against your lips, rolling onto his back and pulling your head against his chest.
As he wraps his arms around you, you think back to every moment with him. Every argument, every blowout. Despite your emotions, despite your previous words, they never did feel that serious. Never felt like they had any sort of venom or purpose behind them. It sort of felt like you were dancing around this unspoken thing, avoiding seeing past his annoying quirks just so you could dodge your feelings.
So really, it was never about him being a dick. About him stealing your shit, not closing cabinets, and leaving sweatshirts scattered around the living room for you to clean up and fold later.
At that thought, a previous argument pops to the forefront of your mind. With a deep breath, you nuzzle into his chest.
“I stole your sweatshirt on purpose,” you admit, wrapping your arm around his middle.
Steve laughs loudly, the sound warm and bright, rumbling against your ear. “I know. I left it out for you.”
You both laugh together at the absurdity of it all, basking in each other's warmth. Scent. Touch. And really, neither of you would have it any other way.
summary Sirius overhears something he shouldn't at a party and has to make a leap of faith before the Marauders start the second leg of their tour. [3k]
warnings rockstar!sirius x shy!reader friends to lovers, fem!reader, soft!sirius, cw mentions of drugs and alcohol, first kiss, mutual pining (a little), fluff, hurt/comfort, confessions, sirius being hot? remus appears and is cute, requested here
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Sirius Black's London flat is terrifying for a number of reasons. One being that everything within it costs more than you'll make in twelve months and you're on the ditzier side. Another reason, and maybe your biggest, is that it's usually fucking filthy and/or inhabited by girls that are much, much prettier than you.
You don't bother knocking. Sirius had given you a key a very long time ago, citing that his 'best girl' should come and go as she pleases.
You're amazed at the sight before you.
It's cleaner than it's ever been. The room smells of dewberry and fresh linens. A window has been thrown open and lets in a much needed breeze, though this high it might be considered more than a breeze. The grand piano looks as new as the day it arrived, shining ebony wood clean of any suspicious powders or plastic cups.
You let your bag fall to the floor.
"Siri? The strangest thing has happened," you announce loudly into the room, hoping he can hear you from wherever it is that he is. "Somebody has done a reverse burglary in here."
When Sirius appears in the doorway of the bathroom you're shocked. You haven't seen him in a while; he's famous now – you feel lucky to be in the same city as him, let alone the same room. He looks totally different from last time.
He looks… kind of like he used to.
It makes your heart hurt.
"Hey, pretty baby."
You roll your eyes and find them flared wide when he's suddenly on you, picking you up and hugging you tight enough to make your ribs ache.
"You look lovely," he adds as he pulls away.
It makes you laugh. Sirius is sweet to every girl he's ever met. It doesn't phase you. In fact, you love to be doted on, especially by him.
You hold his biceps in your hands. "Sirius, what about you? You look- you look really good."
You raise your hand to his cheek tentatively and give him a little pinch. His skin is supple and smooth between your fingertips.
He pulls your hand from his face, quick but not cruel. "I thought about what you said, last time. Been doing some spring cleaning."
You squint. "What did I say?"
"Well, you didn't say it to me."
You feel your heart start to pound, worried you've said something mean. "I don't…" You take a step back.
"You, uh, you asked Remus if he thought I was partying too hard."
Your eyes go wide. That wasn't exactly what you said. He's kind for not repeating the rest.
Remus had been sitting with you at a party Sirius invited you to. You'd lost the pleasure of his company a half hour before and maybe had too much to drink, but you couldn't help it. It was scary being around famous people. You needed a shot or two or five before you could even look at anyone that wasn't a Marauder.
Anyhow, you'd let yourself lean into Remus' side, a dejected pout on your lips.
"What's eating you?" he asked over the rim of his drink.
Your eyes searched for Sirius unsuccessfully. "He didn't look very well."
"He didn't," he agreed.
"Do you think he's partying too hard?"
Remus chuckled. "Absolutely he is."
You picked at your nails.
"Don't worry about him, Y/N. Seriously. He's a big boy." And, when you hadn't perked up, "I'm looking after him, too. He's my best mate, I won't let him make a fool of himself."
You'd frowned wide and covered your eyes with one hand. "I miss him."
"Oh, Y/N," Remus muttered, sounding pitying and completely out of his element. He'd laid a well-meaning but awkward hand on your shoulder.
"I know that's not fair," you said, high strung.
"I think it's more than fair."
You sniffled behind your hand. "No, it's not fair. I should be happy that he's happy, and I am, but it's so weird to never see him. And when I do see him, I feel like an idiot because I don't know him."
Dramatic, sure. Drunk, very much so. You can't remember what you'd said after that but Sirius had heard it all, evidently.
"It's okay," Sirius says now. "It's more than okay. You were right, I was partying too hard. I feel better."
"Yeah?" you ask, not sure what part you're asking him to reassure you on.
"Definitely. My liver, too. And my kidney. All of me."
You step closer to him hesitantly. Sirius is more than used to this and his patience puts you at ease, makes you feel comfortable enough to do things like this as you rake your fingers through his hair.
"You cut it."
"Was getting a little long."
"I don't know, it suited you. Can you still wear it up?"
"Sure, just like our school days. I thought… I mean, I wanted to be me again."
You thread your fingers slowly through his hair and look at his collar rather than his face, afraid to make eye contact. He's dialed his assortment of necklaces and chains to just two: the necklace with his brother's intinitals and the chain he'd received from Euphemia for his twenty-first.
"I didn't mean it," you say in a rush.
"I think you did." He chucks your chin with his knuckle. When you lift your head he's grinning. "You want a drink? Or are you hungry? I made spanakopita."
Sirius is giving you an out because he knows how wound up this conversation will make you. Right now, surprisingly, you want to say no and get it over with because it's like a plaster that needs to be ripped off, but you don't have the wherewithal.
"You made spanakopita?" Your startled pleasure is evident.
"Yeah, I knew you'd like that one. C'mon, let's get some food into you."
You sit at his too big dining table with an array of steaming plates between you, giggling as Sirius recounts his pasta making disaster.
"I guess I was out of practice. I don't remember it taking so long."
"Right, you used to whip it up in an hour."
"Try three. You're lucky I like you."
Your fork scratches across your plate and you cringe. Sirius chews and sets down his cutlery, wiping his hands on a nearby tea towel to take your empty glass to the countertop and make you another.
It's awkward, the weight of what's unspoken hanging over your heat, but it's also nice. You really did miss him.
Nausea rises abruptly. Self loathing, always feeling so selfish and silly for missing him when he's right here. He's never not answered the phone in the years you've known him, never taken more than a few hours to text you back no matter where he is. He's a good friend. He sends you fucking on-stage selfies.
Even so, you're living different lives. You're not jealous (though you wondered a lot at first if you were, when the band started headlining and charting and the media had just eaten them up). You're mostly content.
He sets your new drink back down and tucks in his chair. Despite the length of cherry wood between you he feels closer than he has in months.
"Thanks for coming over," he says.
You swallow a mouthful so fast it burns. "Yeah, you're welcome," you say, rolling your eyes.
"What? What does that mean?" he asks, laughing.
"I should be saying thanks. How many hair adverts did you cancel to be here?"
"Just the one," he says slowly. There's a sparkle to his gaze that lets you know he's joking.
You spear another forkful of cheese and pastry. "Good thing. That's unfair advertising. You've always had nice hair, even when you used three in one."
He leans forward. "You have food here-" He gestures to the corner of his mouth.
You burn with embarrassment and look down to your plate, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. "D'I get it?"
"No," he says.
Sirius stands and rounds the table. You turn to him and let him take your face into one hand, fingers holding your chin in place as he wipes at the corner of your lip. He slows, his thumb sliding from your mouth to your cheek to trace absent-minded circles.
"I think you got it," you murmur.
He spreads his entire hand over your cheek, his palm aflame. "You know you're important to me," he says.
You feel frozen. Time stretches, the tick of a clock somewhere you can't see, the shushing sound of his thumb over your cheek, his breathing – soft, slow.
"I know," you say weakly.
"I don't ever want to be someone you think you don't know. It actually scared the fuck out of me, that I might be a stranger to you."
You curl your fingers around his wrist on impulse. "I was really drunk," you say, brows furrowing.
"Was it true?" he asks.
You can't answer. You won't lie, and saying yes feels too big. He nods and pulls his hand from your face only to turn it and caress your skin with his knuckles lightly enough to tickle, his rings a cold ridge.
"It's okay," Sirius says, his lips stretched onto a grimace. "I get it. I let everything get really crazy."
"You earned this," you argue.
"I got lucky."
"You know that's not true."
"Maybe half."
His eyes flit down to the floor and his knuckles crawl across your jawline, a back and forth. You've a thousand feelings and none of them are platonic, a million as he smiles some more and laughs, really laughs, a warm sound that you've missed sorely. And again you feel that shame for missing him at all, because he's right there.
"This is harder than I thought," he says under his breath.
"I missed you," you admit. An olive branch.
"I missed you. I miss you."
You reach for his waist and he lets himself get pulled in, your arms wrapping around him, your face pressed greedily to his abdomen. He hugs your shoulders without saying anything else, hands making slow and smooth lines over your t-shirt.
He rubs your shoulders, grip a short fall from bruising. "I have something to ask you," he says eventually.
"Oh, so you're buttering me up?" You attempt a light joviality, tilting your head back to look into his face, your chin digging into his torso.
He cups the back of your neck. Your heart beats as fast as a mouse's, your legs squeezed together tight. This is more than his usual tactility.
"I heard you crying," he starts, words that might appear lazy in their pace to anyone who doesn't know him, his eyes hot where they bare down into yours. He squeezes your neck lightly. "And it was over me. I'm- I'm good at upsetting people, I always have been, and I've hurt you before. I know I have."
"It doesn't matter," you say quietly. It doesn't.
"I don't want you to miss me. I don't want to be someone you don't know," he repeats. "So I want you to come with me."
Your smile fades.
His hand climbs to your face, his thumb to your jaw and his fingers under your ear. "You know I'm leaving tomorrow night for Memphis. I want you to come. No more- no more parties. No more girls."
"No more girls?" you ask. You don't know what you want him to say, but you want something. It doesn't feel right – Sirius Black wants to go on the straight and narrow?
"Just you. If you'll come," he says, sounding about as nervous as you've ever heard him.
"Just me?"
"I need you."
You bite your lip, thinking it over.
"What will I do?"
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"What will I do? I'm not a rockstar, Siri. And I'm never gonna be a groupie." Not because groupies aren't dedicated and cherished, but because you don't have the proclivity for it. You can barely talk to people you don't know.
"My shy girl," he murmurs, leaning down, your faces growing ever closer. "I know that. You won't have to do anything you don't want to. You can sightsee, or you- you could stay in the hotel all day and read your books. I'm not asking you to follow me across the country and wait on me."
"What are you asking me?"
"To be with me?" he asks. There's an almost undetectable rise in the tone of his voice.
"I'm with you," you say. It doesn't matter where he is.
He brings both hands to your face, bent at the waist, your faces a few inches apart and the distance decreasing by the millisecond.
"You're really gonna make me spell it out?"
Yes, you think. Of course I am. This is so far from our realm of reality right now, and you're touching me, and you look like you want to kiss me. I won't embarrass myself by assuming the wrong thing.
He must gather the hint. You cover his hand with yours and wait for it, the culmination of unbearable tension, the string taut between you.
"I want you to be my girlfriend. I want you to come with me to fucking Memphis, sit pretty everywhere we go. I don't care what you do. Whatever you want." His smile is aching. He gives your head a little shake with each sentence. "I need you to come with me. I'm sick of doing this without you."
You blink. "You've never even kissed me."
Sirius has game. He's a total lady killer. You've at no time seen him get rejected by anybody that wasn't Lily Evans, and still he flounders.
You're internally begging him to ask if he can because you're pretty sure you'll say yes. Your eyes dart to his lips.
"Will you come with me?" he asks steadily.
"To 'fucking Memphis'?" you tease with little infection. You're not nearly as steady as he was.
He nods. "And everywhere after that, too."
"Can I think it over?" you whisper, lifting your chin until you can feel his breath on your lips.
"No." He strokes the side of your nose with his as your eyes close, his lips a quarter inch away. You swear you can feel their heat.
"I'll come to Memphis." You inhale loudly. "And- and I won't haunt the hotel rooms, I'll stand on the side stage. With all the other girlfriends."
His breath quivers.
Your smile mirrors his as he connects your lips, a giggle bubbling up in your throat before you can stop it. It's a shockingly soft kiss. Sirius is careful, his lips parting slightly with a silent laugh all his own.
You reach into his hair and push it away from his face, hands braced at his neck and full of lovely dark curls to hold him in place.
His thumb carves a line down your cheek like a teardrop.
"Stop smiling," he whispers pleadingly.
You can't. You push your lips to his and he draws closer, pulling your face towards him gently. You start to rise from your chair and he breaks the kiss, your lips left tingling and wanting for another as you sit back down.
You open your eyes curiously as Sirius pushes his knee onto the chair. There's not nearly enough room but you make it work.
"You really are pretty, baby," he says. His hand strokes your face. You close your eyes again in anticipation of another kiss and find his lips against your cheek, his forehead pressing to yours gently. He smells like his spanakopita: flour, fresh dough, earthy greens. Under that he smells homey. Familiar.
His lips skip over your skin as he says, "You're coming with me."
.𖥔˚ synopsis: in which alex goes to his best friend for comfort after jackie cheats on him. again.
.𖥔˚ tags: season 2, angst, smut, unprotected sex, piv sex, sex for comfort, car sex, porn with plot, whiney alex, whimpering, riding in the driver's seat, friends to lovers
.𖥔˚ word count: 3k
a/n: my toxic trait is writing s2 junior muscle alex w his s1 personality and like no s2 plots
-smut under the cut-
⋆˙⟡
"You love him?"
Alex speaks it into the quiet, past the sound of the wind and past the lump in his throat. Jackie, telling his brother she loves him so easily, no hesitation or question about it, like it's so certain that she feels it course through her, after it'd taken so long to say it to him. Jackie, right outside the house, not bothering to hide from anyone who could potentially see, about to kiss his brother, cheat on him with Cole, again.
He'd fallen into her the first time last year, felt himself mix with her until he wasn't quite sure what was him and what was hers—and then lost himself the summer after she left like all of him was hers and she took it all when she went back to New York.
Then she came back, brought the sweet, nerdy version of him with her, and he felt himself come back when he took her back.
And now she's cheating on him with his older brother again? Well, she can take what she wants, but she can't have him again.
She spins around, guilt all over her face. "Alex, it's—it's not what it looks like—"
"It's looks like you're about to kiss my brother. Again," he spits. His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his hands into fists. This angry feeling that makes his chest burn forms a lump in his throat. He doesn't like being angry. He wasn't an angry person before Jackie.
"Alex—"
"Save it." Red crescent moons in his skin when he releases his fists but he doesn't care. He's choosing to let it go—which is why he turns back into the house and leaves the pair outside, shocked. Everyone's in the living room back inside. "I'm going to my room," he announces gruffly, and instead secretly snatches the car keys on the kitchen counter on his way back upstairs.
He just got his license, he can go anywhere he likes
He just got his license, he can go anywhere he likes—and there's no way he's staying here.
In his room, he grabs his wallet off his nightstand and listens for the sound of the front door opening, of Jackie and Cole asking where is, if he's ok, before opening the window and crawling out.
He's starting to realize that he didn't really think this through. He's parked in front of the sidewalk behind your house listening to the soft hum of the car to keep the engine warm, looking up at your bedroom window. Occasionally, he glances down at his phone to see if you've replied to the text you've left on delivered yet:
alex // 11:35 PM
in ur backyard
can u sneak out?
need u
He's been waiting here for the past 7 minutes now because he had the genius idea of only messaging you once he got here, not bothering to check if you're even still awake before he left the house.
Alex sighs, beginning to give up. His head's too loud now that he's just been sitting here, either he's here to pick you up and driving off or he's just driving off. He shuts his phone off and tosses it onto the passenger seat, hand going to the gear to switch from park to drive.
No music, no voices, no Jackie, no Cole. And if he can't have you, then nothing. Just him, some empty, open dirt road that he'll find, and the sound of the wind whipping past him. Yeah, that sounds nice. That's what he needs.
A hand pressing against his chest to try and keep his burning heart rate down, he's really trying to just convince himself that he can get through what's starting to feel like a panic attack on his own, that he won't end up with his dad's truck parked around a tree, that he doesn't need your voice to ground him. He pushes the gear shift into drive with his chest swelling up in pain—then deflates when he sees the reflection of you sneaking out your window in the side-view mirror.
Your walk across your backyard turns into a light jog when you see him staring at you through the passenger side window and you climb in next to him when you finally make it to the car.
"It's weird that you're picking me up in a car now," you grin. You shift to sit with your back against the door and put your legs in his lap meanwhile he's not driving. He's wearing his burgundy hoodie. You know he likes his bright red hoodie more, but you're wearing it. "Before, you'd just walk all the way out here because you're, you know, insane."
He lets out a weak laugh, eyes on his lap as he squeezes one of your ankles. He could almost laugh if his chest wasn't so tight and if he wasn't trying to not cry: you're wearing the crocodile slippers he got you as a gag gift for your birthday. "Needed to see you now. Walking seemed like a waste of time," he mumbles.
Your back lifts off the door as you sit up to cup his cheek in your hand, he leans into your touch. "Hey, what's wrong?" He just shakes his head, turning in your hold to kiss the heel of your palm.
"I just . . . ," he starts, breathing trembling, ". . . wanna drive. Away, get out, and I wanna take you with me."
You gulp. "Ok." You pull away from him and sit up straight in the passenger seat, pull your seatbelt across your chest and click it in. "Ok, drive."
You close your left eye and hold up Alex's new driver's license next to his face, close enough to you that his picture is in line with his head. "You look cute," you say after a while. You're parked at the edge of a cliff, overlooking dark fields. Buried deep in the trees, a perfect clearing to see the moon. He hasn't talked about why he's upset yet, just let you mess with his license. "Most people. don't. I look horrible in my ID. But you don't. You look cute."
And he really does. Alex's resting face consists of wide eyes, a soft face, and the tiniest twitch of the corners of his mouth that make him look like he's constantly smiling.
Even now, with his sad eyes, you can see his mouth turning into a soft smile. "No, I don't," he mumbles, pushing your hand down so the driver's license falls with it.
You huff. "You wanna talk to me now?"
He reaches out for your wrist and tugs. Needs you, needs you, needs you. "Jackie, she, um," he sniffles, only realizes he's started to cry when he wipes a tear away. "She cheated again." Your heart drops and your jaw goes with it. You're about to say something when he lets out a bitter laugh and adds, "With Cole. Again. My girlfriend cheated on me with brother. Twice."
You sigh, eyes heavy and sad. He lifts your wrist to press the heel of your palm against his cheek. He looks like a kicked puppy. "I'm so sorry, Alex. What do you need?"
"You. Just . . ." He still hasn't let go of your wrist, and he maneuvers your arm to kiss your pulse. ". . . You."
You watch quietly as Alex kisses up your arm for a moment, his eyes closed. Your heart is beating hard against your chest, you're very aware of your breathing, shaky air rattling into your shallow lungs. You have to think just to breathe, it's hard to focus when your attention is all on the fact that his lips are up to the crook of your elbow. "Alex—" you manage.
Alex finally flutters his lashes open, looks up at you all teary-eyed. "Can I have you?" His voice is a whimper with the inflation of a whine, and you can see just how much he needs it. You find yourself nodding, mindlessly, rendered weak by the sheer begging just on his face. Another whimper, he pulls you across the console, from the passenger's seat to straddling his lap on the driver's and buries his face in the crook of your neck. "Thank you," he mumbles against your skin.
Wet kisses on your throat and his hands gripping your hips, you let him grind you into his growing bulge and go pliant on him, allowing him to use your body for comfort.
"You're so pretty, you know that? So pretty, so nice to me. You're the best best friend . . . So pretty, so nice, so perfect . . . ," he rambles into your skin. it doesn't sound like he's thinking about it, defenses down as he kisses across your skin and tugs on the waistband of your pajama pants.
"You're real talkative now," you quip breathlessly. Your stomach is starting to twist in a hot know, hands trembling. You put them on his shoulders to contain yourself. This is a version of Alex you've never had before but that you've always craved.
"It's all true." His hand skirts just into your pants. "Can I . . . ?" You nod and he taps your hip as a silent 'lift'. You do, and he helps you work your bottoms off. He groans when he sees your underwear, head falling back against the headrest. They're nothing too special, just white with a strawberry pink and a little pink bow, but oh, does it work for him. "God, you're so hot."
You gulp as his hands glide up your sides slowly, bunching your hoodie and shirt up and over your chest. He's pulling them both off you all at once when you ask, "Alex, are you sure this is what you need?"
Even as you're asking, you feel his boner straining against his jeans on the inside of your thigh. He dives in, both hands gripping your tits over your bra and licking a stripe across your collarbone. "So sure."
"We could talk about it—"
Alex unclasps your bra and lets it fall. "I'm done talking. I just wanna shut my brain off." He takes a moment to admire your body: the curves of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips into the thick of your ass and the plush of your thighs . . . he doesn't realize that his mouth is open, or that he's starting to drool, or even that he's biting his lip now. You feel hot under his gaze, under his darkened eyes, and your face flushes. "You seriously are perfect. I should've just gone for you instead of taking Jackie back."
His clothes come off next, and then you're both in the driver's seat in just your underwear. Hot skin on hot skin, you run your hands up and down his defined biceps. He threw himself into the farm and the horses this summer after Jackie left, got all muscular—well, more than he already way. Anyway, he's looking up at you like he wants to devour you as you do. "If this is about making you feel better, are you sure you don't want me to just go down on you? Focus on you?"
He has to admit that the thought of your warm mouth wrapped around him, you on your knees for him, worshipping him makes his cock twitch in boxers, but that's for another time. Intimacy, that's what he wants. Not just pleasure. He shakes his head, wraps his arms around your waist, pulls you in chest to chest. "No. I just wanna feel close to you."
The kiss you give him is soft, sweet. He caresses your thighs, his hands run electric up your skin. "You deserve so much better than Jackie," you say against his mouth. "i could treat you so much better if you'd let me."
Alex pulls your underwear to the side. "Yeah? You wanna be good for me?"
Oh, fuck. If you weren't already wet, you definitely are now. He feels it when he runs his fingers up your folds, you draw in a sharp breath. "Let me be good for you," you say breathlessly.
He pulls his boxers down just enough so his dick springs out and presses against your cunt. "Up," he instructs. You do as he says and lift up, he lines up with your entrance and you sink down on him. Alex whimpers—fucking whimpers, and grips your hips with both hands for purchase. "Jesus christ, you feel so good—" His voice is strained, his brows are knitted deep in pleasure.
You wrap both hands around the back of his neck to pull his face closer to yours, nails going into his hair to lightly scratch his scalp. "Can I move?"
"Please."
You raise your hips and sink back down. Up, down, up, down, up, down . . . You build a steady pace as you ride him, one that has him chewing on his bottom lip hard to try and contain his noises. Still, little moans and whimpers escape anyhow. The car rocks with your movements, creaking. You're getting wetter the more his thick cock rubs against the spongey spots inside you that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head—it's all soft grunts and moans and squelching in here now.
"Shit, you make me feel so full—" You grind down on him in a certain way and he groans, a hand skirting to grope at your ass. "You're so hot, you know that? I've been into you for years." You tug at his hair, pulling his head up to look at you.
God, he's fucking gorgeous. His face is all furrowed up, fucked out in pleasure. That look is a silent 'your pussy is fucking lethal.'
"You're so tight—so wet—" He can't even manage a full sentence, every other word is followed by a desperate moan. he's trying so hard to contain himself, you can feel it in the tight grip he has on your ass and your hip—and then his hips involuntarily buck up to meet yours.
You gasp, dropping your forehead against his. You kiss him and realizes fucking up into you works, and keeps doing so. A good thrust makes your mouth fall open, little moans slipping out. You don't really speak, just let your hot pants mingle and your desperate eyes do all the talking. The window is fogging up with humid heat building up from your hot fucking, and when your hand launches out to press against the cold glass just to support yourself, it slides and squeaks against the condensation, leaving behind a stretched hand print as evidence of your sin.
Your thighs are starting to cramp up but you don't care. You're close, real close, and when his hand on your hip moves down and starting toying with your pulsing clit, you let out a surprised moan in the form of a high-pitched, "Oh!" You tighten around his doc, he groans and squeezes the plump skin of your ass again. "Alex," you whine, he whines your name back in response.
"I'm—I'm gonna cum," he whimpers, giving you sloppy but almost feverish, strong thrusts.
You nod, digging your nails into the back of his neck. Midnight blue acrylics creating little pink crescent moons in the nape of his neck. "Yeah, me too. Give it to me."
You pull him into a hard kiss to muffle both of your noises as you both cum. He twitches inside you, you tremble against him. He holds you close to him, sweaty chest to sweaty chest, and offers a few weak thrusts to ride out your highs before you both just . . . flop. Heaving.
Alex, brushes your damp hair back from your face and then cups your face, just looking at you. "Thank you," he pants.
Quiet, until his phone starts buzzing. He groans, more so when you climb out of his and he's no longer inside you. You're in the passenger's seat and putting your bra back on when he fishes his phone out of his jeans on the floor of the car.
You catch a glance at the name—Nathan—when he answers the call on speaker and sets his phone down on the dashboard. "Yeah?" he asks. There's a bitter quality to his voice, and audible eyeroll, like he just can't bare the fact that someone would dare interrupt your moment.
"Hey, where are you? Mom and dad just got home. I told them you're already asleep but . . . And they'll probably notice the car's gone too, soon."
You're both dressing now. Alex sighs, hoodie over his head. "Um, I went out with Y/N. Just, like, I don't know, wanted to clear my head. I'll be home soon."
You sit there quietly, drawing senseless shapes in the condensation on the window, pretending like you didn't just do the most intimate thing you've ever done with anyone with your best friend.
Alex ends the call and pockets his phone. You're both dressed, the car smells like sex, and you're not looking at him. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"Look at me." And you do, even if you're feeling all shy now that you've both come down. "You wanna talk about what we—?"
You shake your head, pulling the seatbelt across chest and clicking it in. "No, it's ok. We have to get home now, anyway."
You can see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he's mulling it over in his head before finally giving in. "Yeah, ok." He turns the key in the ignition, the engine revs to life.
You're just about to fall asleep when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You groan, reaching a lazy hand out to check the message.
alex // 2:07 AM
it wasnt just sex btw
i hope yk that
i really do want u
You grin to yourself, typing up a response before going back to sleep.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 12k
summary: five-year-old steve harrington hates the hamptons—until he meets a barefoot girl with a bucketful of shells and becomes stevie. a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), childhood best friends to lovers, oldmoney!steve, coming-of-age, vignette storytelling, first kiss, loverboy baby steeb!, heavy angst, slow burn, canon divergence, his parents are godawful in this one, character study as always, happy ending | playlist | moodboard
Steve Harrington is 5 years old when he decides that the Hamptons are the worst place in the entire world.
He knows this because he’s been here for one whole hour and he already wants to go home.
At least, he thinks it’s been an hour. The numbers on his new watch are shiny and hard to read, and the leather strap feels too heavy on his arm. It keeps sliding down like it’s trying to escape.
Steve kind of hopes it does.
If it slides off completely, down through the cracks in the porch and into the sandy dirt below, then maybe the ocean will take it. The ocean takes lots of things. Shells, seaweed, shiny bits of glass, baby turtles.
Maybe it could take him, too.
Maybe he could float on the blue waves all the way back home.
Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?
No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.
His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.
He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.
His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”
He tries. He really, really does.
But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.
Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.
Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”
Steve frowns.
Why would he do that?
He likes hearts.
Hearts are for loving, not hurting.
He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.
He wants it.
Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.
Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.
His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”
He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.
“I am standing straight,” he mutters.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He wants to run.
Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.
So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—
Steve sneaks away.
He’s fast and light, like a ninja.
He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.
The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.
The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.
The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.
On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.
A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.
It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.
He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.
He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.
The sand slides back in.
He digs again.
Slides back in again.
He huffs and tosses the stick away.
“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.
He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—
When a shadow falls over his hole.
“What’re you doing?”
Steve looks up.
It’s a girl. About his age.
You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.
You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.
A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.
Steve jerks back. You don’t.
Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.
“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.
He blinks. “…I’m not?”
“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”
“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”
Nobody ever asks him that.
Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.
He nods fast. “Yeah.”
You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.
“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.
You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.
“Can I call you Stevie?”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”
Steve thinks about it.
Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.
It feels special. Like a secret.
“Okay,” he nods, smiling.
You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”
Stevie.
He likes it.
Loves it.
It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.
The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.
They become you.
Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.
Every month of the school year, Steve waits.
And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.
When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”
But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.
The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.
He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.
If he sees you.
What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?
The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.
He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.
The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.
He can’t wait. He can’t.
He barely waits for the car to stop.
“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”
He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.
He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.
He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.
He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—
“STEVIE!”
He spins around so fast the world blurs.
You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.
Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.
You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.
“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”
You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.
“See?”
Steve blinks.
The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.
“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”
Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”
He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.”
“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”
Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.
“…What’s it do?”
“Just listen.”
He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.
And then—
Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
His eyes go huge.
“Whoa,” he breathes.
“Cool, right?”
“It’s loud.”
“That’s the ocean.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”
You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”
He frowns. “But… you found it.”
“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”
He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.
“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”
Of course he does.
⚓︎
You drag him everywhere.
To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!
To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!
To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!
You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.
You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.
You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”
Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.
“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.
Steve blinks. “Why?”
“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”
“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”
“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”
He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“Next summer.”
He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.
“You promise?”
“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.
He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.
“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.
“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.
You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.
You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.
You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.
Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”
“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”
“What’s that?”
You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”
Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.
Flying… but on water.
He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.
And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.
His mouth twists.
“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.
You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”
You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.
For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.
He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.
But you’re laughing.
Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.
Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”
And you’re gone before he can say wait up.
The tight feeling in his chest disappears.
He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.
It’s perfect.
It’s the best day of his whole life.
Until you fall.
It happens so fast.
One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.
The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.
“Ow!”
Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.
He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.
“Your... your knee,” he whispers.
You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”
It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.
“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”
You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”
He nods hard. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.
“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”
“O-okay.”
Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.
“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”
And then he sprints.
He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.
Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.
He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.
You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.
“I got it!” he pants.
He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—
You hiss and pull back.
“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”
He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.
“Better?”
“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”
He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.
“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”
When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.
“Hey, are you oka—oof!”
All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.
A warm, squishy, full-body hug.
“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.
Steve freezes.
His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.
No one’s ever said that to him before.
“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.
He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.
And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.
Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.
It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.
He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.
His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.
He knows you’re there, waiting for him.
You always are.
Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.
You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.
When you see him, your whole face lights up.
“Stevie! You got it!”
“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”
“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”
He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.
Closer than last year, he thinks.
Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.
The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.
You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.
Your fingers slide between his.
Steve looks down, startled.
Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.
You don’t let go.
He definitely does not let go.
“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”
“Yeah,” Steve says.
But he’s not looking at the sky at all.
The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.
So he squeezes back.
Carefully at first. Then a little braver.
Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.
You’re brighter.
You’re always brighter.
When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.
“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.
“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.
You smile at him.
“You’re my best friend.”
His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.
He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.
“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”
Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.
A hug.
It feels familiar. But also different.
Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.
He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.
“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”
That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.
“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.
Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Barely there.
But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.
His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.
Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.
You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.
Steve freezes.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.
The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.
Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.
Something big.
It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.
Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.
He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.
And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.
But none of that really matters.
Because you’re here.
You’re back.
And you’re different, too.
Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.
But now...
Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.
The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.
You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.
Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.
He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.
You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.
“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”
Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.
But he can’t stop staring.
At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.
He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.
He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—
You go quiet.
Really quiet.
Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.
You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.
There’s nothing.
You’re just… looking at him.
“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.
His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”
You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.
Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”
He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.
“O-okay,” he manages.
You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—
And you kiss him.
Right on the mouth.
His first kiss.
Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.
You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.
Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.
“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”
He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.
You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”
He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”
“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”
He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.
When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.
Steve turns his head to look at you.
Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.
“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?
Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”
This time, he leans in first.
And this time, he’s ready.
He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.
“Oh my god, your face is so red.”
“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.
“Nope. It’s you.”
You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.
“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.
You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.
You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.
Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.
The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.
After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.
He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.
“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.
“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”
Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.
“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”
Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”
“It’s a secret.”
You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”
“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”
You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his.
“I hate you.”
He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.
“No you don’t.”
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.
It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.
He starts the day happy.
He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.
On his desk sits a small shoe box.
He pauses in front of it.
Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.
The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.
He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand. Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.
The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.
Then he picks up his gift.
It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.
But this year feels different.
This year, he thinks he can give them to you.
He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.
He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.
He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.
Hey, these are for you. Too boring.
You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.
You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.
He settles on a smile instead.
You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”
No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.
He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.
“Stephen? Breakfast.”
“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.
His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.
“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”
She doesn’t look up.
“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”
The world stops.
“...Huh?”
She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”
For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.
His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.
“What?” Steve croaks.
“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”
“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”
“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”
Lovely.
Like the sound of your laugh.
Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.
Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.
“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”
“You’ll make new ones.”
“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”
His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”
Steve flinches.
“I’m not whining,” he whispers.
His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”
Something hot and awful swells in his chest.
He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.
Instead, he tries again.
“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”
He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.
Anything.
“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”
Something inside Steve drops with it.
Falls.
Cracks.
Shatters.
⚓︎
He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.
He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.
That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.
Stevie, look!
He cries until his pillow is soaked.
⚓︎
The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.
On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.
He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.
He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.
There is no treasure map back.
Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.
He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.
Waiting.
Maybe you’re mad.
Maybe you’re worried.
Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.
That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.
⚓︎
In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.
He tries not to cry.
Some nights, he fails.
But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.
In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.
In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.
Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.
You’re my best friend.
He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.
In dreams, he is flying.
The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.
The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.
So Steve pretends, too.
He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.
By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.
“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.”
“Right? He looks taller than last year.”
“Did you see his hair? Total dream.”
He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.
It works.
High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.
⚓︎
One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”
It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.
Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.
“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”
Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.
Harrington. Not Stevie.
Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.
And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.
He’s not alone.
⚓︎
Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.
He laughs, because it sounds stupid.
But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.
He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.
His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.
Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.
He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.
Everyone loves the parties.
Everyone loves King Steve.
⚓︎
Steve has a drawer that no one opens.
Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.
The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.
Inside it is a shoe box.
Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.
Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.
Most nights, he leaves it alone.
But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.
Lifts the lid.
He doesn’t touch anything.
Just looks.
He wonders if you remember him.
If you still call him Stevie in your head.
If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.
Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.
In the morning, he is Harrington once again.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.
It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.
The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.
He isn’t sure if he is.
On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.
His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.
“California,” he says flatly.
Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”
His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.
“A public university. On the other side of the country.”
“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”
The look he gets says more than words ever could.
“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”
Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.
“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”
“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”
His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”
Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.
“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”
The room shrinks.
For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.
Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.
Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.
He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.
Something quiet settles inside him.
“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”
His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”
Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.
Possibility, distance, risk.
Hope.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.
⚓︎
Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.
The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.
He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.
It won’t be easy.
But it will be his.
⚓︎
He loads his entire world into the BMW.
It doesn’t take long.
For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.
Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.
The last thing he opens is the drawer.
It sticks, like it always does.
Inside is the shoe box.
And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.
He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.
His father doesn’t come outside.
His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.
Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.
It’s heavy.
He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.
Closes the trunk.
Gets behind the wheel.
Looks west.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.
He likes California.
The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.
College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.
He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.
He still gets tired sometimes.
Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.
The house is packed tonight.
Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.
An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”
Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.
Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.
He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.
Then, he hears it.
A laugh.
Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.
Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.
Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—
There’s a girl.
Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.
Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.
He stares without meaning to.
You turn.
Your eyes find his.
Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.
Then recognition.
Disbelief.
“...Stevie?”
Something in his chest detonates.
The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.
You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”
Steve can’t speak.
His throat closes. The world narrows.
He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.
He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.
He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.
He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.
He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.
And you did.
You always did.
The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.
He whispers your name.
A decade of wanting, released in one sound.
⚓︎
“...Hi.”
“...Hi.”
“How—”
“What—”
He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”
You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”
For a second, Steve just stands there.
Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.
Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.
He doesn’t say I missed you too.
It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.
Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:
“I’m sorry.”
You don’t say it’s okay.
But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.
And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.
⚓︎
The place is called Scoops Ahoy.
Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.
The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.
He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.
At this hour, it’s dead.
Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.
But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.
Because you’re here.
You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.
He can’t stop staring.
The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.
Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.
But the details are all the same.
The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.
And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there.
You smile. “What’re you getting?”
Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.
“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”
“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”
He smiles before he can stop himself.
His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.
The Triple Decker Extravaganza.
“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”
You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”
Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.
Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.
When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.
“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.
“Don’t mention it.”
He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.
The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.
You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.
Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.
Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.
“What’s your major?”
“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”
“Really? What kind of psych?”
“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”
You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”
He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”
“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”
He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.
“Thanks… uh, what about you?”
You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.
“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”
Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.
“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”
He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.
Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.
“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”
He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”
You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.
A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.
Edge of Seventeen.
Stevie Nicks.
He meets your eyes.
Feels something click, then.
He’s never really believed in fate.
But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.
⚓︎
When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.
June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.
Steve’s heart stutters.
What happens now?
He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.
He rubs the back of his neck.
“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”
You’re smiling when you kiss him.
Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.
The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.
This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.
He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.
When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.
You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.
He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.
You both speak at once.
“So—"
“Would you—”
He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”
You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”
He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.
“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”
You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.
You don’t let go.
He definitely does not let go.
⚓︎
You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.
There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.
Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.
Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.
Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.
It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.
Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.
You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.
Steve looks down.
Feels it hit him all at once.
He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.
Nothing that felt like this.
Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.
“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”
He swallows.
Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.
“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.
Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?
“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”
Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.
And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.
⚓︎
What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.
A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.
Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.
He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.
But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.
And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.
It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.
A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.
He wants to know everything.
He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.
He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.
He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.
And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.
He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.
But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.
He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.
When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.
There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.
That you’re here.
He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.
He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.
He only fights it long enough to get the words out.
Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.
But he’s tired of pretending.
And with you, he doesn’t have to.
He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.
The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.
With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.
“I love you.”
The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.
But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.
“I love you, too.”
And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.
⚓︎
The rest of the night is spent talking.
Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.
He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.
Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.
He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.
He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.
That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.
He’s never been built that way.
He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.
You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.
Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.
He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.
When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.
“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.
“Hm?”
“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”
He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”
You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”
He blinks. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”
Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.
Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.
Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.
You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.
You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.
How to fly, just a little.
Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.
The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.
Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.
A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.
He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.
He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.
He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.
Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.
He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.
And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.
He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.
A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.
He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.
Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.
But eight years is also nothing.
Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.
You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.
Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.
He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.
For now, he has tomorrow.
⚓︎
In dreams, he is thirteen again.
He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.
He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.
And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.
June 24th, 1979
Hi!
I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.
I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.
I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.
I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.
Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.
I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.
P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001
P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?
HEYYYYYY i heard youre in need of mans best friend reqs so hear me out…..
poly!marauders or poly!wolfstar x reader with tears
like all of them just treat reader so so well and are so responsible, maybe she comes home to them all assembling furniture/doing the dishes/considering her feelings/texting or calling her etc. and she just has to have them RIGHT THEN
tysm i love youuuu
ncjicjwkejfi say LESS
tears | poly!marauders
feat. poly!marauders x gf!reader
summary: you return from a girls trip to your devoted boyfriends.
cw: MDNI 18+, smut, modern!au (they have phones and IKEA), poly!relationship, foursome, piv, oral, pet names, dom/sub dynamics, they're all a bunch of sluts for each other
masterlist | divider by @cursed-carmine
[Remi-kinz]: Safe travels dovey. Can't wait to see you tonight
[Jamie baby 💛]: counting down the seconds until i have you in my arms again (ps please grab me some peppermint frogs from the trolley)
[Your Hottest Boyfriend]: see you at the terminal. look for the devastating bloke in leather ;)
[Remi-kinz]: Just found out Sirius is taking the bike to pick you up. WEAR. A. HELMET. Or he’s sleeping on the porch.
[Jamie baby 💛]: please wear a helmet. moony is very cross
[Remi-kinz]: You think I’m kidding. I’m not.
[Jamie baby 💛]: we love you!!!! (and your fragile skull pls for the love of godric wear a helmet)
[Your Hottest Boyfriend]: i'm here, pretty girl ♥️ take your time
You scrolled through the texts as you waited for your turn to exit the train, cheeks aching from the force of your smile. You'd been gone for one bachelorette trip, and they were acting like you'd been off to war.
But, after a year with your boys, you'd expect nothing less.
Finally, it was your turn to disembark. You hoisted your trunk from the overhead compartment, lugging it behind you as you tottered down the aisle. Urgency made your heart race, knowing Sirius was just outside, but you fought to keep a regular walking pace and not mow down the elderly couple in front of you.
The conductor helped you down the stairs, a blessing because you were looking everywhere but your feet. Too busy searching the crowd for one of your favorite faces—there!
Sirius was leaned against the column, dressed in black jeans and his beloved, patch-covered leather jacket, cradling a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his arms.
Your eyes connected at the same instant, a lightning strike, and he grinned. He rushed across the terminal towards you, dodging the elderly and children like quaffles. Plowing through like a man possessed. Single-minded.
He slammed into you with the force of his urgency. One arm looped around your waist, hauling you up into his chest.
“There's my girl,” he cooed, planting a smacking kiss on your cheek.
You threw your arms around his neck, squeezing tight as all the travel stress, all the longing, finally loosened from your shoulders.
Sirius had you. What was there to worry about?
He dipped you backwards, your toes just scraping the concrete, and kissed you with a ferocity that had your head spinning, and the conductor clearing his throat.
“Missed you, doll,” he mumbled against your lips.
“Missed you,” you giggled, your heart gone gooey.
He straightened, setting you back onto wobbly knees. “Trade?” He asked, offering you the flowers while eyeing your trunk.
“Deal.” You accepted the flowers, burying your nose in the fresh, sun-washed scent. Sirius, the show-off, hefted your trunk without any of your earlier struggles.
“What'dya got in here? Feathers?” He joked, draping an arm over your shoulders. He knew exactly what was in there—he helped you pick out all the slutty little outfits himself. “Appreciate you getting her home safe, sir,” Sirius saluted the conductor, who only laughed and shook his head.
“Thank you!” You chirped as Sirius began to push through the crowd. Not that it was very difficult, he had a way of parting the general population of London like the Red Sea.
“So, how was it? Anyone get their eyes scratched out?” He asked with a knowing smirk. Sirius loved a good gossip session. Especially when Remus wasn't around to chastise the two of you for it.
Delighted, you regaled him of all the drama and activities of the weekend, jabbering on while he navigated the train station. He kept you close as you made your way out to the parking lot, protective in the crush of people, but loosened up as the crowd thinned and his motorcycle came into sight.
Two helmets hung on the handlebars.
“Despite what Prongs and Moony think, I am responsible,” he teased. “When it comes to you, at least.”
“I never doubted you, my love,” You pecked his cheek before he shimmied the helmet over your head, careful not to snag your ears. He shirked his leather jacket, offering that to you, too.
You let yourself bask in the warmth of it for a moment, cocooned in all things Sirius. Leather polish and cigarette smoke. That too-musky cologne James got him for his birthday last year. Studs and calfskin armor shelter a gooey center.
With the visor of your helmet flicked up, you snapped a selfie and texted it to the group chat.
[you]: [1 attachment] safe and sound 🫶
Sirius strapped down your luggage and you climbed onto the bike behind him, arms fastened securely around his waist, thighs pressed tight around his hips. Just like he taught you.
“Good girl,” he purred, voice rough and low through the modulator.
A flicker of warmth bloomed low in your belly, heating your cheeks. An involuntary shift of your hips rocked you forward an extra centimeter.
“Hold tight.” His heel struck downwards. The bike started with a thunderous roar. And you were flying.
Together, you tore through the streets of London, a blur of brownstone and November sky. With white-knuckles, you clung to Sirius, exhilaration zipping through you. His hand wandered over your denim-clad leg until his red-hot fingers skimmed the exposed skin of your ankle. They wrapped around the delicate bone, a barrier from the vengeful South London streets.
“Okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you replied, breathless.
The ride to your shared flat was brief, less than ten minutes, but it still had your heart pounding in your throat and…other places.
Sirius carried your trunk up the stairs while you raced ahead, bursting through the unlocked door.
“Baby!” James cried, jumping up from where he was sitting on the floor, surrounded by IKEA boxes, foam peanuts, and plywood. He was shirtless, dressed in nothing but grey sweatpants, glasses, and a toothy grin. “Fuck, I missed you.” He grabbed you around the middle, careful not to crush the flowers—what was left of them after the bike ride, anyway—and hefted you into the air. Twirled you around once, twice, making you giggle and shriek as you clung to his Herculean shoulders.
“Is that who I think it is?” Remus emerged from the kitchen, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder. He was dressed in joggers and a too-large sweater you’d unearthed from a bin at the consignment down the block. “Careful, Prongs. You'll smother her,” he warned, though his eyes were getting meltier by the second.
“Missed you too, Jamie,” you laughed, fizzing with delight. Your mouth found his as he set you back onto the floor, the kiss a little toothy since you couldn’t seem to stop smiling. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Thanks for the help, muscles,” Sirius grumbled, pushing into the flat behind you. Suddenly fatigued now that James was in ear shot.
“I was building her bookcase!” James argued, releasing you to take the trunk from Sirius. A regular Superman.
“And destroying the living room, apparently,” Sirius teased. Besides the new-furniture wreckage, the flat was spotless. Candles burning and lights dimmed low, soft music floating from somewhere. Natural as an exhale from the lungs of your home.
James huffed. “Well, maybe if you had helped me earlier instead of taking a nap—”
“If you don't want me to take a nap, don't wake me up at the bloody ass crack of dawn when you go for your run!”
You slipped out from between them, sidling over to where Remus was leaning against the entry to the kitchen. His hazel eyes turned molten as you approached, golden in the setting sun. An arm lifted, your favorite invitation, and you tucked yourself into the welcoming curve of his side. He took the flowers from you, setting them on the counter.
“How was your trip, darling?” He asked, nuzzling into the crown of your head. Dropping a kiss there.
“Good,” you murmured, sagging into the warmth of his body. The last of your tension dissolved. A teaspoon of sugar to Remus’ cup of tea. “Happy to be home, though.”
He made a low, appreciative hum in his throat, hugging you a bit tighter. “Why don't you go get cozy while I finish dinner, hm? I know traveling stresses you out.”
“What're you making?” You asked, not quite ready to leave the warmth, the steadiness of his embrace.
“Your favorite,” he replied, fingers wandering beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to brush against your skin. A shiver rolled down your spine, and you felt him smile against your hair. “And chocolate cake for dessert.”
You chuckled. “So, both of our favorites?”
“I think I deserve it after dealing with those sorry saps for an entire weekend. Alone.”
“Surely they weren't that bad…” You trailed off, your other boyfriend's argument ratcheting up to a full-on wrestling match. Though you weren’t sure that whacking your opponent with strips of cardboard counted as wrestling. “Okay, fair enough.”
Remus’ hand came up to cradle the back of your head, tilting your face up towards him. “Speaking of trouble-makers, did you wear a helmet the entire ride?” He asked, the words tickling against your lips.
You nodded, heart tripping over itself.
“And did you hold on nice and tight to our Sirius?”
Another nod.
“And he obeyed all the traffic laws?”
“…mostly.”
Remus tsked. “Well, I suppose that's not your fault, is it, dove?”
You shook your head ‘no’, lower lip jutting out to prove your innocence.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, nipping at your lips before molding his mouth to yours in a syrupy, unhurried kiss you felt all the way down to your toes. He tasted like mint and herbal tea, like home.
Beeeep! The oven shrieked. Remus startled, breaking the kiss to glare at the offending appliance.
“Have to get that,” you murmured, lips brushing against his jaw.
“Yeah, might burn,” he replied, though his hold remained steadfast as he turned his face back towards you.
“Mhmm.” You lifted onto your toes, closing the minuscule gap for another kiss.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! The oven demanded again, more insistent.
You stepped away this time, slipping out of his reach before you could get caught up again. He drew his lower lip between his teeth, turning lazily over his shoulder to head back into the kitchen.
Sirius was waiting for you at the bedroom door, pink-cheeked and hair disheveled. Chest rising and falling quickly. James fared even worse, sprawled out in his mess with a very visible hard-on straining against his sweatpants. Glasses askew. Panting.
Drool pooled beneath your tongue.
Sirius caught your expression, but wrangled you before you could pounce. “C’mon, doll. Let's get you showered and comfy before your three-course meal,” he murmured against your ear, sending another flush of heat beneath your skin.
He led you into the bathroom, but didn't linger, just got the shower set to your preferred temperature, scalding, and laid out a pair of pyjamas. Not the sexy variety he usually selected, but the fuzzy, oversized flannel bottoms you loved, along with one of James’ well-worn Quidditch t-shirts. “Just shout if you need anything—and I mean anything,” he said with a wink before taking his leave.
"Tell James his chocolates are in my purse!" You called after him, then, "And don't eat them all!"
"Sure, doll!" He called back, smirk audible.
Alone for the first time in days, you undressed in the thick, lavender-scented steam of the bathroom, replaying the events of the day in your mind
Bottomless mimosas at brunch with your friends, the scramble to catch the train, the endless rolling hills and rattling track, the boy's sweet texts.
You stepped into the shower, letting it wash away the train smell and stubborn hangover. But what lingered, imprinted on your skin, were the traces of your boys, a smile teasing the edges of your mouth. Your mind conjured the gorgeous flowers, that dramatic, oh-so-Sirius kiss, your body pressed against his as you flew through the city, bike purring between your legs while his hand wandered. So protective, so confident—a throb between your legs made you gasp, the residual burn from their touches fanned into an inferno by your thoughts.
James’ sculpted body, back flexing as he built your bookcase without you even having to ask, the effortless way he manhandled you. Remus, with the towel over his shoulder, that casually sinful glimmer in his eye while he watched your boyfriends fight. The way he kissed you, savoring, decadent, his whispered praise bouncing off the walls of your skull.
Your hand drifted unconsciously between your legs while you washed yourself, and your fingers came away slick, heat dripping down your thighs.
Fuck, just the thought of them had you soaked.
You finished your shower in a hurry, opting for just James’ t-shirt and a pair of panties. The fewer barriers between you and them, the better.
You emerged to find James alone in the living room, lifting the assembled bookcase into its rightful, standing position, and your eyes damn near popped out of your skull. That thing had to weigh over a hundred pounds; the box clearly marked it as a two-person lift. But James made it look easy.
He noticed you once he was sure it wouldn't tip over, catching your blatant ogling, and flashed you a wink. “What do you think? Looks good, huh?”
“Uh huh.” You nodded, crossing the piles of debris to reach him. He really had tried to consolidate it, you could tell, and it stoked that fire in your belly even higher. “Looks perfect.” You wrapped your arms around his waist. Unconsciously, dare you say instinctively, your lips meandered along his chest, his collarbone, tongue dragging over the sun-kissed skin with ravenous abandon. You were only human, after all. And that chest was begging to be kissed.
He chuckled, palming the back of your head while you worshipped him. “I don't know about perfect, but—ah, fuck, baby.”
You sank your teeth into the meat of his pec, savoring the way his muscles jumped and tensed before soothing the marks with your tongue. His fingers tightened in your hair, drawing your head back. You licked your lips, batting your lashes at him. The very picture of innocence.
“Oh, you feral little thing. No funny business until after dinner. Rem’s been slaving away,” James reprimanded, though his tone was heavy with reluctance.
“I know, I know,” you sighed, pouting.
James’ gaze snagged on that dewy lower lip like a dog on a leash, breath going shallow—
“Dove?” Remus called, poking his head out into the living room. “Can you come taste this for me?”
The tension shattered. But you were far from finished.
“Yes, sir!” You chirped, sweet as a lamb.
Savvy, James gave you a chastising smack on the ass as you flitted towards the kitchen.
Remus shook his head at you, a smirk betraying his delight. The kitchen was bathed in warmth, the smell of garlic and butter hanging in the air. A muggle record turned languidly in the corner—Bon Iver.
Sirius was hunched over the island, diligently frosting the two-tiered chocolate cake with his tongue between his teeth, dark waves gathered into a bun at the nape of his neck. He'd lost his shirt, too, though he wore Remus’ “Kiss the Chef” apron, and his scrolls of dark ink were on near indecent display.
You hopped up onto the counter by the stove, t-shirt riding up your bare legs.
Remus’ eyes drifted over the swell of your thighs, but he didn't bite, instead offering you the edge of the spoon he was using to stir the sauce. You took a slow sip, holding his gaze, smoldering enough to scald.
It was perfect—his cooking always was—and you moaned, head falling back with pleasure.
Sirius dropped the spatula with a clatter, cursing under his breath.
“Cheeky girl,” Remus teased, setting the spoon back into the pot. His hands found your knees, spreading your legs so he could step between them. His lips found your temple, pressing featherlight kisses along the curve of your cheek until he reached that tender spot beneath your jaw. His sandy, two-day-old facial hair tickled the sensitive skin as his lips painted a petal-soft bruise.
Your thighs tensed around his hips, pulse leaping as his long fingers crept closer to where you were aching for them.
“Patience, darling,” he murmured. “Makes the reward that much sweeter.” And with that, he stepped away. Returning to the stove like he hadn't just thrown a match onto a puddle of gasoline.
As dinner progressed, it became abundantly clear that your boys were aware of your little…. predicament. Feeding you off of their forks, socked feet brushing along bare calves, lingering looks. Borderline excessive stretching and lip biting.
By the time Remus cut the cake, you were sitting in a pool if you own slick, thighs aching from an hour of squeezing them together.
James’ hand skimmed along your thigh, fingertips digging into the muscle in slow circular motions. “So tense, lovey. Feeling alright?” He asked, a hint of a smirk at the edges of his mouth.
At the end of your rope, you seized your opportunity and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, urging him higher. He complied, eyes shading as you spread your legs, bringing his fingers between the crux of your thighs. Letting him feel the slick that had seeped through your thin panties.
His jaw went a little slack, drawing a sharp inhale through his nose. Without a word, he slid off his chair, wedging his bulky body beneath the table.
“Jamie, what are you—” his hands gripped your inner thighs, wrenching you to the edge of your seat and forcing your legs apart. You hadn't even drawn a full breath before his mouth was on you, the muscle of his tongue laving a forceful swipe through your weeping pussy. “Oh, fuck—” you gasped, drawing the other boy's attention from cake-cutting logistics.
“Where did—” Sirius lifted the tablecloth. Peered underneath. “Oh, you greedy bastard.”
You could barely hear him over the roar of your blood in your ears, pleasure surging through you like a storm swell. James thrust his tongue inside of you, relentless as he drank you down. A low groan quaked through him, a distant roll of thunder, chased by a current of electricity striking your nervous system. You knotted your fingers into his dark hair, grinding his nose into your clit as you rocked against him.
“Oh my god, James—,” you moaned, throwing your head back as another bolt crashed through you.
“Couldn't wait another ten minutes?” Remus asked, but his eyes were shining with satisfaction. He loved nothing more than driving the rest of you to your breaking points.
Fortunately for you and your ego, James always folded first.
Sirius scraped a bit of frosting off his cake, licking the utensil clean while he watched your face contort, shoulders curl, as James devoured you. “Looks gorgeous, doesn't she, Rem?”
Remus hummed in agreement, rounding the table towards you. His fingers skimmed your shoulder, gliding upwards to cradle your face. You nuzzled into him, brushing your lips against his palm.
James’ tongue flicked up to your clit, drawing it between his teeth, and you gasped, tugging at his roots. He alternated pressure, gentle swirls broken by hard, rhythmic pulls that had sparks dancing behind your eyelids.
“You held out longer than I thought you would,” Remus murmured, stroking your hair out of your face with a saccharine softness. “Thought you'd break Sirius when you got in the shower, but—”
“I have self-control, unlike someone,” Sirius ribbed, casual as anything, slouched in his chair.
You loosed another cry, James doing something that made your lower belly coil sharply, and Sirius’s eyes darkened, betraying his nonchalance.
A wicked idea slithered through the fog in your mind.
“James, baby, fuck—make me feel so good,” you whined, and felt James smirk against you. Ever your co-conspirator.
“Taste so sweet, always so good f’me,” he added, the wetness clinging to his words almost obscene.
Sirius' expression darkened further.
Remus leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead to hide his own smile. More indulgent than the forgotten chocolate cake.
“Careful, now, dolly,” Sirius warned. “Or I might stop being such a gentleman.”
James eased two fingers inside of you, your body already soft and willing, lashing at your clit anyway to distract from the stretch. You keened, clutching onto Remus' arm as it wrapped around your shoulders to steady you.
Sirius’ fingers were a steady drum against the table.
Taptaptaptaptap.
A second warning.
“That's it, baby. Is that what you needed?” Remus asked, voice like honey-wine. “Needed Jamie to take care of that sweet little cunt?”
The scrape of a chair was your third and final warning. But you were too distracted by James’ curling fingers to heed it.
Remus brushed a final kiss to your temple before shifting away, and a pair of hands landed on your shoulders. The cool bite of rings jarring you back into the room.
Sirius leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “My turn.”
James untangled himself from your lower half just before Sirius yanked your chair backwards roughly. His hands slipped under your arms, lifting you onto unsteady feet. With a less-than-gentle push, he bent you at the waist over the table. Grip hard on the back of your neck. Pining you like an animal.
You had to bite your lip from crying out right then and there. Heart pattering like a rabbit against the back of your ribs.
“They're wrong, love. That's not what you needed, is it?” He growled, the jangle of his belt making your stomach flip, slick running down your thighs. “You want to get treated like a princess, then fucked like a whore, isn't that right?”
You nodded, lifting your hips to press against him. Dumb as a bitch in heat.
“Words, pet,” Remus ordered.
Sirius’ cock sawed through your slit, tucked beneath your sodden panties, thick and so fucking warm. Frenum piercings catching your clit just right. A rough hand palmed the globes of your ass, the kiss of his rings a heady contrast to your burning skin.
“C’mon, let him hear it.” James brushed your hair out of your face, dizzyingly tender compared to Sirius’ rough handling.
“Yes, f-fuck me like a whore—please, Siri,” you whined, fisting the tablecloth.
“That's my girl.” He notched the tip at your entrance, slamming to the hilt with one, ruthless punch. Even soaked as you were, the stretch still made you grit your teeth, your belly pressed against the wood making things infinitely tighter. He cursed under his breath, head falling against your shoulder, grip softening on your neck. “Merlin’s sake, dolly—fuck, are you tryin’ to kill me?”
You could only mewl, so full you could hardly breathe. But the satisfaction was mind-numbing, so acute, tears pricked along your lower lashes, soaking conspicuously into the fabric below.
“Look at that, Pads,” James whistled, “Makin’ her cry already.”
“Oh, she needed this bad,” Sirius panted, setting a slow, but punishing rhythm. Tearing you apart just to stitch you back together again. His piercing dragged against your front walls, catching that spongy spot below your belly button with infuriating, intoxicating accuracy. “Miss us that much, pretty?”
You nodded, arms flailing around for something to hold as you climbed perilously higher and higher, vision going blurry, brain leaking out from your eyes, from between your legs. Sirius grabbed both your arms, folding them against your lower back in a tight, one-handed grip. Started fucking you even harder, pounding into you with brutal determination. Hitting that spot over and over and over again.
“Say it,” he growled.
“M-missed you, missed you so—ngh—so fucking much,” you babbled, nails biting into his wrist, holding on for dear life.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Remus lean back against the table. James was on his knees in front of him, hurriedly tugging down the waistband of his joggers. Remus’ cock sprang out, slapping salaciously against his lower belly. Flushed pinker than the strawberry frosting and framed by mahogany curls. James swallowed him down with ease, eyes locked on Remus’ expression as it crumbled into bliss.
You cunt fluttered around Sirius at the sight, drawing a grunt from deep in his throat.
“Fuck, sweetheart—gonna make me come if you keep that up,” Sirius groaned, releasing your hands so he could fist your hair. He dragged you up, arching your spine to its limit, drilling in at a sharper anger that had you making an almost inhuman sound. “That's it, fucking take it—” his hand found your throat, gripping just tight enough to restrict your airflow, “—take it like such a good whore. Our dirty slut.”
“Yes, yes, yes—fuck, I’m gonna—” your orgasm crested and shattered, unraveling you in an endless euphoric instant.
“Give it to me, give it all to me—such a good dolly—” Sirius fucked you through it, your cunt squelching obscenely as you fell apart for him, your entire body convulsing with the force of your undoing. He released your throat only once the first wave passed, letting you catch your breath.
He withdrew suddenly, leaving you empty, unmoored. Hands found your hips, spinning you around and tossing you up onto the table. Before the room stopped spinning, his mouth was on you, drinking down your release like a starving man. Ravenous.
“Oh, god, Sirius—” you cried, so sensitive you were twitching up the table, trying to retreat from the intensity of it. But his hands were like iron, holding you in place as he drowned in his reward.
“Easy, mutt,” Remus chastised, his voice a little frayed from James' attention. “Let her breathe.”
Sirius made a grunt of displeasure, but slowed anyway, obedient. Stealing a few more lush licks through your twitching pussy as you shuddered and whined. Pressed a farewell kiss to your puffy clit before sitting up.
He guided your arms around his neck, cooing softly to you, but you were too drunk on oxytocin to really hear him. Suddenly, you were airborne, Sirius’ arms bracketed around your thighs. You buried your nose into his neck, trying to get your bearings even as the world moved around you, your body still hair-trigger sensitive.
“Jamie and Remus are gonna have theirs now, love, okay? Can you take a little more, or do you need a break?” Sirius asked, lowering onto the nearly made bed. All concern and tenderness as he settled you against the nest of pillows.
“Love you,” was all you could think to say, and his smile was brighter than the sun.
“Love you too, sweet girl. But we’re gonna need a ‘yes’.”
James and Remus stood on either side of you, gooey-eyed and flushed, and you nodded.
“Yes, please.”
You lost track of who was where, who came when, and how often, adrift in a sea of delirium and bliss. By the time you all were finished, your bodies and the sheets were damp with sweat and god knows what else. Disheveled and delirious, entirely too wrung out to do much more than mouth absently on Remus’ shoulder where your head had fallen.
His hand curled around your cheek, brushing your sweat-slicked strands from your eyes. “Worth the wait, dove?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering closed as his hands combed through your bedraggled hair. Someone’s hands skimmed over your lower back, your hip, massaging away the stiffness and fatigue. Another swiped a warm rag between your legs, cleaning you up with careful strokes.
You melted into it, their easy affection and tender touches. Piecing you back together like a sacred statue. Mending your cracks with gold and sweetness until you were whole again. And all you had to do was lie there and accept it, something you struggled with in the beginning. But, over time, and with a lot of gentle, but persistent coaxing, you’d learned that not only were you allowed to accept their generous affection and care, you deserved it.
You deserve partners who look after you, show up without question, and take responsibility for the space they occupy in your life.
Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 21.2k
Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes
Author’s Note: i had ZERO idea this fic would get as much love as it has but truly, deeply - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all so much for your kind words and praise of this story. i was so taken aback so many people loved this fic but truthfully, i am so utterly happy that you all enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i see all of your comments, your reblogs, likes, and follows...thank you for every bit of it. i hope this final part lives up to expectations!
let me know if you would like to see a fic about the story of bucky and this universe's original f!detective falling in love. i was itching to possibly explore that as an offshoot of this main story, and would love to hear what you all would think.
Naturally, she begged Stephen Strange for close to two weeks straight to send her back home. Every morning, every evening, she showed up at the Sanctum like a woman possessed, like some fanatic seeking absolution at a shrine that would never grant it. At first, he had been gentle in his refusals, almost pitying in the way he'd greet her at those impossibly tall doors. The ancient wood would swing open before she even knocked, as if the building itself recognized her desperation.
He'd pour her wine—always the same vintage, always in the same crystal goblet — and sit across from her in that cavernous, drafty room. His voice remained maddeningly calm as he explained, with the patience of someone who had to do this often as of late, that he had seen all the timelines. Every thread of possibility stretching out like spider silk across the multiverse, each one gleaming with its own terrible inevitability. And in every single one, every one, she was meant to stay here. It was her fate, he insisted, written in the stars themselves with ink made of cosmic certainty.
The first few times, she tried desperately to believe him. Clung to the possibility that maybe this cosmic joke had some deeper meaning, some grand purpose that would make the suffocating displacement worth enduring. But by the fifth repetition of that same tired mantra, delivered with the same infuriating serenity while she slowly unraveled in front of him, something inside her finally snapped.
Rage cracked through her despair like lightning splitting a storm cloud, white-hot and cleansing. She hurled the wine glass he'd poured her against the ancient stone wall, watching the crystal shatter into a thousand glittering pieces. Crimson liquid streaked down the grey stone like arterial spray, like the blood she wished she could spill to make any of this real.
The silence that followed was deafening. Louder than any scream, more damning than any accusation. Even the floating books had stilled in their endless dance.
She regretted it instantly, not for him, but for herself. For letting her desperation show so nakedly, for proving that she was exactly as broken as she felt. The shame burned hotter than the rage had, settling in her throat like swallowed glass. So she cleaned it up, piece by jagged piece. Not with a flick of his wrist or one of those glowing golden sigils he conjured so effortlessly, but with her own trembling hands. A dustpan and a broom materialized when she asked, the only magic he'd apparently grant her, glass crunching beneath her shoes like the sound of her composure finally giving way. Each shard was a reminder of how little control she had over anything in this godforsaken world, how powerless she was against the cosmic forces that had deposited her here like unwanted cargo.
He didn't stop her. He just watched with those ancient eyes that held something that might have been sympathy if she'd been in the mood to accept it, if she hadn't been drowning in her own mortification.
By the second week, Strange's patience had worn gossamer-thin. His voice lost its careful softness, his gaze its practiced sympathy. He started cutting her off before she even made it through the front door, sometimes not even letting her step over the threshold. The ornate brass handle would turn cold under her palm as invisible wards sealed the entrance against her.
"No," he'd say, sharp and final as a tomb sealing shut, like he was slamming a lock she couldn't see and would never be able to break. To his credit, he never barred her entirely, never cast her out with the kind of dramatic magical barriers she'd seen in movies, but his refusals had become absolute as gravity itself.
She tried everything: bargaining, pleading, offering anything she thought might tempt a sorcerer. Favors that made her voice shake with humiliation, secrets that weren't hers to give, her loyalty, her soul if he wanted it…anything to make him understand that she was suffocating here, that every breath felt like drowning. But the answer was always the same, delivered with the finality of a death sentence. No.
Eventually, she stopped going. What was the point of begging a man who claimed to see the future if he wouldn't even acknowledge her present agony?
Her apartment became her entire universe. Four walls that seemed to shrink a little more each day, the silence so thick it felt like cotton stuffed in her ears. The kind of isolation that made her question if she still existed at all, if she hadn't simply dissolved into the space between molecules and forgotten to notice.
She only ventured out when her fridge was completely bare and her stomach had moved beyond hunger into a hollow, gnawing ache that couldn't be ignored. The two-block trudge to the corner store felt like walking to her execution every time, hood pulled up to hide her face from a world that saw someone else when they looked at her. The cashier, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, always smiled and asked how her day was going. But each time, the simple human kindness hit her like a physical blow. How do you explain that you're not real? That you're wearing someone else's life like an ill-fitting costume?
Sam's calls lit up her phone with increasing frequency and desperation. But she let them all go to voicemail, watching his name flash on the screen until it faded to black. What was she supposed to say? That she was unraveling thread by thread? That she had no plan, no identity, no compelling reason to step outside her door ever again? That every morning felt like waking up in someone else's grave?
So she sat. In the same spot on her thrift-store couch, a mustard yellow monstrosity that she secretly found charming, with whatever liquor she could afford. Sometimes whiskey that burned her throat raw and left her gasping like she was learning to breathe all over again. Sometimes vodka that numbed everything until she felt like she was floating in formaldehyde. Sometimes something sweeter that she always regretted when the headache hit the next morning, pounding behind her eyes like her brain was trying to escape her skull.
She drank and wallowed and thought about what a pathetic creature she'd become, how disappointed everyone back home would be if they could see her now. The old her, the real her, not this displaced shadow wearing someone else's name like an ill-fitting coat, would have slapped her across the face and dragged her into the sunlight by her hair if necessary. At least, she liked to think that, since she knew herself. She would have forced her to fight, to live, to stop drowning in self-pity like some tragic heroine in a bad romance novel.
But here? She wasn't anyone at all. No friends to worry about her except Sam, who barely knew her. No job to miss her — hell, she didn't even exist on paper in this world. No history to anchor her to anything real, no shared memories to prove she'd ever mattered to anyone. She existed in this place only because a man in a red cape had told her the universe demanded it, and even that felt like the cruelest joke of all.
No one called except Sam, who refused to give up on her despite receiving nothing but silence in return, his voicemails growing more concerned and frustrated with each passing day. And certainly not Bucky. She hadn't seen him since that night when everything had exploded between them like a grenade going off in a crowded room.
His absence gnawed at her like an infected wound—the kind that you can't stop poking even though you know it only makes the pain worse. She tried to convince herself she didn't blame him for staying away, that his absence was probably a mercy for both of them. But late at night, when the whiskey had stripped away her defenses, she found herself listening for his footsteps in the hallway, imagining his knock at her door.
The worst part was that she was beginning to regret the things she'd said, the calculated venom she'd spit in his direction like some wounded animal lashing out at anything within reach. In her rage, she'd slashed at wounds that weren't hers to touch, had weaponized his trauma against him like she had any right to judge his pain. Like she understood the first thing about what it meant to claw your way back from being unmade.
Maybe that’s why she was secretly hoping he would come by again. Because she felt guilty. Ashamed of how she acted, what she had said to him. A man grieving the loss of someone who looked like her.
After she'd started reading about his history online, scrolling through article after article until her eyes burned and her chest felt hollow with horror, she finally understood why her words had struck bone so deeply. HYDRA's systematic torture, documented in clinical language that somehow made it worse. The decades of brainwashing and violation, his mind carved up and reshaped like clay in the hands of monsters. The impossibly long climb back to being James Buchanan Barnes instead of their perfect weapon, each step forward probably feeling like walking through broken glass.
He had been cruel too, yes, but he was allowed to be wounded. He had earned his pain through suffering she couldn't even fathom. She had trespassed into his grief and made it bleed fresh again, like ripping stitches from a barely healed wound with her bare hands.
And yet, another part of her still bristled with resentment that she couldn't quite shake. Why was she the one paying for sins she'd never committed? Why was she the ghost forced to atone for a love that belonged to someone else, someone who'd had the privilege of living and dying in her own skin?
Late at night, when the whiskey had loosened the tight grip she kept on her thoughts and the city had settled into that peculiar late night quiet that felt like the world holding its breath, she found herself wondering. Imagining.
How had they fallen in love, the her of this world and Bucky Barnes?
He was so closed off, so heavily armored against the world that even sitting in the same room with him felt like trying to approach a wild animal, all coiled tension and barely contained violence. How had she, someone so utterly ordinary, managed to breach the fortress walls of a man like him? Especially when he was still clawing his way out of the Winter Soldier's shadow, still learning how to be human again instead of a weapon with a heartbeat.
She couldn't picture it. Couldn't imagine what that kind of intimacy would have looked like between them, what quiet moments or shared traumas might have cracked them both open enough to let love take root in the spaces beneath his scars. He was tortured, stoic, and carrying decades of guilt. What had he seen in her that made him willing to risk his heart again? What had she seen in him beyond the obvious?
Well. His attractiveness was easy to understand. He was devastatingly, unfairly beautiful in the way that made her chest tight just looking at him, like her body had forgotten how to process oxygen properly. That much was obvious to anyone with working eyes and a pulse. Maybe that had been enough at first, the simple animal attraction that could bridge any gap.
But no, not for the kind of love she'd witnessed in his eyes when he looked at her that night. Not the way Sam spoke about it, like it was something sacred that had been ripped away too soon, leaving wounds that would never properly heal. That kind of love required more than just physical hunger, it required the kind of trust that felt impossible to rebuild once it had been shattered.
The truth was unavoidable, as much as it unsettled her to carry it like a weight in her chest: he had loved the other her. Deeply and fiercely. And though she couldn't begin to understand how or why, though she seriously doubted they would have ever chosen each other in any other life, she couldn't shake the crushing weight of being the unwilling keeper of that ghost.
The unbearable heaviness of being loved for someone she wasn't and could never become, no matter how hard she tried to fill the shape of a woman who no longer existed.
The knock came just past noon on a Tuesday, sharp and insistent against the thin wood of her door. She ignored it, just as she had ignored the last five calls from Sam, letting the sound fade into the background noise of her misery like everything else that demanded her attention. But the knocking didn't stop. Whoever was on the other side had either infinite patience or terminal stubbornness, and they seemed perfectly content to keep hammering away until the door gave up or she did.
Finally, with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest, she shoved herself off the couch. The movement disturbed the half-empty glass of whiskey that had been sweating rings into her coffee table, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She shuffled to the door in yesterday's clothes, or maybe the day before that. Time had stopped meaning much when every day bled into the next without distinction.
When she cracked the door open, Yelena Belova was leaning against the doorframe like she owned the building. She was dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen actual combat, though she knew the woman had stories to tell that would probably give her nightmares. She was chewing on something that looked suspiciously like beef jerky, her dark eyes conducting a thorough inventory of the disaster standing before her.
"You look horrible," Yelena announced flatly, her Russian accent making the insult sound almost clinical. Then, without waiting for an invitation or even a response, she shouldered past her and entered the apartment. Her confident presence immediately made the space feel smaller and more pathetic, like a spotlight illuminating every bit of accumulated failure.
"Smells horrible in here too. Like sad person and cheap alcohol." Yelena's nose wrinkled as she surveyed the damage. "Are you sure you are an adult woman and not a teenage boy having a breakdown? Because this level of pathetic is usually reserved for people who think dying their hair black is a personality trait."
She blinked, still processing the fact that someone had actually invaded her carefully constructed fortress of solitude. "Excuse me?"
"I said you look horrible. Like you fought death and lost. Multiple times." Yelena plopped down on the couch without ceremony, making herself at home with the kind of casual audacity that probably served her well in her line of work. She picked up the abandoned whiskey glass, sniffed it with obvious disgust, and held it away from her face like it might be radioactive.
"This is no way to live. Sam tells me you are being... how do you say this gently..." She paused, clearly savoring the moment. "Pathetic. He is not wrong, but he is too nice to say it properly. I prefer a direct approach."
Her jaw clenched, defensive anger flaring despite her exhaustion. It felt good to feel anything that wasn't numbness or despair. "He said that?"
Yelena shrugged, already making herself at home by propping her combat boots up on the coffee table. "He said you were sad, mopey, hiding away like a babushka with forty cats waiting for death. I say pathetic. Much more efficient word. Gets to point faster, uses fewer syllables."
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to muster some dignity from somewhere. "I'm not hiding."
"You are hiding. But you are also sulking, drinking cheap liquor that probably tastes like paint thinner, and avoiding life." Yelena's grin was sharp as a blade, but there was something almost kind in her expression. "You know what we called that in the Red Room? Tuesday. But it gets boring very quickly, and then you die. Much less romantic than movies make it seem. Usually involves more crying, less dramatic music."
Despite everything — the depression, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion that she had been dealing with for so long — a laugh almost bubbled up from her throat. It was the first genuine emotion she'd felt in weeks that wasn't some variation of despair. But she caught herself and stopped, not quite ready to let go of her misery just yet.
"Why are you here? Not to be rude, but you don't actually know me. We've never even met."
"Because Sam told me about you, and you remind me of myself once upon a time." Yelena's posture shifted slightly, her playful demeanor taking on a more serious edge. "I also sat in a dark apartment for months, drinking whatever I could find, waiting for the world to swallow me whole so I wouldn't have to make an effort anymore. But the world does not care about your feelings. It moves on with or without you. You either move with it, or you rot in place like forgotten fruit."
Something darker crossed over her face then, and her gaze dropped to the floor when she spoke again, her voice softer than before. More vulnerable than she'd ever heard from the woman who seemed to treat everything like a joke or a challenge.
"My sister, Natasha, she admired you very much. Always talked highly of you when your name came up. Said you were a good detective — smart, stubborn in the right ways." She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "And Bucky... he is in pain. Real pain, not just ‘sad-man-with-dark-past’ pain that looks good in movies. He doesn't talk about it, but I see it in how he moves, how he doesn't sleep, how he looks at empty spaces like someone should be there. I think he wants to see you, talk to you, but he doesn't know how to do that without feeling like he's betraying her memory. You wear the face of the woman he loved and lost. This is not an easy thing to just brush aside like crumbs."
The words hit her like a physical blow, and she had to look away, her throat suddenly tight with emotions she didn't want to name. The shame was the worst part. Knowing that her pain was nothing compared to what he was carrying. That her suffering was largely self-inflicted while his had been carved into him by forces beyond his control.
Yelena sat back, her casual demeanor sliding back into place like armor, but the vulnerability remained in her eyes. "So. I have a proposition for you, dead woman walking. You used to be a detective, yes? Sam says you did investigations, problem-solving, all of that smart brain work that makes normal people feel stupid?"
"Yeah..." she managed, her voice smaller than she'd intended. "Something like that."
"Good. Then maybe you stop drinking yourself into an early grave and help us instead." Yelena's grin returned, sharp and challenging. "The New Avengers could use extra eyes on a case that is making us all look like idiots. There is a criminal running around the city—very slippery, like a greased rat with nine lives and excellent lawyers. We track him, we lose him, we track again, we lose again. It is becoming personally offensive to our professional reputation. You like puzzles, yes? Maybe you can solve this puzzle and prove you are not completely useless."
Her eyebrows rose despite herself. "Are you seriously trying to recruit me?"
Yelena laughed, the sound genuine and surprisingly warm. "No, no, you cannot be an Avenger. You are not nearly traumatized enough, and you have no tragic backstory involving dead parents or government experiments. But you can be an associate. Consultant. What is the word... temp? Yes, like an office temp but with more violence and worse health insurance." Her expression turned mock-serious. "You think I am here for your winning personality and subpar hygiene? Please. I am here because you might actually be useful for once here, in this sad, little life you seem to like to wallow in."
Despite everything – the sarcasm, the barbed words — she knew Yelena was being genuine. That she was going out of her way to try to help her find purpose here. Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "You're absolutely unbelievable."
"Thank you," Yelena preened, as if it were the highest possible compliment. She swung her boots off the table and stood with fluid grace, picking up the whiskey glass and tossing it into the sink where it landed with a definitive clink.
"So. Finish your pity party in the next five minutes. Put on shoes that do not smell like despair. Take a shower too. You stink like a sad person and broken dreams. We will leave soon."
"Yelena, I..." she trailed off, not sure how to voice her biggest fear, the thing that had been eating at her since that night like acid in her veins. "As much as I want to help, I'm not sure Barnes wants me anywhere near him right now. We...it won’t end well."
Yelena stopped mid-stride and turned back to her, fixing her with a look that was sharp enough to cut glass. "He wants you around. He just doesn't know how to say that without feeling guilty about wanting it. Just...be nice to him, yes? He is like a kicked puppy right now, and you are the only one holding treats he actually wants.”
The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape that snapped restlessly in the autumn breeze, the plastic barrier looking fragile and inadequate against the weight of what had happened here. The building itself was nothing special, just another gutted warehouse on the industrial edge of the city, all broken windows and rust stains. But the dark blood spatters on the concrete told a much more sinister story. They looked black in the afternoon light, like spilled ink. Violence always left its mark, and this place reeked of it.
The New Avengers were already spread across the perimeter when she and Yelena arrived, each of them occupying their own sphere of focused tension. John Walker stood rigidly near the main entrance, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene with military precision, jaw set in the kind of hard line that suggested he took these failures personally. His entire posture screamed authority, but there was something brittle underneath it, like he was constantly nervous.
Alexei was pacing restlessly near the loading dock, his massive frame radiating barely contained energy as he muttered in Russian about how boring crime scenes were when all the action was already over.
Ava, the Ghost, kept herself close to the shadows cast by the building's overhang, her eyes sharp and restless as they tracked every movement, every detail. She looked like she was cataloging threats that hadn't even materialized yet, catching things the rest of them would miss.
And then there was Bucky.
He was crouched near what looked like the primary kill site, his metal fingers tracing the air just above a particularly dark stain on the concrete. He was careful not to disturb anything but clearly reading the story written in blood and scuff marks, his enhanced senses picking up details that would be invisible to anyone else. When he looked up the moment Yelena led her forward, his expression shifted instantly from focused professional assessment to something softer and infinitely more complicated.
Recognition, maybe, or regret. The kind of look that made her chest tighten with emotions she didn't want to examine too closely, like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her ribcage.
"What is she doing here?" His voice wasn't harsh exactly, but it carried enough weight to make her instinctively take a half-step back, as if his words were a physical force pushing against her.
Before she could even attempt an answer, or even figure out what the right answer even was in this impossible situation, Yelena rolled her eyes with theatrical exasperation and stepped smoothly between them like a referee of sorts.
"Save the dramatics for someone who cares, Barnes. I dragged her here because she was rotting in her apartment like a sad raccoon in a garbage can, and we need all the help we can get in this case. So deal with it like a grown-up, or I will make you deal with it."
Personally, she was taking slight offense to being likened to vermin, but she decided it wasn't the time to bring that up around this particular group of people who were all looking at her suspiciously.
Bucky's jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, but he didn't push the issue further. His gaze lingered on her face for another moment before he turned back to the crime scene, but she could feel the weight of his attention even when he wasn't looking directly at her.
Walker was the one who finally broke the tension, gesturing toward the scene with crisp military efficiency. "The murder happened three days ago. Victim was Carter Doyle, sixty-seven, retired SHIELD informant living under a protective alias. Someone walked him out of his apartment building at approximately two in the morning, brought him here, execution-style killing. Single gunshot to the head, close range. Neighbors reported hearing nothing unusual, saw no suspicious vehicles or individuals."
"Doyle was instrumental in helping SHIELD track down HYDRA sleeper cells in the aftermath of the organization's public exposure," Ava added quietly, her voice carrying the kind of precise neutrality that suggested she'd memorized every detail of the file. She was still scanning the scene like she could somehow see the crime playing out in real-time. "Every victim so far that’s died recently around the city follows the exact same pattern. All ex-SHIELD assets, all directly involved in HYDRA hunting operations during the cleanup years."
Alexei clapped his massive hands together with sudden enthusiasm, like someone had just announced an exciting new game. "So! We have mysterious killer man with grudge and good planning skills who likes to pick off heroes and do-gooders. HYDRA fingerprints all over everything. Very classic setup, like old spy movie but with better special effects!"
Her stomach dropped at the word, that familiar cold wash of dread flooding her system like ice water in her veins. HYDRA. It always came back to them somehow even in this world, like a poison that had seeped so deep into the universe’s foundation that you could never fully scrub it out. Though, she supposed evil existed in every crevice of existence as long as life existed in those pockets.
She found herself moving before she'd consciously decided to investigate, her detective instincts kicking in despite herself. The familiarity of it was almost comforting—the methodical process of reading a scene, of letting the evidence tell its story without the messy complications of human emotion getting in the way.
She crouched low near the edge of the kill site, running her fingers lightly over the concrete around a bullet hole that had been punched clean through a wooden shipping crate. The cold reality of the violence sent a chill racing up her spine. This wasn't a random act or a crime of passion. This was execution, clean and professional.
"So we're not just chasing a killer," she murmured, more to herself than to the group, but her voice carried in the warehouse's acoustic emptiness. "We're chasing someone who's systematically cleaning up HYDRA's past. Erasing loose ends."
The silence that followed her words was heavy and thoughtful. Even Alexei stopped his restless pacing, his usual boisterous energy subdued by the implications of what she'd just laid out.
She could feel Bucky's gaze on her like a physical weight, intense and searching, but she forced herself to focus on the evidence instead of the way his attention made her skin prickle with unwanted awareness. This was her element, the one place where she felt like herself instead of a pale copy of someone else.
Rising from her crouch slowly, she brushed the concrete dust from her palms and let her eyes sweep the scene again with fresh perspective. The bullet trajectory, the forced entry marks on the rear door, the shallow scuff marks on the warehouse floor that told the story of how the body had been positioned, it was all clicking into place with the kind of clarity that had always made her good at her job. Even when everything else in her life was falling apart.
"He's likely prior military," she said finally, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she settled into the familiar rhythm of building a profile. "Special forces, probably. Look at the shot placement where the blood is — it was center mass…. a single entry wound, no wasted ammunition. That's not luck or rage, that's training. That’s muscle memory drilled into someone until it becomes second nature."
She pointed toward the back exit, where faint streaks in the concrete dust told their own story of careful positioning and deliberate staging. "And see the drag marks there? He never leaves the body where it falls. Always repositions them, makes sure they're found in a specific way. That's not impulsive killing, that's ritual. He wants these deaths to send a message, and he wants to make sure that message is received loud and clear."
Yelena tilted her head, genuine interest flickering across her face. "Okay, very impressive spooky profiler voice. Please continue."
"He's probably working from a list. These victims aren't random targets of opportunity…they're likely carefully selected based on their connection to HYDRA takedown operations. That means he has access to classified intelligence, probably from his time inside the organization." She paused, the full implications of what she was saying settling over the group like a shadow. "He's not just killing for revenge. He's... settling accounts. Closing books that he thinks should have stayed closed."
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the warehouse's settling metal groaning in the wind. Even John Walker's usual cocky confidence seemed to falter as he processed what she'd laid out, the military precision of the operation clearly striking a nerve.
Ava's gaze darted between the bloodstains like she was replaying the murders in enhanced detail, seeing things the rest of them could only guess at. "That's... disturbingly thorough. And probably accurate."
Alexei gave a low whistle of appreciation, his earlier enthusiasm tempered by genuine respect. "Very good, little detective raccoon. Maybe Sam Wilson was right about you after all."
Yelena's smirk was sharp with satisfaction, like a teacher whose problem student had finally shown their work correctly. "Told you she was useful. Much better than standing around looking confused and lost."
But she wasn't really listening to the praise or the banter bouncing around her like verbal ping-pong balls. Her attention had been pulled, drawn almost against her will subconsciously, to Bucky. He was staring at her with an expression that made something deep in her chest ache. There was sadness there, yes, but also something that looked suspiciously like pride mixed with pain. Like admiration tempered by grief.
It was as if every word she'd spoken had dragged him back to another time, another version of this scene, another her who had stood in similar warehouses and broken down similar cases with the same methodical precision. One he had already lost, and was now being forced to remember through her performance.
God, she felt so guilty.
John Walker finally cleared his throat, the sound awkward and overly loud in the charged atmosphere. "Well. That was... probably exactly what we needed to hear. Good work."
"Yeah," Ava added reluctantly, like the admission cost her something. "I didn't think you had it in you. Guess I was wrong."
"Get used to being wrong," Yelena quipped. "It builds character and keeps life interesting."
The casual banter continued to flow around her, but it felt distant and muffled, like she was hearing it from underwater. Her chest felt tight and constricted under the weight of Bucky's stare, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow trespassing on sacred ground, wearing someone else's expertise like an ill-fitting costume that everyone could see through.
Finally, she drew in a sharp breath and turned to face him directly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage. "Can we...talk? Privately?"
The request hung in the air between them like something vulnerable, carrying more weight than the simple words should have been able to bear. The rest of the group glanced between them with barely concealed curiosity, yet no one said anything. Even Yelena managed to keep her commentary to herself, which was probably a minor miracle.
Bucky hesitated for a long moment that felt like an eternity, his blue eyes searching her face for something she wasn't sure she could give him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he gave the smallest of nods.
They stepped a few paces away from the others, the sound of Yelena bickering with Alexei about proper crime scene etiquette fading into the background. Here, in the corner of the ruined crime scene with a breeze cutting through the broken windows, the silence pressed between them like a living thing.
She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, her eyes dropping to the cracked floor before forcing herself to look up at him. Even now, even with everything that had never happened between them, he was devastating to look at. All sharp angles and barely contained strength, like he'd been carved from something harder than marble.
"I owe you an apology," she began, her voice unsteady in the way that voices get when you're trying to say something important and failing spectacularly at it. "For what I said. About you being the Winter Soldier."
Bucky's jaw tensed, his metal fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just waited with the kind of patience that itched at something under her skin. Her own nerves, undoubtedly.
"In my world," she went on, her words slow and deliberate as she tried to find the right way to explain something that felt unexplainable, "that's all you ever were. No Steve Rogers pulling you back from the brink, no Wakanda to help you heal, no second chances or redemption arcs. Just a weapon. A killer. I never knew you as anything else, never saw you as anything but the monster they made you into."
Her throat worked as she swallowed around the growing tightness. "So when I look at you... I don't see hope, or a man trying to make up for the things he was forced to do. I see the ghost of what I knew. And that's not fair to you, but I don't know how to unsee it."
Something flickered across his face. Pain, sharp and quiet, the kind he'd gotten good at hiding behind masks of stoicism and careful control. He blinked, looking past her shoulder for a beat before meeting her eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was rougher than usual.
"I get it," he said at last, his voice low, gravel scraping at the edges. "Doesn't mean it doesn't… sting. But I get it."
She nodded, forcing her tone to steady even as her chest tightened with the weight of his understanding. "I want to help. I'm good at this kind of work. But if it makes it harder for you, I'll step back."
He hesitated, and she saw the war inside him plain as day, duty battling with self-preservation. The desire to do what was right wrestling with the need to protect what was left of his heart. His shoulders twitched, as if he might walk away, but then he shook his head with the kind of resolve that must have carried him through decades of impossible choices.
"If you can help… then I don't mind." He looked at her a long time, the weight of memory softening his features until she could see glimpses of the man he'd been before HYDRA carved him hollow. "Just…seeing you do it… it's like watching a ghost. She used to do the same thing. The same little pauses, same way of looking at a scene. Even your hands—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching like he'd revealed too much, like the words had escaped before he could cage them properly. The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache with an emotion she couldn't name.
The guilt pressed heavy in her chest, settling there like stones. "I'm sorry for being here. I know it's not fair to you."
His response was immediate, rough with barely contained emotion. "It's not your fault." Then, softer, like the admission was being dragged from somewhere deep inside him, "But it doesn't make it easier."
His eyes lingered on her then, open and raw in a way that startled her with its intensity. Sadness, thick and deep, carved lines into his face that hadn't been there moments before. The weight of his gaze felt like drowning and breathing at the same time, and she turned desperate to break the moment before it pulled her under completely.
But his voice stopped her retreat like a physical barrier.
"Stephen said you've been… visiting. Every day. Begging him to send you back."
Her shoulders stiffened at the words, tension crawling up her spine like ice water. She turned just enough to glance back, her eyes already glassy with the threat of tears she refused to let fall. "Yes. Because I want to. There's nothing for me here."
That answer seemed to cut him deeper than she'd intended, deeper than any of her previous cruelties. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Just the sharp intake of breath that sounded pained.
He searched her face , almost pleading, and when he finally managed to speak his voice was barely above a whisper. "Is it really as bad as Yelena says? In that apartment. Alone."
She let out a breath that trembled at the edges, her composure finally cracking under the weight of his concern. A sad, humorless smile curved her lips. "Of course it is. No one wants me here. I'm wearing a face that haunts people. Mostly you. Why should I have anything to live for here?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but enough for her to see the way the words landed. Like they were carving fresh wounds into barely healed scar tissue. His expression cracked open, hurt bleeding through the stoicism, and she realized with devastating clarity that she'd just confirmed his worst fear about what his presence in her life was costing her.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The warehouse air seemed to thicken around them, heavy with words that couldn't be taken back and truths that hurt too much to voice.
Her throat burned with unshed tears and unspoken apologies. She forced the words out anyway, each syllable scraping her raw. "See you around, Sergeant Barnes."
His name left her lips softly. Like it cost her something fundamental to say. Like speaking it aloud was another small death in a string of endings she couldn't control.
She supposed in a way, it did.
And before he could respond, before he could see the way her composure was completely falling apart, she turned and walked away with the silence stretching between them like a wound left open.
The walk back to her apartment felt endless, each step weighted with the conversation she'd left hanging in the air. Her chest ached with a persistent throb that no amount of deep breathing could ease, internal discomfort that settled deep in her ribs and made breathing feel like work.
She kept replaying his face, frame by frame, when she'd told him she had nothing to live for here. The way his expression had cracked open, raw and unguarded. The hurt that had flooded his eyes for someone who didn’t deserve it.
It made her feel like she'd taken a scalpel to something that was barely healed. Worse,like she'd done it deliberately, with surgical precision, aiming for the places that would hurt the most.
By the time she reached her block, the streetlamps had flickered to life, casting long skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement. The familiar ritual of unlocking her front door felt mechanical, her body moving through the motions while her mind remained trapped in that warehouse corner, replaying every word, every micro-expression, every moment where she'd watched him reveal his hurt.
Inside, the air was thick and stale, as if the apartment had been holding its breath while she was gone. The silence pressed against her eardrums with an almost physical weight. It was the same hollow emptiness that followed her everywhere in this universe, a void that no amount of work, liquor, or forced purpose could seem to fill.
She sank onto the couch with boneless exhaustion, her bag sliding off her shoulder to hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet space. Her head tipped back against the worn cushions, eyes tracing the spider web of cracks that spread across her ceiling like a roadmap to nowhere.
Her gaze drifted toward the half-empty bottle of whiskey on her kitchen counter, amber liquid catching the late afternoon light. The neat stack of papers Yelena had pressed into her hands at the crime scene was still in her hands — case files, witness statements, the kind of paperwork that had once been her lifeline.
She fought the urge to smile. Yelena seemed to know exactly what kept people afloat, had an instinct for the kind of purpose that could serve as oxygen when everything else felt like drowning.
She sighed, glancing away from the whiskey and pulled the files into her lap, forcing herself to focus on the black ink instead of her own thoughts. This wasn't the time to be reaching for liquid amnesia, she told herself grimly. Not when she had actual work to do, actual problems to solve that didn't involve the impossible mathematics that had to do with Bucky Barnes and her guilt.
Just as her eyes began moving across the first page of the coroner's report, three sharp knocks rattled her front door.
Her pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her system.
When she opened the door, Bucky Barnes filled the frame, but he looked nothing like the man who had stormed into her apartment weeks ago with fury radiating from every line of his body. Gone was the sharp-edged rage that had made her space feel too small to contain him safely. Instead, his posture was coiled tight with a different kind of tension — something more like restlessness. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, and when his gaze flicked up to meet hers, she caught something she'd never seen there before.
Something that looked dangerously close to vulnerability.
She blinked, completely thrown by the appearance. "Did I... forget something at the scene?"
He stared at her for a long moment, his brow creasing as if was thinking of the right words to say. Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound rough in the evening air. "No. That's not—" He paused, jaw working soundlessly while he seemed to wage some internal battle. "I came to check on you."
Her lips parted in surprise, the simple admission hitting her like an unexpected blow. "To... check on me?"
He nodded once, sharp and mechanical, but his gaze kept skittering away from her face like he couldn't quite meet her eyes directly. Like looking at her too long might fracture the moment. "Yes."
She tilted her head, suspicion already blooming in her chest. The idea of him caring enough to seek her out felt too fragile to trust. "Did Yelena put you up to this?"
The suggestion hit him like a personal insult, his spine straightening as offense flashed across his features with surprising intensity. "No."
"Sam, then?"
His mouth pressed into a hard line, irritation sparking in his eyes. "No, I—" He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, raking his flesh hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed almost nervous. When he forced himself to meet her gaze again, there was something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Can I just come in? Please?"
The ‘please’ was what did it, soft and uncertain, like he wasn't sure he had the right to ask for anything from her at all. Her suspicion crumbled instantly.
"I mean, sure, but why—"
He brushed past her before she could finish the question, bringing with him the scent of leather and something clean and masculine. He stood in the liminal space between her kitchen and living room, shoulders filled with tension. His presence filled the cramped area with restless energy and he looked wildly out of place among her thrift store furniture and accumulated mess, all coiled power and barely contained intensity.
She closed the door softly, studying him from the safety of the hallway. His eyes were already cataloging her space like he did this with every room he stepped into — dirty dishes forming a precarious tower in the sink, case files scattered across the coffee table, the whiskey bottle sitting open on her counter.
She didn't miss the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features when his eyes landed on it, subtle but unmistakable. Shame cut a path through her chest.
"That was from this morning," she blurted out before she could stop herself, immediately regretting the defensive explanation. If anything, admitting to day drinking made everything worse. She cringed, kicking herself internally.
His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing with sharp concern that felt too intense, too personal. For the first time since she'd landed in this cosmic joke of a universe, someone was looking at her with something that resembled genuine worry rather than suspicion or barely concealed pity.
"How much are you drinking?" The question came out low and controlled, but there was something dangerously terse lurking beneath the calm.
Heat crawled up her neck, embarrassment and defiance warring in her like competing flames. "I don't see how that's any of your business." She turned away from his penetrating stare, snatching the bottle and screwing the cap on with unnecessary force before shoving it back onto the counter with enough force that made the glass rattle against the wall.
She could feel his sharp exhale behind her, could practically see the frustration rolling off him in waves. The silence stretched between them, heavy and accusatory, and she filled the uncomfortable void with busy work—running water, clattering dishes, anything to drown out the weight of his judgment.
"If you want to help us with official matters," he said finally, his tone clipped and professional in a way that somehow hurt worse than outright anger, "I'm sure we'd all prefer you to be sober for it."
"Oh, is that what this is?" she shot back, drying her hands with more violence than the task required, her movements sharp and defensive. "A welfare check for the good of the team? How noble of you."
His voice hardened then, rising to cut through her sarcasm like a blade. "You don't have to act like this behind closed doors. Like some petulant child throwing a tantrum because the universe didn't arrange itself to your liking. The world isn't falling apart so catastrophically that you need to develop habits designed to kill you."
She spun around then, fury igniting in her chest like struck kindling. The accusation hit every raw nerve she'd been trying to protect, every wound she'd been nursing. "I thought we left things on a decent note at the warehouse, but apparently you're determined to revert to being a complete ass."
His expression darkened, jaw clenching as he took a deliberate step closer, crowding into her personal space until she could see the dark flecks in his blue eyes, until his proximity made her breath catch and her heart hammer against her ribs. "You're the one sitting here rotting away in your own misery when there's no rational reason to be wallowing in self-pity—"
"No reason?" The words tore from her throat, raw and bleeding, carrying weeks of accumulated pain and frustration. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of not lashing out physically—though whether at him or at the universe itself, she couldn't tell. "I thought we went over this! One little accident, literally a slip, and I'm trapped in a world where the original me is dead and buried. Half the people here look at me like I'm her ghost come back to haunt them, the other half like I'm some pathetic fraud trying to steal her life."
Her voice was rising now, cracking with emotion she could no longer contain. "I had a real existence back home, Barnes. A career that mattered, friends who knew my actual history, a life that belonged to me instead of being some cosmic hand-me-down from a dead woman." Her voice broke completely on the last words, but she pushed forward anyway, desperation making her reckless. "And you all expect me to just stay here, smile and nod, pretend to start over like none of that mattered? Like I should be grateful for the chance to live in someone else's shadow? When everyone hates me for existing?"
Something fundamental shifted in his expression as she spoke. The righteous anger cracked, revealing something much more vulnerable underneath. Something that looked like recognition, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time instead of filtering her through the lens of someone else's memory.
"I don't hate you," he said quietly, the admission dousing the tension a bit.
She scoffed, pressing her fingertips against her temple where a headache was building like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "That's really all you took from what I just said? That's your big takeaway from my entire breakdown?"
"If anyone should understand about drowning in grief," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through her spiraling thoughts, "it would be me."
Her breath caught, the fight going out of her as suddenly as it had flared. The simple truth of the admission tempered her anger instantly.
His voice softened but lost none of its intensity, as if the words themselves were scraping him raw from the inside out. "I lost nearly a century to HYDRA's torture. They carved me up, piece by piece, until I couldn't tell where I ended and their weapon began. I woke up with a ledger drowned in innocent blood, everyone I'd ever loved dead and buried, nightmares that still hunt me down every time I close my eyes."
He paused, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his eyes dangerously dark. "And yet, I’m still here. Still breathing, still fighting, still trying to build something meaningful from the wreckage they left behind. I made this world into a home. I found reasons worth living for, worth protecting." His eyes found hers then, blazing with conviction. "You can too. You're stronger than you're giving yourself credit for."
The silence that followed was electric, both of them breathing hard like they'd been running instead of standing in her cramped kitchen tearing each other apart with words that cut too deep to heal cleanly.
Then his gaze cut into hers, softer but no less demanding, carrying an intimacy that made her want to step back and lean closer at the same time. "So tell me what you're really running back to. What's waiting for you in your old world that's so much better than anything you could build here? Was there someone special? Family? A lover? What's the golden life you're clinging to that makes this one feel like such a punishment?"
"You're talking to me like you actually know me," she said, her voice trembling with emotion she couldn't quite name. Anger, yes, but something deeper and more complicated underneath it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, tears threatening but refusing to fall. Not because she was angry at him, but because she was furious at the joke of it all. Angry that she was standing here arguing with a man who looked at her like he knew her, when most of what she knew about him came from a computer screen.
"But you don't know me at all," she continued, the words scraping her throat raw. "I'm not her, Bucky. You don't need to save me, or fix me, or give me inspirational speeches like you have any idea how my mind works. We might share the same DNA, the same basic facial structure, even the same damn name…but that's where the similarities end."
Her voice broke on the next words, but she pushed through the crack with desperate determination. "I'm not the woman you loved." The confession broke something vital in her chest as it left her mouth, but she forced it out anyway. It was the only mercy she could offer, making him let go before the hoping killed them both. "And I'm sorry, I am so deeply sorry for how much this must hurt you. I know you loved her desperately. But I'm not her, and pretending otherwise is only going to destroy us both."
When she finished, silence wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. He didn't lash out this time, didn't retreat behind walls of ice and anger like she'd expected. He just stood there absorbing her words with the stillness of someone who'd survived a lifetime of devastating truths, a lifetime of loss and pain.
Then his eyes lifted to meet hers, and they were soft with something that surprised her. Something that looked dangerously close to peace.
When he spoke, his voice was careful, like he was afraid the wrong tone might set her off again. "You share more than just her face and name," he said firmly. "You've got the same stubborn streak that won't let you back down from a fight, even when you should. The same fire in your eyes when you're passionate about something. Like right now, when you're telling me I don't know you."
His gaze flickered with something that might have been longing, carefully controlled but unmistakably present. "The same smile, though you try not to use it around me. I can tell. You even laugh the same way, when you forget to guard yourself against letting me see who you really are."
He looked past her shoulder toward the whiskey bottle, and a sad, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The way you keep your space... it's exactly how she did. Same organized chaos, same preferences. Even down to the brand of whiskey."
Bucky’s voice faltered slightly, but he pushed on with determined honesty. "The way you analyzed that crime scene today…it was word for word how she would have approached it. Same methodology, same instincts, even the same little pauses you do when you're processing evidence and building the story in your head."
He shook his head once, slow and heavy, like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. When his eyes found hers again, they were no longer bogged down by grief. Instead, it looked a lot more like tenderness.
"So it's not just about looking at you and seeing a ghost," he continued, his voice roughening with emotion he couldn't quite hide anymore. "It's because you still are the same, in every way that matters. The core of who she was, who you are, it's identical. Every piece of her that I fell in love with, it's right there in you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."
His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, and when he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. "And if she found enough reasons to be happy here, enough purpose to build a life worth living—" His voice cracked slightly before he steadied it with visible effort. "Then I'm willing to bet you could too, if you'd let yourself try, instead of running back to whatever you think you're missing."
The silence that followed was thickly discomforting.
Her first instinct was to fight him, to argue that he was wrong, that she was her own person with her own history and choices that had nothing to do with some parallel universe doppelganger. Anger coiled hot in her stomach. How dare he try to define her through someone else's existence, try to trap her in another woman's story like she was just an understudy waiting in the wings to step into a role she'd never auditioned for.
But as he spoke — as she watched his face soften when he mentioned her smile, her laugh, as she heard his voice break when he talked about her, the fight began to drain out of her. These weren't accusations, weren't demands or attempts to force her into a predetermined mold. They came weighted with grief…but also with something that felt dangerously close to reverence.
She could see it now. Could finally understand what she'd been missing in all their previous interactions. He wasn't angry at her for not being identical to the other girl he had lost. He was angry at the universe for the cruel joke of it all. For putting someone in front of him who both was and wasn't the person he'd mourned. For making him choose between clinging to a ghost and letting go of the closest thing to her he'd ever find again.
It struck her with sudden, devastating clarity that this wasn't about biology or cosmic coincidence. It was about the way different universes shaped their inhabitants. How environment and experience carved people into what they became, but never completely erased the foundation they'd been built on. The foundation might be the same, but the life lived on top of it created all the details that mattered, all the small differences that made each person unique.
And maybe that explained why she recognized herself in his descriptions, why his words rang true even when she wanted to reject them with every fiber of her being.
Maybe he wasn't seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe he was just seeing her more clearly than she'd been able to see herself.
"Okay," she murmured finally, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I get it. No more wallowing in self-pity like it's a competitive sport."
Her voice grew smaller, more uncertain. "It's just... I don't feel like I have a purpose here. A place in this world that's mine instead of borrowed from someone else's life. It's been harder than I expected to find my footing as of late."
The change in his expression was immediate. The stern line of his mouth softened and the rigid set of his shoulders instantly relaxed. His eyes shifted too, warmed with something fragile and achingly gentle.
She knew why. She'd just given him the first real glimpse of who she was underneath all the defensive armor.
He cleared his throat, running his flesh hand through his dark hair in a gesture she was starting to think he did when he was nervous. "I understand that better than you know," he said quietly, his voice carrying an invisible weight. "I felt exactly the same way when I first got my mind back from HYDRA's programming. Still feel that way sometimes, if I'm being honest. You just... you need to find things that anchor you. That give you something worth fighting for."
Her chest tightened at the admission, and not for the first time, she found herself wondering how the other version of herself had helped him through those early days. How had she managed to be patient with someone who was more scar tissue than man, who was learning how to be human again after decades of being nothing but a weapon? If she truly was some variation of that woman, she couldn't imagine where she would have found the gentleness required for that kind of healing work.
The questions burned on her tongue like acid, but she didn't dare voice them. The wounds in his voice still sounded too fresh, too close to bleeding all over her kitchen floor and staining the cheap linoleum.
Instead, she let herself take a moment to study him — to take in the sharp line of his jaw softened by dark stubble, the pale strokes of scars that mapped old violence across his skin, the way time had finally started to write itself into the corners of his eyes and the furrows of his brow. He was devastatingly handsome in the way that made her chest tight just from being in the same room.
But beneath all that hardened masculinity, she caught glimpses of the boy she'd read about in history books. The one who'd followed Steve Rogers into hell because it was the right thing to do.
At least in this universe, he'd managed to claw his way back to something resembling that original purpose.
So, she asked the question pushing at the seam of her lips, hoping the genuine curiosity didn’t come back to bite her. “What…what was it that gave you purpose to keep fighting? After everything…after all that you’d been through?”
His eyes lifted to hers slowly, and blinked, like her question was still churning in his mind. For a moment he didn't move and just studied her silently.
Then his lashes fluttered faster, like he was fighting back some overwhelming emotion that threatened to spill over if he wasn't careful.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Had a few things that helped. But I think you already know what the main one was."
Her throat constricted, muscles seizing like she had swallowed something too solid. She couldn't look away from his eyes, that startling blue that seemed to hold so much she didn’t know. There was an energy there she'd never seen before, something alive and burning that definitely wasn't meant for her. Something that belonged to memories and time.
And yet, he was looking directly at her with all that overwhelming intensity, like she was simultaneously the answer to every prayer he'd never dared voice and some cruel twist of fate.
She didn't know why the words were leaving her mouth until they'd already escaped into the charged space between them, hanging there like they were a tangible thing.
"Do you... want to stay for dinner?"
Her own eyebrows drew together in confusion, like her body was surprised by her own invitation. She wasn't the type to ask anyone into her space, especially not him. Especially not when every interaction they'd had so far had ended with one or both of them angry or upset. But there it was, still hanging in the air for him to answer.
Bucky blinked at her, visibly thrown by the unexpected offer, his entire body going still. For a heartbeat she thought he was going to decline, maybe make some excuse about having somewhere else to be, someone else who needed his attention more than whatever she was to him in his own mind.
But then, after a pause that stretched just long enough to make her nervous about asking, he gave the faintest nod. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The surprise was definitely mutual, written clearly across both their faces.
She turned quickly before he could read too much into her expression, before she could examine too closely why the thought of him staying made something dangerous unfurl in her chest. She tugged open the refrigerator door and stared at the pathetically barren shelves with growing mortification. Half a jar of marinara sauce that had seen better days, yogurt that was definitely past its expiration date, a carton of eggs she wasn't entirely sure she trusted, and not much else that could constitute an actual meal.
Not exactly the ingredients for an impressive culinary experience.
"Is frozen pizza okay?" she asked, clearing her throat and trying to sound casual instead of ashamed by her complete lack of basic grocery shopping abilities.
When she gathered enough courage to glance back at him, he was smiling. Bittersweet, like the gesture, was kind and sad at the same time. The transformation was stunning, taking years off his face and revealing glimpses of who he might have been in another life. "Yeah…that's perfect. We used to live on frozen pizza. You were always a disaster in the kitchen, could barely manage toast without setting off the smoke alarm. Takeout and frozen meals were your specialty."
A sharp laugh escaped her before she could stop it, surprising herself. "That sounds exactly right. I once burned water trying to make pasta."
The sound of her genuine laughter seemed to make his smile grow wider, transforming his entire face. It was beautiful — the kind of expression that made her understand with devastating clarity exactly why the other version of herself might have fallen so completely and irrevocably in love with him. Because when he smiled at her like that, she didn’t know how she could ever stay mad at him.
While the oven preheated, she slid the pizza onto the middle rack, brushing flour from her hands and trying to ignore the way he was watching her every movement with laser focus. She turned around, watching him lean against her counter with deceptive casualness, arms folded across his broad chest. His gaze was still fixed on her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle.
"So," she said carefully, searching for safe conversational ground that wouldn't lead them back into the emotional minefield they'd just navigated. "What's your story? The abbreviated version, at least."
He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh, the sound carrying decades of weary experience. "Born and raised in Brooklyn. Got drafted in '43. Fell off a train in the Alps during a mission with Stevie — though 'fell' makes it sound simple."
His expression darkened slightly with the weight of memory. "HYDRA found me, put me back together with spare parts and a lot of creative chemistry, and spent the next seventy years turning me into their perfect weapon. Steve managed to break their programming and pull me back from the brink when I didn't even remember there was a brink to be pulled back from. The rest..." He shrugged with deliberate casualness that didn't quite hide the weight beneath it. "You can probably fill in the gaps from whatever you've read online."
She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together as she processed his words. His tone was carefully neutral, but she caught the way his eyes flickered when he mentioned certain details. Like each condensed phrase represented years of trauma he'd learned to compress into manageable sound bites that wouldn't overwhelm whoever was listening.
Something in her heart clenched.
"And..." she hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she debated whether to push into territory that might be too personal. She was uncertain, but also unable to resist asking. "How did…we meet? In this universe, I mean."
The question seemed to rock him. His eyes widened slightly, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard, his hands twitching against his chest. For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer at all, that she'd pushed too far into territory that was still too painful to revisit, too difficult to share with someone who wore the face of the woman who'd lived it.
Then, slowly, his expression gentled with something that might have been gratitude — like he was grateful she'd asked.
"You were working with SHIELD," he began, his voice low. "This was after the whole Winter Soldier debacle, after everything went public and my face was plastered across every news channel. Steve asked you to help track me down when I disappeared after D.C."
He paused, his gaze never leaving her face, studying her for any reaction. "You found me in Romania, living in a pathetic little apartment, trying to stay invisible while I figured out how to exist in my own head again."
Her breath caught. That detail hit close enough to home.
"At first, I thought you were just another agent sent to bring me in," he continued, his voice taking on a distant quality as he lost himself in a memory. "I didn't trust anyone back then. Couldn't afford to. Everyone was a potential threat. But you..."
He shook his head slightly, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You didn't push. Didn't try to fix me or convince me I was worth saving when I couldn't even convince myself I deserved to keep breathing. You just... existed in the same space. Sometimes hours would pass and you wouldn't say a word, just sat there reading or working on your laptop while I tried to remember how to be human again instead of a weapon with no name."
The oven timer chose that moment to beep, startling them both from the intensity of the moment. She turned quickly to rescue the pizza, grateful for the excuse to hide her face while she processed his words, while she tried to reconcile the difference between the woman he was describing and herself .
Her hands were trembling slightly as she set the hot pan on the stovetop, the simple domestic task feeling surreal in the aftermath of his confession.
"You were stubborn as hell," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice now. Warmer, more present than the distant tone he'd been using before. "Half the time I wanted to tell you to get lost, to stop wasting your time on something that couldn't be fixed. But you never did. And after a while, I realized I didn't want you to leave anymore. Started looking forward to the sound of your key in the lock, to the way you'd hum under your breath when you thought I wasn't paying attention."
She desperately wanted to ask more—if he'd fallen for her first or if she'd been the one to claim that title, if what they'd built together had been worth the pain he was carrying now. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy to voice, too loaded with implications she wasn't ready to examine.
"She sounds like she was better than me," she whispered instead, the admission scraping raw against her vocal cords. It was easier to speak to the pizza than to turn around and face whatever expressions were dancing across his face.
His response was immediate and fierce. "No. You're exactly the same. Different circumstances, maybe, different experiences that shaped the details…but don't you dare think for a second that you're somehow less than she was."
The conviction in his voice made something crack open in her chest, some small fissure in the wall she'd built around her heart. She kept her back to him, focusing on cutting the pizza with unnecessary precision rather than facing the intensity of his gaze she could feel burning into her. But she couldn't stop the way her hands shook just slightly as she worked, couldn't ignore the way his words settled around them.
"I don't know how to be her," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to be the woman who could save someone like you, who could be patient enough to sit with all that pain and not try to fix it."
"You're not supposed to be her," he said quietly, and she could hear him moving closer. Could feel his presence like a physical weight behind her. "I don’t need saving anymore. You're supposed to be you. And maybe... maybe it’s my turn to return the favor."
She finally turned around then. He was closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, close enough that the scent of leather and something uniquely him flooded her senses.
He took one of the plates from her hands, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The simple contact sent electricity racing up her arm like lightning.
"Thank you," he said, and she wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the pizza or something else entirely.
They ate in relative silence, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind. This felt different, like they were both testing the boundaries of this new dynamic they'd stumbled into. She found herself stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking, studying the way he ate with mechanical precision, the way his eyes would drift to her face every so often.
"The case," she said finally, needing something concrete to focus on, some safe harbor in the storm of emotions swirling between them. "The HYDRA connection…do you think the killer is someone who used to work for them?"
His expression sharpened, slipping back into professional mode within a heartbeat. "Has to be. The intelligence required, the access to classified files on SHIELD operations — it's not something an outsider would have. This is someone cleaning house, tying up loose ends.”
"But why now?" she pressed, her investigative instincts finally finding solid ground. "What's changed? What's the catalyst that made them decide to do that?"
He was quiet for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully. "Could be anything. Maybe they've been planning this for years and just now got the resources. Maybe something spooked them. New intelligence suggesting their past was about to catch up with them. Or maybe..." He paused, meeting her eyes across the small table. "Maybe they have nothing left to lose now. Decided to settle old scores before checking out permanently."
The possibility sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "That would make them even more dangerous. Nothing more unpredictable than someone with nothing to lose."
"Exactly." His gaze was steady on hers, and she caught something that looked like pride in his expression. "Which is why we need to find them fast, before they work their way through whatever list they're operating from."
She nodded, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks. This was familiar territory. Puzzles to be solved, patterns to identify, justice to pursue. It gave her something to anchor to that had nothing to do with magic portals or duplicate identities.
"I'll go through the files tonight," she said. "Cross-reference the victims, look for connections we might have missed. There has to be a pattern somewhere."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or something that looked dangerously close to gratitude. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted, and realized as she said it that it was true. For the first time since arriving in this universe, she had something that felt like purpose again. "It's what I'm good at. And maybe... maybe it's a start."
A start toward what, she didn't say. Didn't need to. The words hung between them, heavy with possibility and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to build something meaningful from the wreckage of her displacement.
When he finally left, long after the pizza was finished and the case files spread across her coffee table, she found herself standing at her window watching him disappear into the night. For the first time since Stephen Strange had delivered his painful verdict on her fate, the silence in her apartment didn't feel quite so suffocating.
Gradually, piece by piece, she began to stitch herself into the fabric of this universe. It still didn’t feel like home, still didn’t fully feel like she would ever belong, but it was something. And it began with the superheroes around her.
Yelena had a way of barging into her apartment without knocking, tossing case files onto her coffee table like scraps of meat, demanding her "brilliant detective brain" work through the puzzles she didn't have patience for. Yelena never said it outright, but the message was clear: you're wasting away in here, stop it. And for a while, those files gave her something to chew on, something to look forward to when sleep refused to come and the silence of her apartment became unbearable.
Sam was the one who encouraged her to go further. His words were softer than Yelena’s, as if he knew how precariously she balanced on the edge of belonging and alienation. "You've got a gift," he'd told her over coffee one morning, his voice warm with genuine conviction. "The kind we need." She wanted to argue that she wasn't one of them, not a hero, not a fighter — but Sam brushed aside her protests with a patience she wondered if he had applied to Bucky years ago.
But what struck her most wasn't Sam's encouragement, or Yelena's brashness, or even the others' gradual acceptance. It was the love that tethered them all together. Especially the love wrapped, invisibly but unmistakably, between Sam and Bucky. She saw it in indirect ways — a small smile at an inside joke, an elbow in the ribs when Sam made a reference to Bucky’s age, the way they unconsciously lifted each other when a crisis arose. It was a pure, unwavering brotherhood. Beautiful in its quiet certainty, despite both of their efforts to pretend like they hated each other.
The team eventually began inviting her into the field, at first only on "safe" missions. The ones that didn't end with them dragging each other back, bleeding and broken. She didn't mind. She wasn't a superhero, would never be one. She was a detective, and she leaned into that role—sifting through data, profiling suspects, chasing threads others missed.
Joaquin slipped her access to databases she shouldn't have had with a conspiratorial wink. She spent long nights in front of screens, piecing puzzles together with the same thrill she once felt chasing criminals in her own world. And before she realized it, she had a badge for the Watchtower. Guards knew her by name. Maintenance crews nodded in passing. She belonged, at least on the surface.
Friday nights were spent drinking with Yelena, trading stories and learning to decode the Russian's particular brand of affection—insults wrapped in concern, threats that were really promises to have her back. Tuesdays she cooked with Bob, who laughed off her disasters in the kitchen with infinite patience and taught her how to whip up more than pancakes and sandwiches. Ava sparred with her, never letting her win, but teaching her how to read an opponent's tells, how to use her smaller size as an advantage, how to turn fear into fuel. Alexei insisted she watch his "essential list" of 80’s films and compared far too many things in them to the Soviet Union, but his enthusiasm was infectious and oddly endearing. Even Walker — brash, smug, impossible to most — one day sidled into her makeshift office, cheeks red, asking for her advice on talking to his ex-wife. She hadn't expected it given the fact they had nothing beyond a working relationship. Maybe that was why he asked her. And though he still lobbed barbed comments her way, she noticed he started treating her with more respect.
But Bucky... Bucky was different.
Even after their fragile truce over frozen pizza, he kept his distance like she was something dangerous. He spoke to her when the team was around but didn’t seek her out otherwise. His sentences were short and polite — never rude, but always edged in restraint that felt like a wall she couldn't scale. And yet, slowly, almost reluctantly, he softened in his own ways.
A bottle of her favorite cold brew appeared in the fridge one morning, no note attached. Her messy desk was one day rearranged with military precision with files sorted and pens organized. A gun she hadn't realized she needed was left for her, its balance perfect in her hand, the holster exactly her size. Small gestures, quiet ones that she knew came from him. But he still couldn't bring himself to look her fully in the eye for more than a heartbeat at a time.
She didn't need to be a detective to know why.
The first time she caught him staring, really staring, was during a team briefing three weeks after their pizza encounter. Yelena was explaining mission parameters, her voice background noise as she felt eyes on her. She glanced up from her notes to find Bucky's gaze fixed on her face, his lips set into a neutral line. For a moment, the world narrowed to just them, but once he realized she'd noticed, the shutters came down so fast she almost wondered if she'd imagined it. He looked away, jaw tight, metal fingers drumming against the table in a rapid rhythm.
But she hadn't imagined it. And now that she'd seen it once, she started noticing it everywhere. The way his eyes would find her across a room when he thought she wasn’t looking, drinking her in. How he'd position himself during investigations the team went on so he could see her, could keep track of her safety without being obvious about it. The careful space he maintained between them so they were never close enough to accidentally touch, but never so far that he couldn't reach her if needed.
One night, when the team had been deployed to take care of the killer of the ex-SHIELD agent’s they had managed to track down, curiosity got the better of her. She told herself it was harmless, that she wasn't prying, just... looking. Bucky always kept his door shut, as if whatever lay behind it was sacred ground. But she opened the door a crack, then stepped inside.
The room was stark, utilitarian. A bed made with military corners, a nightstand, a dresser. More hotel than home, stripped of comfort or intimacy. Everything about it screamed of a man who didn't want to leave a mark, who feared permanence like others feared death. Except for the top of the dresser.
That was different.
There, scattered carefully, was a collection of framed photographs. She saw one of Sam and Bucky, the same photo Sam kept in his office, their arms slung around each other's shoulders with wide grins plastered on their faces. Another in sepia tones, Steve Rogers and a young Bucky in uniform, laughing, carefree, so achingly alive. His face there was unrecognizable: smooth, clean-shaven, lit with the sheen of youth. Innocent. Untouched by the decades of violence that would follow.
And then her breath caught, lodging in her throat like a physical thing.
Between those frames were more pictures of her. Or rather, the other her.
Photographs of moments she'd never lived, memories that belonged to a ghost. Blurry, off-center snapshots, none taken by a professional by any means, but they radiated something raw and unfiltered. In every one, she was smiling. Laughing. Resting her head against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. The joy on her face was undeniable, luminous. The kind of happiness that seemed to spill out of the frame itself. And his expression was worse.
It wasn't just happiness; it was devotion. A quiet reverence, as though every second captured in those frames was proof of a miracle he'd never expected to receive.
Her eyes locked on the one at the center, clearly his favorite. She had her arms wrapped tight around his neck, grinning at the camera with unguarded delight. But he wasn't looking at the lens. He was looking at her. With an expression she had never seen beyond a film screen — pure adoration. Contentment so complete it made her chest ache. A man utterly in love.
Her stomach twisted violently. It was too much, too intimate, too sacred for her to be staring at. This was a window into his grief made real, his love crystallized into something she could touch but never truly understand. She reached out with trembling fingers, almost touching the glass of one of the photos.
"He really did love her."
She spun, gasping, heart leaping into her throat. Bob stood in the doorway, hands raised like he was trying not to startle her further. His expression was soft, almost apologetic.
"I didn't mean to sneak up," he said quietly, nodding toward the dresser. "But it's true. I never met her, but...we all knew about her. Bucky never talked about it. Not once. But he didn't have to. It was obvious."
Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "How could you tell how much he cared? If he never spoke about her?"
Bob's lips turned up in a sad, knowing smile. "That's when you know someone's at their lowest, when they're still trying to look like they're not. We didn’t know him when she died, but we know he was a hair away from falling apart. From giving up on himself. But he never did. Just kept going, kept protecting people. Because…that's what she would have wanted." He paused, studying her face with gentle eyes. "He said that once. That she would have killed him herself for giving up. He's been carrying that love like a wound that won't heal. Until you showed up, anyway. Now…I think he’s just as confused as you are."
Her heart twisted in her chest, a sharp pain that stole her breath. She let out a shaky exhale, gave Bob a brief nod, and closed Bucky's bedroom door with his words ringing in her head like a bell she couldn't silence.
The team came back a few days later in the late evening, everyone banged up and nursing wounds from a fight that had broken out when they apprehended the killer. Yet, all were in surprisingly good spirits. They all stayed gathered in the living room eating pizza and drinking semi-warm beer Bob had bought for them, still in uniform despite the dirt and blood covering more than a few of them. War stories of the mission mixed in with laughter echoed amongst the room, the kind of easy camaraderie that came with running so many of these missions together.
She watched Bucky throughout the evening, noting the careful way he held his right arm, how he favored his left side when he thought no one was looking. But his face gave nothing away, his usual stoic mask firmly in place, participating in the banter with the occasional dry comment that made Yelena snort with laughter and Walker shake his head in exasperation.
She slipped out quietly once Alexei started on his third retelling of the takedown, deciding to head home for the night. She had a room here, insisted upon by Yelena with her typical stubbornness, but she still tried not to linger too long in the Tower. Still wanted to keep some distance, maintain the illusion that she could leave if she needed to.
She had just made it outside the elevator when something down the hall caught her eye. Movement, a faint grunt of pain quickly stifled. She stopped, curiosity getting the best of her, and peered into the adjacent control room where the sounds were coming from.
Bucky, who had slipped off minutes before her, was seated with his shoulders hunched forward, his head bowed as he wrestled a roll of gauze around his right arm slowly. The sleeve of his uniform was peeled back, crimson seeping stubbornly through the fresh layers of white. She had guessed he'd been hurt when they got back but he hadn't asked to go to medical or given the slightest indication of pain. Though, she was learning, he was notorious for brushing off the team's doctors, always patching himself up in shadows before they noticed the damage.
In the blue glow of the monitors around him, he looked tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. There was something raw and vulnerable about seeing him like this with his guard down, struggling with his own stubborn self-reliance.
She found herself stepping forward before she'd made a conscious decision to move.
"Hey," she called softly, before she could talk herself out of it. Her voice sounded too loud in the dim, humming room. "Why aren't you getting that taken care of?"
Bucky's hands stilled, though his jaw ticked when she stepped into his line of sight. He pulled the gauze tighter than necessary, as though the sting was needed. Only after knotting it off with fumbling fingers did he finally glance up at her. The glow of the monitors carved shadows across his face, catching the tired lines etched deep at the corners of his eyes. He looked worn down in a way that went far beyond the mission—like he'd been fighting a war inside himself that had no end in sight.
"It's fine," he said, his voice rough but even. His eyes didn't meet hers, focusing instead on some point past her shoulder. "Doesn't need stitches. I've had worse."
The casual dismissal tugged at something in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to protectiveness. Of course he'd say that. Of course he'd measure every new pain against all the agony he'd ever endured, not allowing the present, this wound, to matter. She stepped closer, arms folding like armor against the pull in her mind screaming at her to go to him.
"Doesn't mean you should be sitting in here alone, bleeding out in the dark like some kind of martyr."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but it wasn't a real smile. More like a reflex, an attempt to ease the weight between them. "What, you volunteering to play nurse?"
Her pulse stuttered at the quiet rasp of his voice, at the way he finally looked at her from beneath his lashes with something that might have been hope. She forced her expression to stay flat, unreadable. "Someone has to. You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
His gaze lingered on her, longer than it should have, like he was trying to decide whether to believe her offer or push her away out of habit. His metal hand flexed against his thigh, a restless tell she'd come to recognize as anxiety poorly disguised.
"You shouldn't worry about me," he said at last, low and steady, but not unkind. Just... final. Like he'd made peace with being alone long ago.
She ignored his dismissal and walked further into the room, closing the distance until she was standing directly in front of him. His shoulders stiffened, breath catching almost imperceptibly, but he didn't move, didn't protest as she reached for the gauze with steady hands.
"Let me," she murmured, fingers brushing against his wrist as she caught hold of the roll.
The contact was electric. Not sparks, not movie-magic electricity. No, something deeper and more dangerous. The simple touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the way he went completely still beneath her fingers, like her touch had the ability to freeze him. His skin was warm, marked with old scars that told stories she didn't know.
For a second, he didn't release the gauze. His grip was firm, his jaw set, and the air between them went taut like they were suspended in a moment neither of them could afford to shatter. She could feel the tension radiating from him, could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Part of him wanted to accept her help, she realized, but another part — the part that had learned to survive by never needing anyone in the last few years — was screaming at him to push her away.
Finally, with a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender, he let go, his metal hand settling against the chair with a soft clink.
"This is going to sting," she warned quietly, beginning to unwrap the sloppy layers he'd wound around himself with his left hand.
"I know," he said simply, but his voice was softer now, some of the walls coming down. "I'm used to it."
The blood had already seeped through, warm and damp against her fingertips, more than she'd expected. She forced her breath to steady as she peeled the fabric back, revealing the angry slice across his forearm. It wasn't life-threatening, but it was raw, deep enough to require more care than his hasty field dressing. The wound was clean, he'd at least managed that much, but the edges were slightly swollen still.
"You always do this?" she asked softly, voice barely above the low hum of the monitors. Her fingers worked carefully, cleaning away the dried blood with gentle precision.
His eyes stayed on her face, watching every movement like he couldn't quite believe this was real. "Yeah. Easier this way."
She glanced up at him, catching the weight in his gaze, the careful distance he maintained even while letting her tend to him. "Easier, or safer?"
Something flickered in his expression. The mask came off for a second. He looked away, jaw flexing, throat bobbing like her words had struck somewhere too close to truth. "Same thing, isn't it?"
The quiet admission hung between them, heavy with implications she wasn't sure she had the experience to unpack. She said nothing more, focusing instead on wrapping him properly, her fingers careful and precise as they worked. Every accidental brush of contact made her pulse skitter—the ridges of scar tissue that mapped his history, the tense muscle beneath his skin, the warmth radiating from his skin. The intimacy of it was overwhelming.
Bucky's breathing shifted, slower now, heavier, as though her touch unsettled him more than the injury itself. She could feel his eyes on her face, studying her expression, like he was looking for something in particular.
When her thumb accidentally brushed over the pulse point in his wrist, he inhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of electronics. She looked up to find his gaze already on her, blue eyes dark and intense in the monitor light. For a moment, the air between them crackled with something unnamed, something that made her heart race and her hands tremble.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction, like he was testing whether she'd flee if given an excuse.
"I know," she whispered, securing the gauze snug against his skin. Her hands lingered a second too long, fingertips tracing the edge of the bandage with unconscious care. "I want to."
She didn't know why she said it. It was as though her brain was two steps behind her mouth, honesty spilling out before she could say something safer. But she knew it wasn't a lie. There was something about seeing him like this—unguarded, letting her help—that cracked something open in her chest.
The silence that followed was dense, electric. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to find the reason, the truth behind her words. And in that stillness, she thought she saw the truth of it all.The truth behind his pain. It was a raw, unspoken need for someone to stay anyway. For someone to see the wound and not turn away.
He had said the other her had found him when he was hiding in Romania, had stayed with him despite everything, despite nothing to keep her there, really. But she had stayed. Had helped him when he withdrew, kept pushing with nothing more than support until his walls came down.
And wasn’t she doing exactly that now?
Her chest tightened, and she realized her hands were still on him, fingertips brushing the back of his forearm where his pulse thudded steady and real beneath her touch. He didn't pull away. He just watched her, lips parting like he might say something, then pressing together again. As though the words he wanted to say were too dangerous to let slip.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and precious, until she forced herself to pull back slowly — reluctantly — her fingers lingering before she stepped away. Clearing her throat, she tried to sound casual. "There. Now you won't get a flesh-eating infection and lose the good arm."
His lips quirked, a low sound slipping out that wasn't quite a scoff, but wasn’t quite a laugh either. "Two metal arms would be a bit inconvenient."
"Well," she muttered, lips twitching in spite of herself. "We might as well keep the flesh one in case you need me to play nurse again."
The words slipped out before she could stop them, innocent enough on the surface but weighted with implications that made her face burn. She froze, pulse stumbling, realizing the double-edged meaning of what she'd just said. He froze too, or maybe just stilled. If he was surprised, he buried it beneath that soldier's mask quickly, but she still caught the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his eyes darkened just a fraction.
A cough tore from her throat, awkward and thin. She felt exposed, stripped bare by her own careless words, and had no idea why she was unraveling like this around him. All she knew was she needed distance before she humiliated herself further.
She pushed to her feet too quickly, brushing her hands on her pants like the motion could smooth over the stumble in her heart. "Well. Now that I've saved your life, I'm gonna head home before it gets too late. Alexei should still be talking about the mission for the fourth time, if you're lucky."
Bucky's brow furrowed, that careful distance cracking into genuine concern. "It's already almost midnight. You're walking alone?"
She shrugged, patting the gun he had given her beneath her jacket with mock confidence. "Yeah, it's not far. Former detective, remember? If I get abducted, I'll leave the right clues for you to find me."
His stare flattened into something sharp and distinctly unamused. "Very funny. You sure you don't want to stay here tonight?"
Her throat tightened. The truth, that she couldn't risk being this close to him, not when every interaction chipped at her carefully constructed armor, would hurt more than a lie.
So she lied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "No... I like my own space, you know? And not hearing Walker and Ava bicker every morning is... a necessary grace."
That almost-smile slid back onto his lips, faint but knowing, like he could see right through her deflection. "Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie."
Her heart stumbled again, betraying her completely. She froze, wincing inwardly, then bit out before she could stop herself. "How many months into dating her did you learn that tell?"
The reference to their shared past hung in the air between them, dangerous territory they'd both been carefully avoiding. But he didn't even flinch. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Didn't learn that from her, sweetheart. Learned that from watching you."
The words were casual and devastating all at once. The air seemed to thin, pressing in around her until she felt dizzy. She stared, waiting for him to crack — to smirk, to walk it back as a joke. But his face stayed impassive, like he hadn't just dropped a grenade into her chest.
Her silence stretched, and maybe he mistook it for invitation. He stood, rolling his shoulder with a sigh that sounded heavier than it should. "If you insist on going home tonight, let me walk you."
She blinked, startled into a whole new kind of unsteady. "Oh no, there's no need—"
"I insist." His tone was steel, firm and immovable. His gaze pinned her with the same unyielding gravity, like he'd chain himself to her side if that's what it took to keep her safe. "It's late, and you're..." He gestured vaguely at her, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Just let me walk you home."
She knew she'd lose this battle. It was written in his stance, in the set of his jaw, in the way he was already reaching for his jacket. So, she blew out a breath through her nose and gestured stiffly toward the elevator. "Fine. You win. After you, Terminator."
His brow furrowed at the reference, clearly lost, but he started forward without another word. She trailed after him, her heart still dancing far too fast in her chest for reasons she couldn't quite name.
Or didn't want to examine too closely.
The streets were quiet that late, the occasional hum of a car in the distance or a neon sign buzzing faintly above the closed shops they passed. Their footsteps were steady but unhurried, his longer stride intentionally slowed to match hers. She could feel the tension in the air, not hostile, but something quieter that clung to them like the humid summer night.
She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets, glancing at him sidelong. The silence was stretching, growing heavier with each step, and she needed to break it before the weight of it crushed her completely. "Do you... ever miss it? Not being an active Congressman anymore?"
Bucky shook his head, a humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Miss what? The infighting, the regular dance with public opinion? The constant reminders of all the shit I've done?" His voice was rough, honest in the darkness. "No. If it were up to me, I'd stay far away from all of it. I'd live quietly. Far away from all of it."
The last sentence came out weighted, like it meant something more. Something about the way he said pulled at her chest. The resignation in his voice was apparent, like he'd convinced himself that isolation was not just what he deserved but what he really wanted.
She hesitated, thought back to what Bob had said about Bucky’s relationship with her other version of her, then said carefully, "I think that's exactly why the world needs you. You're not doing it for glory. You're not chasing cameras or headlines. You help because you can. Because you care, whether you admit it or not."
His eyes flicked up to hers at that, lingering a little too long. In the warm glow of the streetlights, she could see the surprise in his expression, the way her words seemed to settle into him.
He gave a small nod, voice rough around the edges. "Thanks. For saying that."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, the city breathing quietly around them. She found herself studying his profile in the glow of the streetlight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead.
"Are you still as sad as you were when you got here?" he asked suddenly, the question emerging like it had been building in his head for weeks. "Still thinking about leaving?"
The unexpected vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. She looked down at her shoes, tracing the cracked edge of the pavement with her toe while she gathered her thoughts. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "I'm happy here, with the team. They make me laugh. They keep me moving forward, give me work to do. And I appreciate that. But..." She paused, struggling to articulate the ache that lived just beneath her ribs. "I still feel like a stranger sometimes. Like I don't quite belong, like I'm living in someone else's life. Like I'm not wanted for who I actually am."
His brows drew together, eyes narrowing like she had just said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He stopped walking entirely, turning to face her suddenly. The streetlight above him illuminated the earnest expression in his face.
"That's not true." His voice was firm, almost fierce. "You're not just tolerated. Not by any of us. They all love you, more than you realize. You've done more for this team than you even know." His voice softened then, just a notch, but somehow that made it hit harder. "Sam looks forward to whenever you call him. Yelena actually smiles when she talks about you. Bob lights up whenever you walk into the kitchen. Even Walker—" He huffed a laugh. "Walker actually does ask about you when you're not around."
Her throat tightened at the statements. Things she had never really seen or picked up on. She had always just imagined they were tolerating her to keep her from moving backwards.
"We want you here," his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “I want you here."
Her breath hitched, the confession landing like a punch to the gut. His words hung in the air, hot and sharp, the spark daring to catch fire in the space between them.
He seemed to realize the weight of what he'd said, because his jaw flexed, but his voice didn’t lose that soft edge. "I was wrong about how I treated you when you first showed up. It was a shock, seeing your face again. It messed with me in ways I didn't know how to handle. I didn't know how to separate you from her, how to see you as your own person instead of some sick reminder of what I'd lost."
His eyes lingered on her face in a way that made her skin feel too tight. "But you were right. You're not the woman I knew. I can accept that now, let that go." He paused, swallowing hard. "Doesn't mean you're not a hell of a person in your own right. You are. Brave as anyone on the team, stronger than you even know. You've carved a place here when most would've folded under the weight of it all."
Her throat felt tight, her eyes aching with emotion she didn’t want to shed at his unexpected kindness. The way he was looking at her now was something she didn’t quite have the words for. Like she mattered — not as a replacement or a consolation prize, but as herself. No one had ever had ever made her feel like her existence was something worth celebrating. Not here, not even back in her own world. She had never really had that kind of raw intimacy.
They'd reached her building, but neither of them moved toward the door. Something was shifting between them, some invisible barrier finally cracking after weeks of careful distance. The air felt charged and she found herself leaning slightly toward him without conscious thought.
"Goodnight," he murmured finally, but he didn't step back, didn't create the space that politeness demanded. He just stood there, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes again, close enough that the air between them felt nonexistent.
She nodded faintly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Goodnight, Bucky."
She turned toward her building, fishing for her keys with trembling fingers, hyperaware of his presence behind her. She could feel him watching, could sense his reluctance to leave even as she slipped her key into the lock. The door opened with a soft click, and she stepped inside, letting it close between them like a barrier she wasn't sure she wanted.
She leaned against the cool wood, pressing her palms flat against its surface as her heart pounded wildly. Through the thin door, she could hear his footsteps, slow and reluctant as he finally began to walk away.
She thought of the thing he had said. Of the look in his eyes when he admitted he was wrong, the careful way he'd said her name like it was something precious. Of how close he had been to her, how much she actually wanted to close that final distance herself, to see what would happen if she stopped running from the pull she felt toward him.
Every nerve in her body screamed against the door. Go after him.
Her breath caught, and before she could talk herself down, before fear could win another mental battle, she spun and threw the door open, bursting back out into the cool night air.
"Bucky!" she called, her voice sharp in the silence of the night.
He was halfway down the block, his broad shoulders tense. He stopped at the sound of her voice, turning around quickly. Confusion was etched in his features, his brow furrowed like he couldn't quite believe she'd called his name. "What—?"
She didn't let him finish. Didn't let herself think about consequences, what fate might be, or the weight of the face she wore. She closed the distance in a rush, her feet carrying her forward before her brain could catch up.
When she reached him, she grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands and pulled him down into a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.
For a heartbeat, everything went still. The world reduced to the warmth of his lips against hers, the sharp intake of his breath when she grabbed him, the way his hands came up instinctively to steady her even as shock overcame him. His lips were softer than she'd expected, slightly chapped from the night air. He tasted like coffee and something uniquely him that made her head spin.
Then, something in him seemed to break, or maybe rebuild, and he was kissing her back with a desperation that matched her own, his arms wrapping around her like he could anchor them both to this moment.
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but him. The way his lips moved against hers like he'd been starving for this, aching for this, the kiss deepening as if every second they'd spent apart had led them inexorably here. His flesh hand slid up her back, fingers trembling as they tangled in her hair, holding her close like he was terrified she might dissolve if he let go.
The kiss was everything and nothing like she'd expected. It was grief and hope in equal measure, of years of longing compressed into a single moment of reckless courage. When his thumb traced the line of her jaw with heartbreaking gentleness, she shivered against him, her own hands fisting tighter in his jacket in case she lost her footing.
When she finally pulled back for air, gasping as though she'd surfaced from deep water, their foreheads came to rest together naturally. Her eyes fluttered closed, focusing on nothing but the sound of their uneven breathing mixing in the warm night air.
"Bucky..." his name fell from her lips like a prayer, trembling and broken, carrying more weight than she realized.
He searched her face in the dim glow of the streetlight, blue eyes heavy with a thousand emotions she wished she could name. "You shouldn't have done that," he rasped, though his thumb brushed against her cheekbone like he couldn't stop touching her, like contact was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"I know," she whispered, her lips still tingling from the press of his, still close enough that her words brushed against his mouth. "But I couldn't stop myself. I…wanted to."
He sighed, his hands still shaking slightly against her face as he warred between resistance and surrender. She could see the battle playing out behind his eyes— the fear of the unknown, the desire she had guessed correctly that he had for her. Then, like a dam finally giving way, he kissed her again. It was softer this time but somehow more devastating, like he wanted to memorize every second, every sensation shared.
"I can't be her," she said, the words coming from some deep, honest place she'd been trying to keep locked away. "I won't even try. But I can be me. And if that's enough—if I'm enough—then maybe we can figure out what this is together."
For a long moment, he just stared at her, blue eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned his hand palm-up beneath hers and laced their fingers together.
"You're not her," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You're you. All the best qualities she had, and all new ones too. And you're..." He shook his head, like words weren't adequate. "You're everything I never thought I'd get to want again."
The confession hung between them, raw and honest and terrifying in its simplicity. She felt tears prick at her eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her like she was some kind of miracle he didn't deserve.
"I'm scared," she admitted, the words barely a whisper.
"So am I," he said, thumb tracing over her knuckles with infinite gentleness. "Terrified, actually. But I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of living without trying."
Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, seemingly threatening to bruise itself on bone. When they broke apart again, she found the courage to voice the question that had been burning in her chest since the moment their lips first met.
"Do you..." she began, then stopped, swallowing down the fear of rejection lodging in her throat. "Do you want to come inside?"
The question hung between them, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of them like a physical force. She could see him processing it, and could watch the implications settle into his expression. The recognition that crossing this threshold would change everything between them, that there would be no going back to careful distance and polite restraint.
For a second, his lips parted in surprise, like he hadn't expected her to ask, hadn't dared hope she might want anything at all. A flicker of hesitation crossed his features too, some last wall of self-control holding on, some final attempt at defending his heart from possible pain.
But then he smiled, small and crooked and devastatingly real, the kind of smile she’d seen in those photographs on his dresser. It transformed his entire face, erasing years of careful control and revealing the man underneath—vulnerable and utterly human.
"Yes," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion he'd stopped trying to hide. His eyes stayed locked on hers. "God, yes. I'd like that."
The first time he stayed at her place for longer than a few hours, it was purely practical. A late mission briefing had run until almost one in the morning, and by the time they'd walked back to her building, the idea of him trekking across the city to the Tower again seemed ridiculous.
"You could stay," she'd offered, trying to keep her voice casual. "If you want. I mean, if you want.”
He'd looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
But when she'd emerged from her bedroom the next morning, she'd found him fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the couch with his shoes already on, looking like he was poised to bolt at the first sign that he'd overstayed his welcome.
"You don't have to leave," she'd said softly, padding into the kitchen to start coffee. "I was going to make breakfast."
The smile that had crossed his face then was small but genuine, touched with something that looked like relief. "I'd like that."
It became their routine. Slowly, carefully, they began to build something new between them. Coffee in the mornings when he stayed over, quiet dinners when he didn't. He started leaving small things at her apartment—a spare jacket draped over her chair, a book he'd been reading on her nightstand, his favorite mug in her sink.
She began to learn the smaller intimacies of him. How he took his coffee (black, two sugars). The way he unconsciously positioned himself between her and any potential threat whenever he was in proximity to her, even in the safety of her living room. How he slept, on his back with his arms crossed, like he was still ready to fight at all times. The first time she'd woken to find him having a nightmare, thrashing and muttering in what sounded like Russian, she'd touched his shoulder gently and whispered his name until he surfaced, eyes wild and unfocused until they found her face.
"Sorry," he'd rasped, running a shaking hand through his hair. "I should go—"
"Stay," she'd said firmly, surprising them both with the strength in her voice. "Please. Just... stay."
He'd looked at her like she'd just offered him water in a desert, and when she'd opened her arms, he'd come to her like a man drowning.
They were careful with each other in those early weeks, polite almost to a fault. He would ask before kissing her, as if each touch needed explicit permission. He would check in constantly—was this okay, was she comfortable, did she need space? It was sweet and maddening in equal measure, this delicate dance around each other's damage.
The first time they made love, it was nothing like she'd expected.
It had been building for weeks. Lingering glances, touches that lasted a heartbeat too long, the way he'd started looking at her like she was something he wanted to devour slowly. When he'd kissed her that night, there had been something different in it, a heat that made her toes curl and her pulse race.
"Are you sure?" he'd asked against her lips, even as his hands mapped the curve of her waist with trembling reverence.
"I'm sure," she'd whispered back, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
He'd been achingly gentle, worshipful almost, like he couldn't quite believe she was real. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss something that set her nerves on fire. When he'd moved inside her for the first time, his eyes had never left her face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any indication that she wanted to stop.
"Okay?" he'd breathed, voice rough with desire.
"Perfect," she'd managed, pulling him down for another kiss.
Afterward, they'd lain tangled together in the aftermath, her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers had traced absent patterns on her bare shoulder, and she'd felt more at peace than she had since arriving in this universe.
"I’m falling in love you," she'd said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
She'd felt him go still beneath her, tension creeping into his muscles, and for a moment she'd regretted the admission. Too soon, too much, too—
"I am too," he'd whispered back, voice thick with emotion. "I think I already am."
"Does it ever feel weird?"
Bucky's eyebrows drew together in a lazy frown, his arms folding behind his head with deliberate ease. The movement made every muscle in his arms and shoulders shift and flex beneath his skin, drawing her gaze like a magnet whether she wanted to look or not. The man was carved from marble by some Renaissance master and had the audacity to act like he didn't know it.
"Does what feel weird?" he asked, that knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he settled deeper into her pillows like he'd been born there, like this was exactly where he belonged.
She caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror as she rolled her eyes, taking in the utterly shameless picture he made. He was sprawled against her headboard without a care in the world, gloriously naked under the rumpled white sheets, his metal arm catching the golden late-afternoon light streaming through her curtains. Just twenty minutes ago, that same arm had been wrapped around her waist like a steel band, anchoring her against him as he moved inside her with enough intensity to make the bed frame knock against the wall in a rhythm that would probably have her neighbors giving her knowing looks for weeks. His mouth had been everywhere—her throat, her shoulders, that spot behind her ear that made her lose her mind—like he'd been starving for her touch for decades instead of just the few hours they'd been apart.
Now he was lounging there like some kind of satisfied cat, smug as sin, and the casual confidence of it made her want to throw something at him.
"You know exactly what I mean," she muttered, turning off the faucet and reaching for the hand towel. "This. Us. Dating. Do you ever just... stop and think about how surreal this whole thing is?"
Bucky's tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, a gesture so unconscious and yet so devastatingly attractive that she had to grip the marble countertop to keep herself steady. His gaze made a slow, deliberate journey down the length of her bare legs before traveling back up to meet her eyes in the mirror.
"Surreal?" His voice carried that rough, just-fucked quality that never failed to make her knees weak. "We've been together four months, sweetheart, and you're just now having this existential crisis?"
"Bucky," she groaned, letting her head fall back in exasperation. "Answer the damn question. None of this deflecting bullshit you pull when you don't want to have a real conversation."
The laugh that rumbled up from his chest was low and warm, the kind of sound that had become as essential to her as breathing. It was a rare gift, that laugh, something he saved only for her and the handful of people who'd earned their way past his defenses. Around the team, he was still every inch the Winter Soldier — stoic and sharp-edged. But here, in the sanctuary of her apartment, he transformed into something softer. Something infinitely more dangerous to her heart.
He was now the kind of man who teased her mercilessly and kissed her like she was solace personified, who whispered endearments in three different languages against her skin, who called her ‘baby’ when he knelt between her legs in a voice so rough with emotion it made her toes curl and her pulse stutter.
"No," he said finally, his voice gentling in that way that always managed to steal the breath from her lungs. He sat up straighter as she padded back toward the bed, the sheet pooling around his waist. His expression shifted into something tender that made her bite back a smile. "Doesn't feel weird. Not even a little bit strange."
She snorted softly, climbing onto the mattress and settling herself in his lap with practiced ease, her legs bracketing his hips. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, still mussed from her earlier attention, and he leaned into her touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Oh, sure," she said, unable to keep the affection out of her voice despite her attempt at sarcasm. "Inevitable, was it? You make it sound like I never stood a chance against your devastating charm."
"You didn't," he said with that wicked glint in his eyes that she'd learned meant trouble, dipping his head to press his lips against the curve of her neck. She couldn't quite suppress the giggle that bubbled up as his stubble scraped against her sensitive skin, her body automatically arching into him as his hands found their familiar place on her hips.
"Wasn't just charm, baby," he murmured against her throat, his voice dropping to that intimate register that was for her alone. "It's fate. You and me — we would find each other every time, in every universe, in every lifetime. Doesn't matter what world we're in or what circumstances try to keep us apart."
Her heart clenched tight in her chest, swelling with an emotion too big for words. He said it like gospel truth, like he would bet his soul on the certainty of it. Once, she might have rolled her eyes at the romantic optimism, especially coming from a man stalked around the Tower like he was personally offended by the existence of sunlight. But he'd worn down her cynicism with the quiet conviction behind his words, with the way he looked at her like she was something miraculous he'd never expected to find.
She'd seen that same look of resigned acceptance on Sam's face the first time Bucky had made this proclamation in front of him. Wilson had gagged dramatically and muttered something about "literal star-crossed lovers," but there had been genuine fondness in his eyes, a relief that his friend had found something worth believing in again.
She pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips, grinning when he immediately chased after it like he couldn't bear to let the contact end. "I love you too, James Barnes. Even when you're being mushier than a teenage girl."
He groaned, though the expression of mock-offense was completely undermined by the smile threatening to split his face in half. "I love you too, sweetheart. But I swear to God, if you ever call me mushy again..." His threat trailed off as his hand slid up the curve of her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades to pull her impossibly closer.
"What?" she challenged, her pulse quickening as she felt him stirring to life beneath her. "What are you going to do about it?"
Instead of answering, he showed her, rolling them in one fluid, powerful motion that left her breathless and pinned beneath him. The afternoon light painted golden stripes across his skin, highlighting every ridge of muscle, every scar that she had come to love.
"We have dinner with Sam and Sarah tonight," she managed to gasp out between the kisses he was pressing to her jaw, though her resolve was already crumbling like a house of cards. "We were late last time, and Sarah will never let us hear the end of it if we're a no-show."
"Then," he whispered against her lips, his mouth moving over hers with the kind of focused intensity that made rational thought impossible, "they can wait a little longer."
His kiss swallowed whatever protest she might have made, his tongue sliding against hers with practiced ease, his hands mapping her body like he was trying to memorize every inch of her skin. Time seemed to slow and stretch, the outside world fading away until there was nothing but the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he whispered her name like a prayer against her lips.
Later, much later, as they lay tangled together in the golden aftermath, she would think about his words. About fate and inevitability and the way some people were simply meant to find each other, no matter how impossible the odds.
And she would realize that he was right. In every universe, in every timeline, in every possible version of their story, she would choose him. Again and again and again.
The thought should have terrified her, this cosmic certainty, this love that transcended reality itself. Instead, it felt like coming home. Like finding the missing piece of herself she hadn't even known was lost.
She curled closer to him, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Outside, the city hummed with life, but here in this moment, wrapped in his arms, she felt like they were the only two people in the world.
And maybe, she thought to herself, that was enough. Maybe it was everything.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, contains smut, angsty, hurt no comfort (men aint shit), pregnancy, graphic descriptions of being burned, witchcraft and religious themes, blasphemy, yearning, touch starved bucky, jealous bucky, semi-unrequited, masturbation, oral (m receiving), breeding kink, size kink, mating press mentioned :tongue:, pet names: "little dove" "little angel"
word count: 14.2k
masterlist
a/n: bucky is... lowkey a freak and can't handle feelings. their speech may be inaccurate for the time period (especially during the smut scenes) but i tried my best. please excuse me for errors. dividers
synopsis:
Bucky couldn’t understand it. How could a man like him, one who never believed in love, find himself undone by you? He’d scarcely spoken to you, barely exchanged more than a few passing words, yet his heart beat only for your name.
He told himself it had to be witchcraft. What else could make a man lose sleep, lose reason, lose himself entirely to the thought of a woman he could never have?
And if you truly were a witch, if this torment was your doing… then there was only one way to end it...
and that's with fire.
Bucky knew not what had come over him. His heart, once so steady and so sure, was no shaken up like a trembling leaf astray in the wind. Each morning, he prayed for clarity. Each night, he begged for deliverance. Yet still, his thoughts returned to you.
He saw you everywhere. In the market. At the well.
Even when you were gone, he could not escape you. A glimpse of another woman’s hair that slightly reassembled yours made his breath catch in his throat—only for them to turn and his heart falls hollow when he realizes it was not you.
When you were near, it’s like the world around him fell quiet. His eyes would follow your hands, the way your smile softened and the wrinkles around your eyes curled up happily. He would listen, just to hear your voice, even if you spoke only a few plain words, “thank you,” or “good day.”
It was enough to completely undo him.
You didn’t speak to him often. Bucky was just another man in the town of Salem. He was quiet, hard working, and unremarkable.
You, on the other hand, seemed to belong just about everywhere. People smiled when you passed. You had plenty of friends who adored you. Just one little laugh of yours was enough to draw other people in.
Even his friend Steve had once mentioned how pleasant you were.
He tried not to think of you, but it was useless. You were in his head from the moment he woke to the moment he laid down at night. It made no sense. You both had hardly spoke, your paths rarely crossed, and yet you had a hold on him stronger than any prayer could possibly break.
So, how is that you—someone he barely knew—managed to capture his cold and concrete hard with such fragile and gentle hands?
It wasn’t natural. It just simply couldn’t be.
And that thought alone lingered in his chest like a damn sin.
Perhaps, you had bewitched him.
The thought was foolish, he knew. Just the ramblings of a man too long starved of warmth, mistaking kindness for spellwork. But still, with talk of necromancy spreading through Salem, was it so wrong for his suspicions to linger?
He sat alone that afternoon, on a bench near the meeting house. Reading, or trying to read, the worn pages of his Bible. The autumn wind nudged the corners of the paper gently, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through town and to his nostrils.
It should’ve been a peaceful afternoon. It would’ve been, had it not been for the sound of your footsteps approaching.
Don’t look.
Don’t even breathe her way.
He felt your presence before you even spoke. The smoke and pine that had once filled his senses were now replaced by you. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the book, knuckles going white as his heart started to beat faster.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted, voice soft as ever.
Don’t look. Don’t look up.
Bucky gave you a small nod, his eyes fixed on the page he hadn’t read a single word of. “Miss,” he muttered, hoping the clipped tone would send you on your way.
But you didn’t leave.
“May I have a seat?” you asked suddenly, your voice polite.
He finally looked up, and it ruined him. The sunlight caught your hair just so, shining like a halo, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. This must be another one of your hidden spells—if you truly were a witch, that is.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into some sense.
“If you wish,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He moved a little, not enough to be inviting, but enough to give you space.
It was as though every hint he tried to subtly give, every small attempt to keep you away, you ignored. Or worse, you had seen straight through him. It was as if you had slipped inside his mind for the truth—that he wanted you close.
You read his thoughts. Surely, you did.
And what kind of power could do that, if not witchcraft?
You folded your hands neatly in your lap, glancing towards the path. “It’s a fine day,” you brought up. “The chill hasn’t set in yet.”
He grunted. “Aye.”
You smiled faintly, unbothered by his shortness. “You always sit here, don’t you? Reading the same…” you glanced down at the Bible in his hands, “…book over and over again.”
Bucky forced his gaze to stay on the page. “There’s comfort in familiar things,” he muttered so low, as if he was speaking to himself.
“… and yet, you never seem comforted.”
As though pulled by some unseen force, his head lifted. Your eyes caught his briefly, and it took everything in him to not falter under your gaze. It felt as though you could see straight through him. His heart pounded so loud in his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach for you. He hated the weakness of it. He hated the vulnerability that came with simply looking at you.
“I’m fine as I am.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look it.”
He tightened his grip on the Bible, forcing himself to look away, as painful as it was. “You ought not concern yourself with me, miss.”
“I wasn’t concerned,” you said lightly, your voice warm. “Only curious.”
That nearly made him laugh, a bitter and choked sound that didn’t escape his chest. Curious—that was the word for it, wasn’t it? He had been curious once too, until that curiosity grew into something far worse. Until it grew into a fever that burned him from the inside out. A sickness that looked too much like desire—like obsession.
“Your friend is Mr. Rogers, isn’t he?” you asked suddenly, soft and curious.
Bucky froze. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, though the words had long since lost their shape and meaning. The sound of Steve’s name rolling from your lips was like a sharp knife twisting deep in his chest.
He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Aye. Steve Rogers.”
You smiled, the corners of your mouth softening. It made him sick.
“He’s kind. Always polite.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s that.”
“He helped me with some firewood last week,” you continued, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to see—the way his knuckles whitened around the book. “He’s a good man.”
He let out a deep breath. “Aye, he is.”
You glanced at him then, eyes curious. “You don’t like to hear me speak of him?”
So, now you noticed his hints. It almost felt like you were taunting him.
“You speak freely of any man you wish,” he said, though his voice was rough and dark.
He told himself it was nothing—just his foolish imagination again. And yet, the thoughts took hold, crawling through his mind like poison ivy. What if you tried your spell on his dearest friend too?
Would Steve start to see you the way he did? Would his friend’s steady, good heart falter at your smile, the same way his own did? But then again—what if it wasn’t a spell at all? You had spoken to Steve more than you had ever spoken to him. Perhaps Steve was already fond of you, no magic involved.
Bucky didn’t know which thought tormented him more—that you bewitched his friend…
…or that you didn’t need to.
“Best mind yourself around Steve,” Bucky said at last. “Women seem to take kindly to him.”
You paused and blinked at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Are you warning me, Mr. Barnes?”
He didn’t look at you, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “Just stating the truth.”
You tilted your head, and another soft laugh escaped your lips. His stomach churned. “You make it sound as though you speak from experience.”
“Steve’s been charming folks since we were boys,” he muttered, turning a page he didn’t even read. “It’s in his nature.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “And what about you, then?”
That caught him off guard. He looked up to meet your face. “Me?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Surely you’ve someone who’s caught your fancy? A sweetheart waiting for you after prayer?”
There was certainty in your voice, but Bucky was convinced you were toying with him — wickedly so.
“No,” he said, voice tight as he looked down again, pretending to focus on the words before him. “No one waits for me.”
“None at all?” you seemed amused. “A man like you?”
“A man like me doesn’t keep company easily.”
You laughed again. “I find that hard to believe.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. The only reason he had no sweetheart was because you forced your way in and had taken the place of one in his heart. That every woman he met felt like a poor imitation of you.
“I didn’t mean to offense,” you said after a moment, voice going gentle. “I only meant… well, you seem a decent man, Mr. Barnes. Surely someone must’ve noticed.”
“You speak as though you know me,” he said, his voice rough and harsher than he intended.
Your face shifted slightly. At first, a flicker of surprise, then hurt. You blinked, your mouth parting slightly, yet no words came out. The sight of you like this twisted something unpleasant in his chest.
“I… I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Bucky’s heart clenched. He should’ve felt relief, should’ve been glad to see you retreat. Maybe then you’ll get up and leave him alone. But instead, he found himself staring at you, taking in the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in shame.
There was something terrible in it—how part of him liked seeing you this way. Witches weren’t supposed to have hearts, so he took this as a sign of you being human.
“I spoke unkindly,” he said. “Forgive me.”
You looked at him then, your expression softening. A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and forgiving.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Barnes,” you reassured softly. “We all speak in haste sometimes.”
Your voice was so warm and inviting, it struck him straight through the chest. You shouldn’t have sounded so kind, not after the way he had spoken to you. Not after the spiteful thoughts he harbored.
He wanted to look away, but he simply couldn’t. The sunlight caught in your eyes and your smile was breathtaking. He almost believed you truly were what everyone claimed—something otherworldly. Too bright and too good.
He swallowed hard, shutting the Bible in his lap. “I should be getting on,” he announced.
You nodded, rising from the bench, your skirt brushing lightly against his boot. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Barnes.”
When you disappeared around the corner, he let out a low exhale and ran a hand over his face. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts a tangled mess. To you, that conversation might’ve been unimportant—just a passing exchange on a quiet afternoon.
But to him, it was everything.
If you were a witch, you’d done your work well.
And if you weren’t… God help him.
That night, Bucky knelt beside his bed, the single candle burning low. The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.
“Lord,” he murmured, voice raspy, “forgive me my thoughts. Forgive me for the weakness in my heart.”
He paused, swallowing hard. He could still hear your voice in his mind, the soft way you spoke his name.
“I know not what manner of spell she’s cast,” he continued under his breath, “but I ask You, break it. Deliver me from it.”
But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t deliverance that came. It was you.
He saw you as you’d looked on the bench, sunlight in your hair, the soft smile tugging at your plump lips. He remembered how your eyes, how they lit up when you spoke to him, and he couldn’t help but picture how’d they look if they were to roll back in pure, unadulterated bliss.
He lay down at last, turning onto his side, the sheets rough against his skin. Sleep should have come easily, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw you again.
Your laughter. Your voice. It was all like a haunting song, sweet and merciless.
He turned over again, exhaling through his nose as frustration began to boil. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. It was useless. The harder he tried not to think of you, the clearer your face became.
“Stop,” he whispered to the empty and dark room. “Enough.”
But his thoughts didn’t listen, and his body didn’t either.
Bucky palmed himself through the blanket, grasping himself through thin fabric. His dick was already hard and full—he tried to convince himself it was due to the coolness of the autumn breeze that whispered through the cracks of his home, but even he knew better.
He shuddered as he felt his hard length throb against his palm. He was already leaking, staining his blanket with sin.
“Please… forgive me,” he muttered quietly as he started to stroke himself slowly.
His mind couldn’t help but conjure up a picture of you, your hands—soft and warm despite him never holding them—wrapped around him. He imagined your delicate fingers exploring his length with curiosity. He pictured you biting your lip once you discovered how big he was, how hard.
As he lost himself in the fantasy, his strokes became faster, more urgent. He squeezed himself through the blanket harder until he had enough. He needed to touch himself bare. His hand crept underneath the blanket and he allowed his thumb to swirl around the leaking tip.
He was so lost in the image that he hadn’t realized he started to mutter your name under his breath, a litany of desperate pleas and fervent prayers.
“This is a sin,” he rasped as his hips started to thrust up into his own hand as he chased for release. “This is… is so vulgar…”
Even as his conscience screamed that this was utterly wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His hands kept moving, stroking, squeezing as if possessed by a will of its own—as if he was cursed under a spell.
Each thrust of his hips, each clench of his fist around his sensitive flesh, was accompanied by a surge of self-loathing.
“I’m disgusting, touching myself like this…” his breathing grew ragged as his hand turned into a blur of motion. “It’s not enough—it’s never enough, is it? I can’t… can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her…” each word was a confession, a condemnation, a desperate cry that tore straight from his throat.
His whole body tensed, his muscles tightening as his cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand. He was so close. It was wrong, so wrong, but God—he needed it. He needed to cum. He needed to paint himself in the warm slick of his own release, and he needed to do it to the thought of you.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and despite his words, his body was not remorseful in the slightest. “I’m so sorry, Lord. But I can’t… I need…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as he finally, blessedly, found his release.
He dipped his head back against the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he let out a choked cry in pleasure. He felt the hot, sticky proof of his sin coating his fingers. With a shaky breath, he looked down—coming face to face with the mess he’d made. He watched the way his seed had splattered across his abdomen, and he felt a wave of shame wash over him.
But even as he recoiled from the physical evidence of his weakness, his mind was already drifting back to you.
Bucky’s hand—still painted with his own release—drifted up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the musky scent of his own cum. It was wrong. God help him, it was so wrong. And yet, that wrongness only seemed to pull him deeper. He wanted to believe it was your presence that haunted him. He imagined marking himself with your scent, to imagine that it was your essence he carried on his skin, in his hair, in his lungs.
He laid back, the candle burned to nothing as the room swallowed in shadow. His heartbeat finally slowed, but the ache inside him did not.
The guilt sat heavy in his chest. He had sinned, that much he knew. It was all your fault.
And yet, he wanted to see you again.
The next morning came gray and slow. Bucky rose before the sun had fully climbed, though he had hardly slept.
He went about his morning ritual—washing his face with cold water, buttoning his shirt, muttering a quiet prayer that slowly started to lose its meaning. When he stepped outside, the world seemed painfully bright. The market was already stirring—townsfolk trading bread, firewood, and gossip.
Then, his eyes landed on you.
You stood by the well, the morning light touching your hair, the same beautiful smile gracing your lips. But you weren’t alone.
Steve was beside you—his oldest friend, his steadfast companion since boyhood—and he was laughing at something you had just said.
Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.
Steve’s hand brushed lightly against your arm as he passed you a small basket, and though it was an innocent gesture, Bucky’s stomach churned all the same.
He tore his gaze away and forced his boots to move. He wove through the market, pretending to study the stalls, the apples piled in a wooden crate, the neat stacks of folded linen. He nodded to a few familiar faces, though their words slipped past him.
His body was moving, but his mind refused to stay still.
Every few breaths, his eyes wandered back to where you stood beside Steve. Yesterday afternoon, he believed that the conversation you had with him was special—but as he stood there, watching how you two spoke so easily, he felt like he was crumbling.
He tried to focus on anything else. The smell of bread, the chatter of merchants, the scraping sounds of wagon wheels on dirt. But no matter how hard he tried, there you were—like a flame drawing him near even as he knew it would burn him.
And Steve…
Good, honest Steve.
Was it just him, or had his friend looked at anyone else that way? That boyish smile, the tilt of his head when you spoke. It was as if something unseen had already taken hold of him.
Bucky’s throat went dry as the thought came to him.
Had you cast your spell on him, too?
It made sense. Of course it did. Witches didn’t strike just once—they tempted, they lured, they spread their evil wickedness like smoke. He had been foolish to think himself the only victim.
He gripped the edge of the stall so tightly that the wood creaked beneath his hand. The merchant gave him a weary glance, but Bucky didn’t see it. All he could see was Steve leaning closer to you. All he could hear was your laughter, soft and bright like a bell.
She’s ensnared him, just as she’s ensnared me.
His feet began to move before he could stop himself. It wasn’t reason that guided him. One step, then another until he approached the both of you, his pulse thundering in his ears.
You turned your head, noticing him first.
“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted brightly, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that should’ve warmed him, but only made the blood in his veins run hotter.
He stopped before you, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Miss.”
Then, he turned to Steve. “Rogers. A word?”
Steve raised a brow, caught off guard by the tone. “Now?”
Bucky only gave him a short and stiff nod. “Now.”
You looked between them, your face confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”
Bucky’s jaw worked as if he might answer, but he didn’t trust his tongue. He only briefly glanced your way before turning on his heel.
Steve hesitated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised to you softly before following Bucky towards the edge of the square.
Bucky didn’t speak until they were out of your hearing range. They stood behind the meeting house where the noise of the market lowered to a hum. Steve barely had time to catch his breath before Bucky turned on him.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Steve frowned. “I—what?”
“You’ve not been feeling strange, have you? Lightheaded? Restless?” Bucky’s question came out fast. “You’ve been sleeping well? Eating proper?”
Steve blinked, a bewildered smile forming at his lips. “Buck, what are you on about?”
Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just answer me.”
“I’m fine,” Steve said slowly, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Bucky’s eyes darted back towards the square, towards you where you stood by the apples—God forbid you curse them too—then back to Steve.
“You’ve been spending time with her,” he said quietly. “You ought to be careful.”
Steve’s confusion only deepened. “Careful?” he huffed a soft laugh. “Buck, she’s hardly dangerous. She was only telling me about the sermon this Sunday—”
"And you believe that?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed a little as he leaned closer. “What’s gotten into you?”
Bucky didn’t answer. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms. How could he tell Steve the truth? That he thought you were the cause of every restless night, every unholy thought that had taken its root in his mind and body.
“Just… watch yourself, Steve” he said at last.
Steve let out a sigh, resting a heavy palm on his shoulder. “You’re worrying over nothing,” he said gently. “You should get some rest.”
The sun had long begun its descent.
Bucky walked along the worn dirt path that curved through the field, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as the chill dusk brushed against his skin. He told himself the walk was for peace—a way to clear his mind and the ache from his chest. But no length of solitude could quiet the thoughts that plagued him.
They all came back to you.
How could you do this? A spell cast in secret—on him, on Steve, perhaps the whole town if no one was careful. Because the alternative, that it was simply his own heart betraying him, was too unbearable to name.
He walked for a while longer. And there you were.
You stood by the wooden fence that lined the greenery, a basket in your arms, gathering the last of the wildflowers that grew by the path. Alone, your shawl drawn close against the air.
He could turn back now, vanish before you noticed. But something stronger pulled him forward.
“Miss,” he greeted roughly.
You turned at the sound, surprise shifting into a soft smile. “Mr. Barnes,” you greeted with a gentle tone. “You walk often this time of evening?”
He nodded. “Clears the mind.” But his mind was not clear at all.
You tilted your head slightly, that curious look in your eyes. “And has it worked?”
He hesitated, then let out a dry breath. “Not yet.”
You brought a hand to your mouth and laughed quietly, the same way you had with Steve. The sound was small, but bright against the gathering dark.
Bucky looked away, jaw clenching. “You ought not to be out here alone,” he murmured. “The woods grow dark quick. folk talk of strange things, these nights.”
Your smile wavered, and although he wasn’t looking anymore, you still stared at his face. “Do you believe in such talk?”
“I believe something’s amiss. Something that makes good men lose their senses.”
“Good men…” your eyes softened, one hand rising to your chin in thought. “Such as you and Mr. Rogers?”
He inhaled slowly through his nose, not trusting his tongue. “I think…” he started quietly. “I think I must be going.”
You took a step closer before he could turn away. “Wait,” you protested softly. “Please. I’d like to talk.”
He should have walked off. He should’ve muttered a polite farewell and gone home to pray for forgiveness. But something in your tone, the way you pleaded for him, it hollowed out all his resolve.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.
“You shouldn’t walk alone in this hour,” he pointed out gruffly. “I suppose I’ll see you home.”
You smiled then, gentle and genuine. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”
He gave you a small nod, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s no trouble,” though his voice betrayed him—it was all the trouble.
You both began walking. The path stretched before you, narrow and worn from passing feet. The lantern light from nearby homes flickered dimly through the trees. Every few steps, your shoulder brushed against his arm, and each time it happened, his breath caught like he had been struck.
You were the first one to break the silence.
“You don’t seem the sort to keep to yourself, Mr. Barnes,” you started. “And yet I see you often alone.”
He gave a faint and humorless smile. “Perhaps I’m the sort that’s easier to keep away from than toward.”
You glanced at him, a slight pout on your lips. “I don’t find that to be true.”
He huffed out a quiet and dry chuckle. “Then you’d be the only one.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you say with a soft chuckle.
Bucky looked at you, his eyes watching your shawl slip just slightly from one shoulder.
He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away. “Folk talk too much in this town,” continued. “It’s easier to keep one’s name clean by keeping one’s distance.”
“Then they must talk a great deal of me!” you joked, but your smile didn’t quite each your eyes.
“Do they?” he frowned.
You shrugged. “A woman who keeps company with no husband, who laughs too loudly, who reads more than she sews—they’ll make their stories. It doesn’t matter what’s true.”
Bucky stopped mid-step, and you continued on before pausing as well, looking over your shoulder at him with a confused tilt of your head.
Guilt crept through his veins like cold water. He had thought wicked things of you. He had called you a witch—an enchantress. But hearing you now, so calm and painfully human, that belief began to crack.
Maybe you weren’t wicked.
Maybe all along you were just a woman—kind, bright, and far too good for his suspicion.
But still. What if this was part of your spell? What if your words were meant to draw pity from him, to pull him closer until he could no longer tell right from wrong?
His heart and mind warred, leaving his tongue caught somewhere in the middle.
“I’ve heard what they say,” he admitted quietly. “But… I don’t believe it.”
Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie.
You looked at him then, surprised. “You don’t?”
He didn’t say anything. His eyes were completely locked on yours. All he did was shook his head.
Then, you smiled. Honest and genuine.
“That makes me happy, Mr. Barnes.” you stepped ahead again, nodding your head towards the road. “Come,” you urged gently. “We’re nearly to my door.”
The two of you walked in silence after that, save for the rhythm of your steps and the soft creak of the basket you carried.
When you reached your cottage, you stopped at the gate, pushing it open with a small creak.
“Thank you for walking with me,” you smiled. “It was kind of you.”
Bucky nodded. “Of course,” but he didn’t move to leave. His hand rested on the post beside him. He wanted to bid you goodnight, but in all honesty, he did not want to go.
A faint crease formed between your brows. “Mr. Barnes?” you asked gently. “Is something the matter?”
He swallowed, forcing himself to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Only—” he stopped, uncertain what truth he could give that wouldn’t damn him.
You hesitated, turning your head to your house for just a second before looking back at him. “Would you like to come in?” you asked at last. Your voice was careful and hesitant, but still carried warmth as it always did.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at you, at the hand you rested on the latch, at the door just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t. A woman alone, the town full of watchful eyes…
It would be all it took to seal both your fates in gossip and ruin.
But just the thought of stepping away from you, of leaving you here, all alone and helpless. It felt painful.
“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, though it sounded less like refusal and more like a confession.
You smiled faintly. “Then I won’t press you.”
He bowed his head, his jaw clenched and his body stiff. “Good evening, Miss.”
“Good evening, Mr. Barnes.”
And as you turned, his eyes followed you. The faint lamplight from inside your cottage spilled out across the porch. Each step you took away from him was like a knife driving deeper in his chest—a torture method performed by you. Denying you felt like he was punishing himself.
“Wait.”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The door remained half open, warm light curling around you like an angel being welcomed into heaven. “Yes?”
He hadn’t meant to stop you, hadn’t meant to do anything at all, but the idea of you disappearing behind that door without another word ruined him.
“I—” he stopped, letting out a slow breath in an attempt to steady his heart. “Forgive me. It’s only… been some time since I’ve spoken so freely with anyone.”
“Then I’m glad you did,” you smiled. You turned, preparing to enter your home, but Bucky’s voice stopped you.
“May I come in?”
You turned back to him, face caught in surprise.
He stepped forward, praying he didn’t look like a desperate man aching for attention—but it was far too late for that. He stepped all the way up to the foot of your porch like a man torn between sin and salvation, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.
“Only for a moment,” he reassured, the lie slipping easy from his lips.
And when you finally nodded, stepping aside to grant him passage, it felt as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
“If you wish,” you murmured.
He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The scent of floral greeted him. The whole space was comforting, in a way that nearly unsettled him.
You moved quickly, fussing with the few things on the small table near the hearth. You straightened a stack of books, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting. It was pleasing to watch you scramble.
“Forgive the mess,” you said with a nervous little laugh, brushing your hands down the front of your dress. “I suppose I should’ve tidied up before inviting you in.”
Bucky nodded, setting his hat carefully on the edge of the table before lowering himself into a chair, watching you fuss about the room.
“You’re cute when you fret,” he said before he could think—before he could stop himself.
The words slipped out so naturally, that for a moment even he didn’t realize he had spoken them out loud. When you turned towards him, your eyes were wide, and his face and chest burned hot beneath the collar of his shirt.
“I—” he shifted in his heat. “I only meant… there’s no need to fuss, is all.”
But the damage was already done. You were smiling now, and his pulse jumped.
“Cute, am I?” you teased gently, folding your hands in front of you.
He dropped his gaze to his lap, fiddling with his hands. “It's just a word,” he mumbled.
He thought it’d grow uncomfortable from there, but what began as simple pleasantries—weather, town gossip, the harvest—turned into something comfortable, easier.
Every now and then you laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it did something terrible to Bucky’s chest. He found himself answering more freely than he’d meant to, forgetting the sin that had brought him here at all.
After a while, the candles burned low, the wax pooling near the base. You glanced toward the small basin tucked behind a curtain and let out a reluctant sigh.
“It grows late,” you announced, getting up with a groan. “I should bathe and call it a night.”
Bucky blinked, snapping himself out of whatever thought he was lost in. “Of course,” he agreed quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave—”
“Wait,” you interrupted, stepping towards him before he could reach for his hat. “You needn’t rush off.”
He froze.
You hesitated, suddenly aware of your own boldness. “It’s only… I’ve enjoyed our talk,” you admitted sheepishly. “If you don’t mind the wait, I’d like to continue once I’m done. Just a few minutes.”
Bucky’s throat felt dry, his pulse loud in his ears. Every reasonable thought told him to go—that it was improper, that the whispers would be endless if anyone saw him leave your home after dark.
And still, he sat back down, his hat untouched.
“If you wish,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
When you disappeared behind the curtain, the tension in the air seemed to close around him. The faint splash of water reached his ears, a sound that made the room feel too small and too warm.
Bucky sat rigid in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. His leg bounced restlessly, a nervous motion he couldn’t still. Every part of him screamed to leave, to do the decent, proper thing and walk out the door before his thoughts betrayed him again.
He should’ve done that from the start, and even then, he still didn’t move.
You were dangerous.
He pressed a hand to his knee, forcing it to still. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a fool.”
His eyes drifted towards the curtain again, to where your shadow moved softly beyond the light. He knew you were completely bare under there. Just one shift, one accidental slip, would expose you to him, vulnerable and raw.
“Goodness,” he muttered as his mind raced with images, each one more provocative than the last. He pictured your skin, glistening and wet from the bath. Your damp hair framing your face like a portrait of a water nymph.
He’s a coiled spring, wounding tighter and tighter with each passing second, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Bucky started to feel a growing tightness in his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing that had begun to distract him. But it was no use. His body, once again, was betraying him with his deepest, darkest desires.
And he was powerless to stop it.
He watched the curtain carefully, making sure you were still occupied with your bath. He allowed his hand to drift down to his lap as he cupped his heavy balls through the thick fabric of his pants.
He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself a slow, teasing squeeze. It was not enough—but it was a start. A small release of the pressure that’s building inside him.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you emerging from the bath, your skin flushed and rosy as water dripped down the valley between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, disappearing between your thighs.
He imagined you crawling to him, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face as you straddled his lap, as you take him into your own hand and…
This was bad. He was hard now, painfully so. He palmed himself through the fabric, strokes growing bolder and more insistent as his desire for you consumed him whole.
“I—I should go…” he grunted, hips bucking up into his hand to meet that delicious friction. “I… I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, Miss…”
“I’m almost finished, Mr. Barnes,” you called.
From behind the curtain came the faint sounds of movement—the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. Then you appeared again, composed and calm, your hair damp at the ends and your robe drawn neatly at your throat.
Bucky swallowed hard. You were the sight of temptation.
He pulled his hand away from his lap and rose at once, adjusting his stance and now unsure of what to do with his hands.
“I thought to take my leave, but—”
“I’m glad you stayed,” you interrupted, pleased.
His eyes couldn’t help but linger to your frame, the way the flimsy robe hugged your body in a way that was borderline inappropriate. He tried to force himself to look away, to meet your eyes at least, but he couldn’t.
“I shouldn’t impose,” he managed to say.
“You’re not,” you said. “It’s only talk, Mr. Barnes.”
“Talk,” he echoed.
You tilted your head, studying him from across the small room. The fire popped, breaking the silence, and before he could stop himself, Bucky took a slow, shy step forward.
You didn’t move away.
He told himself it was the candlelight playing tricks, that the warmth in your eyes wasn’t real, that it was some enchantment meant to draw him closer. But his body no longer listened to his reason. His heart beat hard in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was rough-edged.
“You’re…” he stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “You’re beautiful.”
You froze, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re kind to say so,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “And you, Mr. Barnes, you’re quite handsome yourself.”
“You… you think I’m handsome?” he asked in disbelief. “That… makes me so happy.”
He lifted a hand up before he could stop himself, his movement hesitant. His fingers hovered near your cheek, and you shuddered under his gentle touch.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he didn’t draw back. “I don’t know what comes over me when I look at you.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” you reassured as you had before.
You rest your palm against his hand, holding it steady against your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused, a testament to the hard life he’s lived. But it’s warm and strong, feeling a sense of safety and security in just a simple touch.
Bucky leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from your own. His head was spinning with your scent—the sweet aroma of your bath mingling with the unique fragrance of your skin. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted you in this very moment.
As if consumed by a powerful spirit, he closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that quickly ignited into something desperate. You sighed against his mouth, fingers curling around his wrist as you leaned into him.
You kissed him back like you knew that he was lost, utterly and completely.
His free hand came up to cup the back of your fragile neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of your hair as he deepened the kiss. He angled his head, lips moving over yours with a hunger that’s both gentle and urgent.
At this point, he no longer cared if it was a spell. His yearning for you burned too deep, too consuming to be reasoned with. Every shred of longing, every forbidden desire he had buried within himself seemed to rise to the surface, spilling into this single, perfect moment.
Consequences be damned. Prayers be damned.
And he knew he was done for the minute your body shifted against his, the damp fabric of your robe riding up your thigh as you pressed your leg against him. Whether it was intentional or not, it ruined him.
“Miss…” Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your bare skin against his throbbing, clothed erection made him shudder. “I… we shouldn’t—”
“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, his cock throbbing helplessly against your leg. “Do you find this… pleasurable?”
“No,” he grumbled—though it sounded more like a helpless plea. “Not pleasurable—not in the slightest… this—this is torture.”
His voice cracked as his hand wandered down from your cheek, to the curve of your waist hidden by the thin robe. His breath was trembling as though it hurt to speak.
“You’ve taken hold of me, Miss. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I walk through town and see nothing but you. I hear your voice in the wind, in the creak of every door… it’s as though God Himself has sent you in my mind to test me.”
He sucked in a shallow breath, his hand encircling your wrist and guiding it down to his throbbing erection. It pulsed in your hands. “I want to understand it. I want to see you and not lose myself. But I can’t. I can’t, and it’s driving me mad…”
“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Barnes,” you spoke softly, swallowing hard yet your hand didn’t move. “I apologize—”
“No apologies,” Bucky interrupted, letting out a ragged breath. “Just—touch me, please. I beg you.”
You were silent for a moment, and he was frightened that he might’ve scared you. But then, slowly, your hand started to move. Your fingers rubbed and stroked, tracing the large shape of him through the fabric.
He let out a sharp and ragged gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily into your touch—begging for more.
“That feels…” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his body surrendered to your touch. “That feels so good. Please, please don’t stop…”
Bucky’s body trembled with need, his hips rocking urgently into your palm as you continued to stroke and tease him through his straining pants. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh.
“I need… I need more. Please, I can’t…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as a shameful spurt of pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock, dampening the cloth.
You felt the wet spot spreading beneath your fingertips, the evidence of disgraceful arousal. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and curious—yet dark with desire.
“Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, your fingers still stroking, “you seem to be in quite a state. Perhaps you need help getting out of these trousers?”
“I—”
Without waiting for him to finish, you deftly unbuttoned his pants, fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged the fabric down over his hips. As his pants and undergarments peeled away, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, throbbing erection springing free.
“Oh,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his warm flesh. “Mr. Barnes… you’re—well, you’re big.”
“Squeeze it, my dear,” he breathed, body going stiff. “Please. Do not leave me too long, lest I—oh…!”
Bucky’s words died in his throat as you squeezed him gently. You marveled at the way his flesh pulsed in your grip—hot, hard, and heavy. You sunk to your knees before he could order you to, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin, and placed a soft kiss on the leaking tip.
He inhaled sharply, his fingers coming down to tangle in your hair as you lavish his aching cock with tender kisses. “Oh, mercy,” he moaned. “Y-you… you undo me.”
You let out a soft and amused hum, the sound vibrating against his dick. Your mouth parted as you took him in, your lips stretched taut around his thickness as you began to suck, tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock.
“Your mouth…!” he panted as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him.
“It’s… it’s incredible. Please don’t stop, please…” He groaned as his head fell back into pleasure. “Fuck—Lord, for-forgive… me…”
The words left him before he could catch them, shameful on his tongue. Bucky froze, breath ragged, a tremor running through him as the echo of his own voice filled the room.
Blasphemy.
He’d uttered blasphemy in a moment of weakness—of desire.
His throat tightened, his chest burning with guilt. He pressed a hand to his lips as if to seal them shut, to take the word back, but it was too late. How easily sin had found its way into him. How quick he was to forget the Lord’s name in favor of your warm mouth.
Bucky’s hips started to move on their own, rocking gently into the perfect suction of your lips. He was lost in a fog of lust, eyes hazy with desire and sin. He was drowning in the feel of your mouth around him, the way your tongue swirled and danced around his aching flesh.
He knew he should’ve felt guilty, that taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, but the pleasure was too delectable to stop.
His moans grew louder as your mouth worked his tender flesh. He could feel the pressure building, the coil of tension in his gut as his release approached. Just as he was ready to explode into your eager mouth, he suddenly pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly.
“Wait, Miss… stop—” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face a rictus of strain and effort. “We should… we should stop. This is… too much, too fast. This is wrong.” But despite his words, his hips involuntarily continued to twitch and jerk, seeking more of your warm and silky mouth.
You pulled back, your lips glistening with saliva and the first drops of his pre-cum. You looked up at him, eyes hazy with lust and confusion. “I.. I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, starting to rise to your feet. “I didn’t mean to… to push you too far.”
And as you move to stand, your robe slipped down, exposing your bare shoulder and the slight curve of your breast. The sight of your skin—exposed and bare—was Bucky’s undoing. With a strained groan and without a clear mind, his hands came up to grasp your shoulders, pulling you in and letting his lips connect to the soft skin of your neck.
You gasped. “M-Mr. Barnes!”
“Your skin… it’s perfect. Forgive me, Lord, for I am weak…” his hands slipped down your back, the damp fabric of your robe bunching under his touch as he tugged at it impatiently.
Even as he whispered prayers for forgiveness, his body refused to listen—driven by want, by need, by something he could not control.
His hand found the sash of your robe, tugging at it roughly and loosening the knot. The robe slipped down further, sleeves falling off your shoulders, your waist, until the garment pooled around your ankles.
He leveled to his knees, his lips trailing over the curve of your breasts, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin gently as his hands roamed all over your bare body greedily. Every movement felt like worship, each brush of his fingers a confession of how deeply you had crushed him.
Your hands tangled in his hair. “M-Mr. Barnes,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… I thought you wished to… end this?”
But Bucky was beyond the point of no return. He looked up at you—his eyes once vulnerable and confused—now dark and intense, the blue irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.
“I need you,” he growled. “I can’t stop. Not when I’ve seen the beauty of your naked skin, the feel of your soft flesh. I must have you—all of you, or I’ll die.”
Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you looked down at him. There was something dangerous in his eyes—an intensity that both frightened and drew you in. You could see the strain in him, the battle between restraint and surrender, and somehow, you wanted to be the one to unbind him from it.
“Yes,” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper, “yes, Mr. Barnes. Take me. Have me. I am yours.”
And just like that, something wild flashed in Bucky’s eyes—a feral, unrestrained joy.
In one desperate motion, he rose from the floor and gathered you into his arms, holding you close as though he had been starving for the feel of you. His steps carried a strange certainty, as if he already knew the way through your home, as if a stronger force was guiding him—his mind no longer his own.
When he reached the bed, he did not slow. He allowed you to fall back onto the mattress, crawling over you before you can even catch your breath. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him—body trembling with a mix of fear and hunger.
As Bucky settled between your thighs, you felt the hard and insistent press of his arousal against your bare pussy.
“Mr. Barnes,” you hesitated, swallowing hard. “Tell me… have you ever been with anyone before?” Your voice was soft, unsure. You could feel the raw, untempered heat of him, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed in a way that bordered on madness.
“I—no,” he managed, the word breaking rough in his throat. “I am pure. I’ve never…” He faltered, voice low with shame, as though admitting it were a sin in itself.
Your expression softened, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow.
“Are you certain, Mr. Barnes?” you asked quietly. “Certain you’d risk so much… with someone like me?”
“I would risk far worse,” he confessed, voice shaky. “If it meant feeling this… if it meant having you.”
You smiled as you leaned up, your lips meeting his in a soft and tender kiss. As your lips met, you whispered softly against his mouth.
“Give it to me, Mr. Barnes. Give me everything you have. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, around me. Consume me until there’s nothing left but the two of us and this moment.”
Bucky's eyes widened with hunger the minute your words reached his ears. With a hoarse groan, he moved forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss that stole the very breath from your lungs.
As he kissed you, he began to tear at his own clothing with urgency, buttons flying in his haste to divest himself of the barriers between them. He wrenched his shirt over his head, the fabric straining and then ripping as he tugged it off. His belt hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down his thighs.
“Need you,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat around me… to know you’re real and not some vision come to haunt me.”
“I’m not a vision, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his back. “I’m real.”
“That are you are,” he agreed huskily, grabbing his bare cock in his hands and pressing it up against your warm folds.
"Forgive me, Lord," he panted, his body shuddering as dick throbbed against your slit. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. But I cannot resist this temptation any longer. I must have her, must lose myself in her, or surely perish."
The words were a desperate, strangled prayer, a final appeal to divine mercy before he surrendered completely to the devil of his desire.
After his unholy prayer, he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a groan at the feel of your wet heat. You arched your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his swollen head caught.
“Have mercy, Mr. Barnes…” you whimpered, “please, be gentle—”
“I’ll try with all that’s left of me,” he grunted, already pushing past your entrance with a slow roll of his hips. “God help me, but I can’t swear to it.”
And after his unholy promises, he rolled his hips forward, pushing more of his thick length inside you, stretching you around him inch by excruciating inch. He tossed his head back in a moan as your tight, slick walls enveloped him.
“You’re… you’re so big!” you gasped, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can take it all… oh! Mercy, please—”
“You can do it,” Bucky encouraged, his voice almost hypnotic. “Every inch of me is going to fit inside you. I’ll make sure of it.”
His words were a sinful promise, a filthy incitement that only spurred him on.
“Breathe through it, my little dove. Breathe through the stretch, the burn, the pleasure. Take me inside you, all of me, every last bit of my aching, throbbing length. Let it reshape you, mold you… fuck, ruin you… for any other man.”
Bucky grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting them up slightly so he can drive his thick shaft deeper into your tight heat. He moved like a man possessed, moved like he no longer was in control of his own body.
“I can’t…” you whimpered helplessly. “Please, slow down! It’s too much… too fast!”
Your hips bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to accommodate the relentless invasion even as your body struggled to adjust to his considerable size.
But Bucky was a man lost in desire and lust that overwhelmed his last vestiges of control. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled.
“You say that, little dove…” he grunted, “yet your greedy little cunt is trying to swallow me whole. I can feel every bit of it—as if you’re begging for a good, honest man like me to fill you up.”
You sniffled under his crude words, yet it was something about his voice—raw and hungry—that made your body tremble with pleasure, walls fluttering around him.
“Ohhh, that’s it,” he groaned at the feeling.
He tightened his grip on your thighs, pushing them up and back as he leaned over you, his body nearly folding you in half.
He positioned your smooth legs over his shoulders, the back of your knees resting against his chest. In this new position, a sloppy mating press, he’s able to plunge into you even deeper.
“God…” his hips piston relentlessly, the slap of skin against skin filling the room as he took you in such a dirty position. “I want to fuck you and burn for it.”
You could only moan helplessly beneath him. Your hands clutched at his biceps, feeling his muscles as he moved over you—claiming you, owning you. You’ve never felt so utterly filled and defiled—nonetheless on a man’s cock.
It’s terrifying.
It’s exhilarating.
And yet, you want more.
“I want…” he growled, hands tightening around your waist as he fucked deeper into you. “I want to give you my child, little angel. I want to flood your womb with my seed. I want to fill you with new life. I want… God, I want to make you mine.”
Each word was a dark and filthy promise. It was as if he had no control over his own mouth as he declared his deepest and most base desires. With each thrust, he ground deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he panted, his breathing hard. “To be mated with you like this, to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock, begging to be bred. It’s been my longest dream, little angel.”
His eyes—wild and blazing with lust—bored into yours as he loomed over you, hips driving into you faster and deeper.
“I’ve fallen asleep each night, only to wake with the phantom feel of your legs wrapped around me…” he tried to speak between moans and ragged breaths, every word coming out like a desperate whine.
“I imagined your nails raking down my back as I fucked you into oblivion… and now, here we are—fuck, lost in the… the throes of passion—on the brink of creation itself…”
His voice pitched higher as he babbled on, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you uncontrollably. The sensation was growing unbearable.
“I-I am yours…” you moaned, barely getting the words out. “I am yours, if… if you will have me so.”
Bucky’s body tensed above you. “Yes—that’s it, little dove…” his hips started to jerk and stutter, losing their rhythm as the overwhelming sensation of his release consumed him.
“Fuck, I can’t…. I’m going to…” he panted, voice rising higher and frantic as his cock pulsed inside you.
The sensation was overpowering as a delicious, torturous pressure started to build at the base of your spine with each erratic thrust. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his back, your body arching to meet his as he lost himself completely.
“Yes, Mr. Barnes, yes!” you cried, your voice breaking into a moan as your cunt spasmed around him, releasing your own pleasure. “Give it to me, give me everything you have. I want to feel you coming inside me, filling me, claiming me…”
Bucky threw his head back and let out a strangled moan, the poor bed creaking and crying as his hips moved relentlessly—pounding into you deeper, harder. Then finally, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt as his orgasm came—blissful and hot.
You gasped as you felt his cock pulse inside you, releasing thick ropes of his pent-up seed. It felt like an endless flood, like he was saving himself just for you.
For a long moment, you remain locked together, Bucky's hips pressed tight against yours as you both trembled and shuddered. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Your body was still fluttering and clenching around his half-hard cock, as if reluctant to let him go.
“You’re warm,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “I could hold you like this forever and not tire.”
You hummed against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I… like this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing small patterns along his arm. “Just being near you, Mr. Barnes—”
“Please,” he interrupted firmly. “No need for pleasantries, especially after how I’ve undone you.”
A brief silence fell, tense and uneasy, making your heart flutter despite the closeness you had just shared.
You lifted your eyes to his, voice small so small and cautious, as if you were testing him.
“I… I love you, James,” you whispered.
“You… love me?” he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and awe.
“Yes,” you said, pressing closer against him. “I cannot hide it any longer. My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”
A low, choked sound escaped him—part sigh and part laugh. “By God… you’ve undone me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.
“And… what of my friend, Steve Rogers?” he asked quietly, hesitant. “Do you… feel anything for him? Or is this… only for me?”
You blinked, taken aback by the question.
“James,” you started softly, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek, “you have nothing to fear. My heart has been yours for some time. No one else…” your words faltered, but your eyes were steady and full of truth. “…no one else holds it.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your arm.
“I see,” he grunted. A shadow passed over his eyes. “There will be… rumors, you know. Whispers in the streets, questions in every corner of Salem.”
You tilted your head, a faint and defiant smile tugging at your lips.
“Let them speak,” you said softly, brushing a hand along his. “They do not know us. They cannot know what is here, between you and me.”
He frowned. “You’re not afraid?”
“I am not afraid,” you whispered, leaning closer until your forehead rest against his bare chest.
“Not while I am with you.”
The morning light slanted through the cracks of the shutters.
Bucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle mess of shame and obsession. Every thought from the night before clawed back into his chest. Each memory like a needle pricking at his conscience.
He felt… tainted.
A sinner.
Unworthy.
The warmth of your body against his, the softness of your hands, the tight feel of you—it was all lodged in his mind, a sin he could not wash away.
Bucky twisted the blanket around his fists, muttering under his breath.
It is wrong. All wrong. She is a witch, I am certain. No woman could draw a man to her heart so completely without dark craft.
The thought made him shiver. He shivered in fear, in desperate denial. You told him you loved him. You opened your heart to him. And here he was, lying in bed and hating himself.
It cannot be love.
It cannot be me who desires her so.
It must be your doing.
He rose stiffly from the bed, pacing the small room as though movement could dislodge the images from his mind. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, muttering prayers that could no longer help him. “God, forgive me. God, forgive me…”
He hated himself for the longing that still burned in his chest. Every glance he remembered, every confession from the night prior, it fed both the fuels of desire and disgust. He tried to tell himself he had been fooled, that it was all enchantment, yet a small, trembling part of him knew the truth.
He had given his heart willingly, though he would never admit it aloud.
Bucky’s boots crunched against the dirt road. The town had begun to stir—vendors laying out their goods, housewives exchanging greetings—but to him, it all blurred. His hands were still shaking, his breath uneven.
Steve stood near the well, speaking with a few men. He looked as he always did—steady, good, and unwavering. A man untouched by sin.
A man who hadn’t been ruined by a single night’s weakness.
He should know. Steve would understand. Steve would see the danger. He had to.
“Steve,” Bucky called out.
Steve turned, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of his friend. “Bucky. You look as though you’ve not slept a wink. What’s the matter?”
“I need to speak with you,” he said sharply. “Alone.”
“This again?” Steve frowned.
With a reluctant sigh, he nodded and stepped away from the others, following him to the side of the road beneath the shade of an old elm.
“What is it?” Steve asked, almost impatient. “You’re pale as a ghost.”
Bucky dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’ve sinned,” he muttered. “God help me, I’ve sinned, Steve.”
Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing, letting Bucky continue.
“It’s her,” Bucky spat out suddenly, voice shaking. “She’s bewitched me. She must have. There’s no other way—no other way a man like me could…” he stopped himself, choking on the words—on the memory of your touch and the way his heart had broken open for you.
Steve’s face hardened—not in anger, but in warning. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the square where others milled about.
“Bucky,” he said slowly, carefully, “you need to watch your tongue.”
Bucky looked at him, confused.
“Witchcraft talk is dangerous,” Steve continued. “You know what this town does to women accused of it. Even a whisper—just one—can turn a neighbor into a mob. If word got out, she’d have no hope of mercy.”
“But Steve, you don’t understand. It feels like—”
“I do understand,” Steve cut in firmly. “I’ve seen what happens when men let their feelings twist into something ugly. Whether or not you believe she’s bewitched you, keep it to yourself. For her sake. For yours.”
Steve stepped back with a tired sigh. “I should get going. There’s work to be done,” he added, turning to leave.
“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, the name stuck in his throat like a plea.
Steve stopped, looking over his shoulder.
Bucky’s chest heaved as if the very words were clawing their way out of him. “It wasn’t me,” he rasped, hands clenching at his sides. “I swear to you, Steve, it wasn’t of my own will. She… she used her spellwork—she must’ve. She drew me in like some poor creature to the flame.”
“What—”
“She looked at me,” Bucky continued painfully. “Just looked, and I followed. As though I’d no mind of my own. She bid me come inside… and I went. Like a fool, I went.”
The memory of your voice, soft and warm, wrapped around him again like smoke. His throat tightened and his heart started to hurt—as if his own words were torture.
“She whispered to me,” he went on, trembling now, “and it was as though every prayer I’d ever known fled from my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I was hers before I even crossed her threshold.”
“Bucky…”
“She touched me,” Bucky pressed, voice going louder. “She took me in, bewitched me so I couldn’t turn away. And before I knew it…” He let out a sharp, broken breath, his gaze unfocused as the night before bled into the present. “I was in her arms. I was one with her.”
The words were barely free of his tongue before regret crashed through him.
Steve’s face changed—subtle, but enough to knock the air from Bucky’s lungs. The furrow of his brow deepened, his mouth parted ever so slightly, a look of horror flickering in his eyes.
Bucky’s stomach twisted at the sight.
He hadn’t meant to say it like that.
God, not like that.
Those words—they weren’t the truth. He’d painted you as some siren, some witch who’d snared him in your web… when the truth was always there, lingering beneath the surface.
Bucky wanted you.
Every step he had taken towards your door, every shuddering breath, every kiss—it had been his choice. His own hunger. His heart. And yet, here he stood, spitting out lies to his oldest friend because the truth was too frightening to hold.
Because admitting it would mean facing the sin he could no longer call witchcraft.
You fool, he thought bitterly.
You’ve damned her with your cowardice.
And worse—he’d damned himself for loving you.
Steve’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Bucky…”
Panic prickled up Bucky’s spine. “Steve—wait,” he stammered, his hands lifting slightly, as if he could grab the words back out of the air. “I didn’t mean—what I said—it wasn’t…” His mouth worked, but nothing coherent followed.
Steve’s expression hardened, the faint horror melting into something grim.
“Bucky,” he began, “if what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t something we can keep between us. You know what must be done. We’ve got to tell the townsfolk. The minister. Someone.”
“No!” the word tore from Bucky’s throat. “No, Steve, wait. I—”
“You just said she bewitched you,” Steve cut in. “That she took you into her home and… ” he faltered a little, uncomfortable, “… bound you to her will. That’s not something we can ignore. It’s witchcraft, Bucky.”
Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. His palms were slick. “I spoke out of turn,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was confused, that’s all. I—”
Steve shook his head. “You were frightened. I heard it in your voice. The whole town’s been on edge since the last trial. If what you say is true, they’ll want to act before more harm comes to anyone else.”
Bucky felt the world cave in beneath him, the morning air suddenly too thin, too sharp, too difficult to breathe in. The noose of his own making was tightening—no, not a noose. He could see it too clearly in his mind.
It was flame.
It was rope bound at your wrists.
It was a wooden stake planted in the dirt of the square, kindling stacked high and dry at your feet.
The townsfolk didn’t forgive witches. They burned them. They’d burn you.
Bucky swallowed hard, grabbing his friend’s arm in a tight grip. “Steve, no, you don’t understand—”
Steve froze at the desperation in his voice, but it wasn’t the words that made his blood run cold. It was the look in best friend’s eyes.
Wide. Wild. Half-mad.
Bucky’s pupils were blown wide, breath sharp and uneven—looking exactly like a man possessed. He looked less like the boy Steve had grown up with and more like someone under a wicked spell.
“Bucky,” Steve whispered, almost frightened.
Bucky shook his head, his grip tightening. “She didn’t—she didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t tell them, Steve. Promise me.” His voice cracked, raw and frantic.
But to Steve, it only confirmed the worst. The town had seen it before—men caught under spells, their minds turned to ash. His friend’s eyes were full of fever. Bewitched. It had to be.
“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, prying his arm free. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure they undo whatever she’s done. I swear it.”
Bucky’s face went pale. “Steve, don’t.”
But Steve was already stumbling back, fear bleeding through his voice. “I’ll get help,” he reassured. “They’ll know what to do. They’ll save you.”
And before Bucky could stop him, Steve turned and ran—feet pounding against the dirt road, heading straight for the square where a single whisper could set the whole town aflame.
Bucky stood frozen for a breath. The morning air stung like ice in his lungs.
He had lost control of the story.
And now, the town would come for you.
The night air was sharp, the smell of dirt and woodsmoke filling his nostrils.
Bucky walked the narrow path behind the square, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, boots crunching against the gravel. His thoughts were a storm—loud and relentless. His walks were meant to steady his mind, but it was impossible.
“James!”
He froze.
Your voice, breathless and shaken.
He did not want to turn, but his body betrayed him once again. You came stumbling towards him through the shadows, skirt gathered in your hands, hair disheveled from the hurried walk. There was a look on your face that nearly undid him—a look of fear, confusion, and blinded trust that made his chest ache.
“James,” you gasped again, clutching at his sleeve as soon as you reached him. “The town is cruel. People are talking about me!”
Your words tumbled out, scared and shaky.
“Whispers at the market… mothers pulling their children away. They’re saying I—” your breath hitched, “… that I’ve bewitched someone. That I’ve done something wicked.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
You took a step closer, gripping his arm tighter. “James, you know me. You know me. I would never—”
“I know,” he cut you off gently, still looking down. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”
You stared up at him, and although he wasn’t looking at you, you searched his eyes for the warmth that had once made you feel safe. But all you found was a storm.
“We could go,” you whispered suddenly. “We could run away—tonight. Just you and me. No more whispers. No more cruel eyes. Just… us.”
Bucky’s expression softened at your words. A fragile, aching longing broke through the panic—like he wanted to say yes. Like he wanted to take your hand and never look back.
But then, his jaw tensed, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I… can’t.”
Those two simple words made your heart drop in your stomach. “Can’t?”
“I’ve a name here. A life,” he whispered, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bear to see your heartbreak. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. It’ll… only make it worse for the both of us.”
Tears burned in your eyes, your grip on his sleeve faltering just slightly. “James, they’ll destroy me.”
But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes stuck somewhere over your shoulder, looking at anything but you. The evening wind tugged at his coat, cold and cruel, and still he stood there—silent.
“James,” you choked out, your voice breaking around his name. “After all we shared… last night, the walks, the bench by the church—was it all nothing?”
God help him, he almost wished you truly were a witch—so you could cast a spell on his tongue, force the words out of him, make him say something instead of standing there like a coward.
“I thought—” your voice cracked again, “I thought what we had meant something to you.”
His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words so quiet they almost broke apart in the air, almost as if he didn’t say them at all.
You took a shaky step closer, desperate. “Did you love me, James? Even for a moment?”
Finally, finally, he looked at you. His lips parted, the confession falling like a death knell.
“Yes.”
A pathetic sound escaped you—a choked sob, broken and small. The sound struck him right in the heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach you, to hold you, to run away with you.
But then, you let get of his sleeve.
And before he could reach for you, before he could even think to make it right, you turned and ran—your figure swallowed by the night as your sobs trailed behind you like a wound he had carved himself.
Bucky was a hollow man by the time he made his way back towards his small home. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door, drown in silence, and pretend none of it—none of you, ever happened.
“Bucky!”
The familiar voice cut through the dark. He turned to find Steve jogging towards him, lantern swinging in his hand, face grave and pale beneath its flickering light.
“They’ve found her,” Steve said breathlessly when he finally reached him.
Bucky’s blood went cold. “What… what do you mean, they’ve found her?”
“They’ve taken her to the square,” Steve replied, catching his breath. “Said they caught her trying to run. The magistrate’s called for a trial, burning her at dawn. They’ll do the… the preparations tonight. You shouldn’t miss it.”
Bucky shook his head almost violently, stepping back. “No,” he rasped. “No, Steve, I can’t—”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “You have to.”
“I can’t,” Bucky bit out, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me—”
“It’s for your own good,” Steve snapped, firmer this time. “You were the one she bewitched, Buck. You said so yourself. Everyone is expecting you. You can’t just hide away now.”
Bucky’s throat closed up. His own words were being thrown back at him like chains, binding him to something he could no longer control.
Steve reached out, fingers curling around his arm, unyielding. “Come on,” he urged, tugging him forward. “You have to be there. It’s your duty to the town.”
The square was awash in torchlight, a cruel glow that seemed to swallow the night whole. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, cast long by the gathered townsfolk—faces tight with fear, with hunger for someone to blame.
Bucky’s stomach lurched when he saw you.
Your wrists were bound behind your back, rope biting into your skin. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled and loose, haloed in the torchlight. Horror was crawling up his throat like bile. You looked so small against the wood, your face filled with dread. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in your shoulders, the way your chin lifted just slightly, as if refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.
But once your eyes met his, you broke down immediately.
Tears began to streak down your cheeks, catching in the firelight, and your voice was hoarse and raw—likely from screaming beforehand.
“James!”
Everyone turned to him at the sound of your voice.
You struggled against the ropes, shoulders straining, eyes wide and desperate as they locked onto his. “James, please—please, tell them! Tell them I’ve done nothing!”
Bucky froze where he stood, breath punched from his chest. His heart screamed for him to move, to tear you down from that post and hold you. But his legs—his coward’s legs—refused.
The magistrate stepped forward, robes sweeping against the ground, his voice deep.
“Do not heed her words, boy,” he intoned. “Do not let the devil’s tongue sway you. It is all part of her deceit. A witch’s plea is honeyed venom.”
The townsfolk murmured their agreement, and it made Bucky sick.
“James!” you sobbed again, your voice hoarse, trembling. “Look at me—look at me! You know me!”
Your voice split through the square like a bell tolling for the damned.
“Don’t,” Steve hissed, stepping close to him. “Buck, don’t listen.”
Bucky’s wide eyes snapped to his friend. “Steve—”
“Don’t let her words get in your head,” Steve pressed, voice low but firm. His grip on Bucky’s shoulder was iron. “That’s what they do. They twist your heart, make you doubt yourself. You said it yourself, she bewitched you. You can’t fall again.”
Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but just as he was about to…
“Tonight,” the magistrate interrupted, lifting his hand as if presenting you to the crowd, “we bear witness to the corruption festering in our midst. A woman consorting with darkness. A woman who ensnared a man of this town in her devil’s grasp.”
The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers growing louder.
The magistrate turned to Bucky. “James Barnes,” he declared, “you are the one who bore witness. Step forward.”
You finally stilled.
The wailing that had been pouring out of you—your pleading, your begging—died on your tongue. Slowly, your head lifted, tear-streaked face glistening in the torchlight as your gaze found him again.
No.
You couldn’t believe it.
“Witness…?” you breathed.
Bucky’s boots felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he took that first step forward. His pulse was beating loud in his ears, his chest burning as though the pyre beneath your feet was already alight.
He couldn’t look at you—but he could feel your pain.
Your tear-stained cheeks went still. Your shoulders stopped shaking. The frantic, wild panic in your eyes bled away, leaving only something worse.
“James,” you whispered, his name breaking on your tongue.
It wasn’t a plea anymore.
It was disbelief.
It was betrayal.
He dared to glance at you then—and the look on your face carved straight into his chest.
The magistrate continued. “This woman, accused of witchcraft, shall face the Lord’s judgment by flame. Let the fire cleanse her wickedness—”
But your voice tore through his words, desperate, as if it could save you.
“I’m with child!”
The square fell silent.
For a moment, not even the wind dared to move. The flames waiting at the base of the pyre crackled softly, the only sound between you. You weren’t shouting at the magistrate. You weren’t appealing to the crowd.
You were looking straight at him.
At Bucky.
“Yours,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “James… it’s yours.”
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a fever. The magistrate stiffened, his hand tightening on the torch. A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth. Someone whispered “witch’s spawn” like a curse, and soon the words spread in terrified murmurs through the mass of faces.
The magistrate’s face blanched.
“Witch… seed,” he hissed. “This cannot be allowed to live. An unholy union—taint upon the town…”
“Lord preserve us,” someone muttered.
“She and her child will doom us all!
Bucky’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly brought him to his knees. His lungs burned. He couldn’t look away from you—your tear-streaked face, the trembling in your jaw, the desperation in your eyes.
This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t a witch.
This was you. Carrying a piece of him.
But the magistrate’s voice cut through the cold air. “Light it.”
The torch was lowered. The dry wood caught, flames licking upward, crackling hungry and bright.
“No!” Bucky roared, running forward. Steve grabbed him by the arms before he could reach the stake, dragging him back as he thrashed like a man possessed.
“No, don’t—stop!”
The fire climbed higher and higher, smoke curling thick into the air, swallowing your figure in its angry orange and gray glow. Your scream split the square, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Bucky fought harder, his boots scraping against the dirt as he tried to free of Steve’s grip.
You gasped for breath through the smoke, your skin bathed in firelight. And then your eyes found his.
For a moment, for one agonizing moment, you smiled.
Your lips parted, trembling, your soot-streaked face softened at the sight of him.
Bucky believed, in the back of his mind, that you were going to forgive him despite everything. At least, with your forgiveness, he might’ve been able to rest.
“She’s not burning…” the magistrate muttered, voice tight with fear.
“It is true,” you finally confessed. “I am a witch. But I never cast a spell on anyone. Not on you, James. My love for you…” you coughed, the smoke choking your lungs, “it was real. It always was.”
The crowd stirred, panic sweeping through them as the flames climbed but left your body untouched.
You did not burn. You did not turn to ash.
No. You remained.
Your voice grew louder, cutting through the crackle of the fire.
“You betrayed me, James. You took my heart straight from my bare chest and crushed it beneath your clean boots.”
Your smile twisted now—no longer gentle.
“I shall return. And I will seek my reprisal through this town—starting with you.”
Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, and a sob tore through his chest. He clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking as he stared at what he had done.
“I will start with your body—just as you took mine,” you vowed, your promise ringing through the smoke.
“I will take your hands, your left arm, the one that touched me so tenderly. Then I will take your mind—until it’s nothing but a shattered thing. Until you cannot remember your own name… or who you ever were.”
You glanced at Steve. “Until you cannot remember your own dear friend.”
Bucky’s knees trembled, and the heat of the fire did nothing to warm the icy dread in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching towards the smoke, toward the golden glow of your eyes—but there was nothing.
“Please, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I—I loved you! It is true! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The flames hissed and crackled, but the figure they had enveloped no longer stood there.
You were gone.
“She’s vanished!” someone cried.
“Witch! Sorcery!” another shouted, pointing at the empty stake.
Bucky’s legs felt like lead. He could only stand frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking. The fire that had licked at your body minutes before now crackled harmlessly against the empty wood.
All around him, chaos erupted—people shouting, running, collapsing in fear—but Bucky barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the stake.
The place where you had stood, screaming, pleading, burning… was now nothing but scorched wood and lingering smoke.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop seeing you, the golden glow of your eyes, the firelight dancing over the face he once pressed kisses to.
Bucky stood rooted, the embers at his feet and the ghost of smoke in his lungs, unable to tear his eyes from the scorched stake.
He had spoken the words that sent you there.
He had watched you burn.
And underneath the grief, a colder thing took hold—dread.
He had hurt you, the woman he loved, and in the silence that followed your vanishing, he felt your promise pierce through the night like a living thing.
The town scattered into the dark in panic, and Bucky was left alone on the square, palms slack at his sides, heart pounding with the terrible certainty that what he had done would not be forgiven—and that soon, he would know just how you meant to make him pay.
holy hell this was so long. thank you so much for sticking through the end <3
thank you @houseofhyde for this meme because this was literally bucky i fear.
summary — you and sirius had grown up in the same kind of family, and your friendship had been built on lavish lies just to vanish when sirius ran away. now, you're assigned as his potions tutor
content — established childhood friendship between sirius and reader - established friendship with the emeralds - fluff and banter and all that fun stuff, your house elf is called tilly
note — i lowk wanna make an angsty part two for this so let me know what u guys think!!!
inspired by my favorite fanfilm pls give it a watch and support the creators!!
You’d grown up in the same type of family, the same lavish parties where you were introduced every year as if you hadn’t known each other since you could speak. You’d spent holidays visiting each other’s family homes because your parents were “old friends,” being forced to talk because it was “respectful,” slowly forming a friendship because, even with all of its manufacturing, it came naturally.
But Sirius left it all behind. He left behind the sneaking away to the kitchens with you when you were kids, left behind the short conversations as you got older, he left behind his family and the parties, and your seasonal friendship that had all but vanished by the time you reached third year.
He saw who you surrounded yourself with, saw who your friends were, and what spells they practiced and played with like they were meaningless. He wanted nothing to do with it;
Nothing to do with you.
“Mister Black…” Professor Slughorn had pulled him aside after potions. “Your grades have been slipping this year,” he said frankly, but still with cautious sympathy, “I’m sure, of course, you can get them up, but I’ve assigned you a tutor anyway — hopefully, at least, to get your spirits up.” He gave him a smile that Sirius half-heartedly returned. “You can meet her in the library now if you like.” He knew it was an instruction rather than a suggestion, nodding before he left quietly with his things.
Ever since that night, not long into the year, when he made the mistake of pulling his worst prank to date, he’d been on the outskirts with his friends. He didn’t feel bad for Snape. He couldn’t. Most of all, he felt terrible for Remus, who was hardly speaking to him, even with James trying to pretend everything was fine.
It was all he thought about, constantly, to the point where he’d started to slack off on his schoolwork because he couldn’t stop.
He went into the library, which he hardly ever did, and found himself in front of a table occupied by one person who seemed to be waiting for someone.
“I was wondering when you’d make it here.” He knew that voice, pulling him out of his thoughts as you both looked up at each other. “Have a seat.”
It wasn’t that you were unkind, at least you never were to him — you were always polite, always said hello, even checked in on him when he seemed down, but he couldn’t bring himself to truly befriend you; your childhood friendship was like a well-kept secret between you, and you passed each other in the halls like acquaintances who only knew of each other. To him, your families were too closely intertwined, and he knew how close you were to yours.
He sighed. “Slughorn put me with you?”
“Is that so bad?” He pursed his lips. “If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t his first pick. It’s just that everyone else is a bit cross with you.” You looked down at your book, playing with your quill as he stayed standing. After a long beat of silence, you sighed, “Fail if you want to. I can study alone.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” He set his bag on the table with a heavy thud, pulling out his potions books and sitting across from you. “I won’t fail.”
“And you won’t do your work either.”
“What do you know?”
“You. Since we were kids.”
“Whatever.”
There was a beat of silence as you wrote in your notebook and he stared at his textbook with unmoving eyes. You glanced up at him. “You have to actually look at the words to read them.”
“Would you be quiet?” He snapped, beginning to actually read as you scoffed out a laugh.
“I heard about what you did, you know,” you said after a moment. He’d stopped reading again, and you took the opportunity to talk to him. “To Snape.” He sighed, putting his book face down to give you his attention. “He wouldn’t tell me exactly how he wound up all bloodied like that, but—“
“I don’t need your input,” he said frankly. “‘It wasn’t right’, ‘he could’ve died’, ‘you should’ve been expelled’, I’ve heard it all. I didn’t think he’d end up… bloodied.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you said.
“I could guess.”
“I don’t think you know me that well.”
“Don’t I?” You raised a brow at him. “You seem to think you know me—“
“I do—“
“—so why wouldn’t I know you just as well?” You gave him a look. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, haven’t we? Surely I know you better than you think.”
“I doubt it,” you laughed. “I’m much more personable than you are.” He rolled his eyes. “Besides, I was only going to say I’m glad you weren’t expelled. I know he was hounding Remus about missing, and I know the kind of spells he makes up and practices… It wouldn’t have been fair.” He said nothing, opening his book again and starting to read.
This time, with the two of you actually studying, there was a long beat of silence before someone spoke. This time, it was Sirius, “Amortentia,” he said, making you look up, “have you brewed it?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s on our next test,” he said prissily, looking up at you with an impatient expression. “And I haven’t been able to get it right.”
“There’s not much to get wrong,” you said quietly, resting your cheek in your palm and looking at him. “You’ll have to tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“I’ve been following the instructions.”
“No need to get defensive.” Another eyeroll, and you huffed. “I hope you make up with your friends soon — you’re in an awful mood.”
“Maybe you’re an awful tutor.”
“Do you need a response for everything?” He said nothing, a smirk on his lips and a brow raised that made you roll your eyes. “How about tomorrow, after class, we can try and figure out what you’re doing wrong.”
“Quidditch practice,” was his response.
“After that?”
“Supper.”
“You’ve got time between.” He huffed. “Come if you want to. It’s not my grade in jeopardy.”
Your friends showed up just then, ushering you out of the library after you’d packed your things.
“What were you doing with Sirius?” Evan asked, Barty on the other side of you, and Dorcas and Pandora trailing behind. “Don’t tell me your parents want to set up an arrangement with him?”
“Goodness no,” you laughed. “They’re not arranging me with anyone.”
“Lucky you,” said Barty.
“Slughorn is having me tutor him,” you said blandly, Dorcas and Pandora chuckling behind you. “Not that he wants me to be his tutor, of course.”
“He should be thanking you. You never study with us anymore.”
“You guys talk too much.”
“More than Sirius Black?” Dorcas asked. “Really.”
“Really.”
Sirius, in all honesty, had no intention of showing up to the study session you planned. Instead, he talked with James in the locker rooms up until they had to leave for supper, walking together until they reached the table. Remus gave him a very quiet hello, tired and unenthused, but he took what he could get as he sat beside him.
He’d all but forgotten about meeting you, and he didn’t remember until he saw you walk into the Great Hall and head to the Slytherin table with Pandora, shrinking into his seat as if you were even looking his way.
“What is it, mate?” James asked, looking across the hall. “Panda?”
“No…” They all looked at him for an answer. “Slughorn assigned me a tutor.” He said your name as quietly as he could, as if they wouldn’t hear it. “I was meant to meet her after practice.”
“Why are you whispering?” Peter asked, whispering.
“And why do you need a tutor?” Remus asked. “You’re brilliant in potions.”
“My grades are shit right now,” he said. “Haven’t been focusing well. He said he assigned her to ‘get my spirits up’ — not sure how she’ll help with that, though.” Remus gave him a sorry look but said nothing.
“She’s nice,” Peter said. “You should talk to her.”
“I’ve talked to her plenty,” he said. “We’ve known each other since we were little, that’s why she’s so close with Reg.”
It was the most they’d talked in nearly a month at supper that night, entirely about Sirius’ misplaced irritation when it came to you. Until Remus told him he should meet you the next day. A Saturday.
He woke up the next morning with a chip on his shoulder, only going because his best friend asked, and found himself without any clue where you’d be. He went to the library and found nothing, to the astronomy tower, to the potions classroom, where you liked to practice, and even to the courtyard and fields. He found himself walking the expanse of the Black Lake’s shore, slow steps as he smoked and checked his watch. Quarter to one. He’d spent his entire morning looking for someone who made herself scarce, likely studying in the Slytherin common room or talking to the friends of hers he couldn’t stand.
That was when he heard the sound of gentle music. It was classical, something you’d probably enjoy listening to, and he found himself walking toward it. Your cassette player was on the ground, headphones next to it, and volume all the way up so you could hear the music softly through them. You were sat against a tree you could probably use to hide, great with shadowing branches, and you were writing while your potions textbook lay next to you.
“Busy?” He asked, snuffing out his cigarette and taking a seat on the other side of the cassette player.
“Not as busy as you,” was your response. You continued to write, but when he didn’t leave you said, “You’re welcome to study with me.”
“Haven’t got my books,” he said, and you pushed yours next to him.
Sirius, as if he were being forced to, picked up the book. “You don’t have to stay, you know?”
But he didn’t leave; he had nowhere else to go. His friends were busy, and he didn’t mind sitting by the lake to read about potions’ ingredients if it meant a quiet Saturday without getting into any more trouble — he was trying his best to stay out of it, hoping he wouldn’t make his friends any more cross with him than they already were.
It was, indeed, a quiet Saturday. You didn’t speak to him while you wrote, and he didn’t ask too many questions while he read.
He was shocked when you stood, yawning. The sun was getting low over the lake, casting the waters a shimmering gold that he looked up to admire. “I’m going to head to supper,” you told him, holding your hand out for your book. It was then that he realized you hadn’t been taking notes, frowning as he stood. Instead of handing you the book, he plucked yours from your hand. “Hey!” He moved it out of your grasp as he opened it, turning his back. “Sirius!” You reached for it, grabbing his shoulder. He held it up, laughing. “Give it back!”
“You’ve been writing all this?” He asked with a grin as he read the entries, little short stories about anything that inspired you; from a bird you’d seen fly by to one of your friends' laughs that lit up the room.
“That’s none of your business!” You pushed his shoulder back so he would turn, reaching to grab it from him and finding your faces mere inches apart.
“It’s not bad.” He quickly handed it over, along with your potions book, and stepped away. You huffed, turning and heading for the castle. “Can we reschedule that study date?” He asked, following you back. “The test is coming up.”
“Not a date.”
“It’s an expression.”
“Well, don’t use it with me.” He rolled his eyes. “And no. I’m busy.”
“How about Monday?” He asked anyway. “I’m free after classes; we have practice in the morning.”
He opened the door of the castle for you, giving you that smile that made him so charming to everyone he met. “Fine,” was your answer.
“Great. I know a place — private.” You raised a brow. “I can’t have anyone know Slughorn assigned me a tutor,” he said, whispering and looking around the hall. “Least of all you.”
“That doesn’t make me want to help you.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“Not sure there’s another way to take it, Sirius,” You laughed. “But sure,” you said. “I’ll see you Monday after class.”
Monday came, and he waited outside of your History of Magic class, telling Marlene he had to ask Professor Bins something to make her leave. You came out last, after Crouch and Rosier, who he heard saying goodbye to you.
“Hi, Sirius.” You smiled as you stepped out of class, a bag of ingredients in your hands. “Slughorn’s given me everything we need to study for the exam.” You held up the bag, a lightening charm on it for the heavy iron cauldron inside. “Even a guide.”
“Keep your voice down,” he said, looking around before taking you by the hand to pull you to a secret passage.
You very quickly took your hand from his. “A thank you would suffice.”
“Thanks.”
The passage led you all the way to the seventh floor, a pair of iron doors appearing at the end of the hall that Sirius pushed open. It was an awfully small room for such giant doors, and there was one potions station in the center of it — not that there was much space around the center of the room, cramped and close-quartered like a broom closet.
You took the seat next to the wall and Sirius next to you as you began taking out the ingredients and cauldron. You handed him a sheet of paper. “There’s a lot more on the test than Amortentia,” you said, “I think we should work on all of them.”
“Alright,” he sighed, the thought of studying so much making him slump in his seat.
You laughed. “I’ll try not to bore you to death. We can start with something simple — Wiggenweld is always easy to brew.”
“We’ve been reviewing that since we learned it.” He grabbed the ingredients from the list and lit a flame under the cauldron. “Besides, I only need your help with Amortentia.” He began brewing the potion anyway, going from memory as you watched.
“You’re stirring backwards,” you said, making him glare at you. “The little things matter, you know? It won’t work right if you do that.” He continued, and you grabbed his hand, making him stir the other direction. “See? Now it's starting to shimmer.”
He was quiet for a moment, making himself accept that you were right.
“What does Amortentia smell like to you?” You asked, letting go of his hand as he put the cover on the bubbling cauldron.
He thought for a moment. “The forest at night… You know that earthy, rain smell.” You nodded as he started to smile. “And Mum’s baking — James’ mum, I mean. Mother never set foot in the kitchen, but Ephie makes the best cookies. They’re crisp and gooey on the inside, chocolate melts in your mouth when she adds it — I think it smells a bit like chocolate too — ‘course that’s because of Remus.” You smiled. “What about you? What do you smell?”
“Ink and old parchment,” you answered quicker than he did, “firewood, Tilly’s pudding, and…” You narrowed your eyes, trying to place the scent. “The Black Lake. I think it’s my favorite place on the grounds; there’s a spot I like to go to… It’s quiet. No one ever looks for me there. In the morning, when it’s shrouded in mist and the sunrise turns everything to gold, it’s the perfect place to write.”
“Do you enjoy having a window into the lake, then?”
You nodded. “Sometimes, I’ll sit in the common room and watch the kelpies. They’re beautiful, you know? Not as scary as you’d think.”
“‘Till they try to drown you.”
You laughed, nodding along, “‘Till they try to drown you, right.”
For a moment, it was like you had snuck away from one of your parents’ parties, hiding in the pantry and talking the night away until one of you was called to leave, and your friendship was left behind until the next time you snuck away.
The next time you met, he found you at the Black Lake that weekend, talking over the steps to make Polyjuice Potion, what it did, and why the ingredients for it were locked away. You also made sure to go over the less interesting things, even with his groaning, like Draught of Peace and Everlasting Elixirs.
“Oh, Wit-Sharpening Potion, that’d be perfect for you, Sirius!” You said with a smile the next time you were in the cupboard of a potion’s station.
“Shove off.” He laughed, nudging your shoulder and continuing to take notes as you brewed a Deflating Draught.
Next time he met you at the lake, you studied in silence. He gave you a smile in the hall the next day that made Pandora and Dorcas start asking questions.
One morning, you bumped into each other at the library.
“What a surprise,” you said, handing him the book you were both reaching for. “Studying Erumpents, are you?”
“You said we were going over the Erumpent Potion next. Thought I’d get a head start.” You smiled. “Don’t look so impressed.”
“I am!” He chuckled. “I thought you’d try to convince me to brew a Babbling Beverage for one of your pranks.”
“Great idea!”
The next meeting in the broom closet went smoothly, his Erumpent Potion coming out perfectly.
“There’s a quidditch match this weekend, so I won’t be at the lake,” he said as if it was something you’d agreed to start doing together, but it hardly registered to you as you nodded with a frown. “Don’t look so disappointed,” he chuckled, hand on your wrist, just close enough to your hand to make you look. He took it away. “Are you going?”
You shrugged. “I don’t usually,” you said. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Thought I might see you.” You were packing your things, standing as he continued to talk. “Practice has been hell. James is stressed, and since we already lost a match to Slytherin, he thinks Ravenclaw thinks it’ll be an easy win.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” You reached into your bag, pulling out a very small vial. “But, you can have this.” He frowned as he took it. “It’s a Peace Draught; I come in here to brew my own potions sometimes.” You watched as he inspected it like it might be giggle water or a belching potion. “Slip it into James’ tea and you’ll see if I’m telling the truth or not.”
He laughed, pocketing the potion. “Thanks. I’ll definitely try that.” He grabbed his bag. “I kinda hope it is a prank now, though.”
“I’d never!”
“You could at least pretend to be fun,” he said as he left, laughing at his own joke.
He didn’t expect to see you in the stands, but he couldn’t help but smile when he did, the stress he felt seeming to fade away as he played on. He hardly noticed Pandora, Barty, Evan, and Dorcas in the stands with you.
He hoped to see you after the game, but you and your friends were long gone by the time he got away from his friends.
“Good game,” you said the next time you saw him, Monday after class.
That was all you said, as the two of you hardly spoke outside of the secret room and Saturdays at the lake, but Barty made sure to say something, “Too bad you’ll lose the next one against us.”
“Terrible sportsmanship,” he could hear you say to him as you walked away, Barty and Evan laughing together.
The mood shifted when you saw him next at the lake.
“You and Crouch are close?” He asked in the middle of your studying, and you couldn’t decipher his tone.
You shrugged. “We’ve all known each other a while… Not that you ever tried to make friends with anyone, but I’m sure you remember.” All the pure-blood families tried to introduce their children to each other when they were young; of course, he remembered. He just nodded. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
You pursed your lips, looking over at him as he pretended to read. “Not all of us believe in what our parents do, you know?” He said nothing. “And, not all of us have a best friend to run away to, either. You might not have it easy, but you’re lucky.”
The next time you went to the secret room, he was nowhere to be seen. A full moon shone in the sky that night, and you decided to start brewing Amortentia for your next lesson, jogging your memory of the steps and fine details.
He found you at the lake the next morning, in the spot you always went to together, disheveled and looking like he hardly slept and somehow knowing you’d be there. “Remus was ill,” he said for an explanation the moment he got there, and you didn’t question it as you looked up and saw the sorry look on his face. “Really. I should’ve said something, I—“
“How were you meant to know?” He relaxed, letting out the anxious breath he was holding. “It’s alright. I was worried you were still upset with me about what I said…”
“Upset with you?” He frowned. “No, of course not.” He laughed as he sat down, like you were ridiculous for thinking he could’ve been cross with you at all. “You’re right—“
“Say that again?” You smirked. “Didn’t quite hear you.”
“Fuck off.”
The next day you were meant to meet, you were collecting the Amortentia when he came to the room, using a ladle to pour it into a vial so you could keep it in your collection of potions you’d brewed properly.
“Brewing Amortentia?” He asked. “Corridor smells like chocolate.”
“Bottling it.” You put a lid on the vial. “But we won't have to brew anything until the next exam. This one is writing out the instructions.” He nodded. “Maybe you should tell me the instructions,” you suggested.
“Right.” He racked his mind for an answer. “You start with…” He took his time explaining as you took notes, correcting some things.
“Never cut the peppermint leaves,” you told him, making him frown. “Changes the structure. You could blow up the school— and not in the fun way.”
“What about an explosion isn’t fun?” He joked.
“Why don’t you find the fun in reading your textbook?” He rolled his eyes. “You didn’t do that terribly, by the way.” You handed over your notes when he scoffed. “You’ll ace the exam if you study those.”
“You think?” You nodded.
You didn’t see each other at the Hogsmeade trip that weekend, you staying with your friends as he stayed with his, but he looked around for you when he got the chance.
“Looking for a date to sneak off with, Pads?” James joked.
“Oh, I’ll keep an eye out, too,” Remus said. “Wouldn’t want to bore you to death, hanging with us, Sirius.”
“Oh, stop it.”
Since the full moon, his friendship had all but gone back to normal, apart from sour looks when they passed by Snape, which wasn’t exactly new. But he couldn’t deny that the first thing he did when the sun rose was head for your spot at the lake, just hoping you’d be there to accept his apology.
“She’s sitting over there, you know?” James whispered after they found a table at The Three Broomsticks, pointing to a booth.
You were sitting with your friends, laughing at a terrible joke from Evan, but you seemed to notice eyes on you and looked up. He smiled when you looked his way, and he averted his gaze when you smiled back.
He found you in the library the next day, cassette player sitting on the table and headphones on your head. He suddenly realized it was a muggle device, surprised you’d even have something like it, and smiling to himself as he took a seat on the table.
You paused, looking up. You took off your headphones, and he set an old book in front of you. “What’s this?”
“A thank you gift.” You frowned. “I got an Excellent on the exam.”
“Knew you would.” You smiled as you looked down at the book, A Collection of Short Stories by Unknown Writers. “You remembered?”
He shrugged. “It was all old and dusty, seemed like something you’d like.” You scoffed, and he laughed. “Yeah, I remembered… And I read through a couple, they seemed interesting — yours were better, of course—“
“Oh, please,” you laughed. “What do you want?”
“I had to butter you up before I asked…” He joked, nudging your shoulder.
“Asked what?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have gotten an E if it wasn’t for you—“
“Naturally—“
“—So, I was going to ask for your help with this next exam, too.” He pretended not to hear your quip. “I could help you with Transfiguration, or Charms.”
“I don’t need it.” He gave you sad eyes, practically begging. “Stop that,” you hit his leg, “I’ll help. But, aren’t you and your friends back to normal? You don’t want one of them to help you?”
“Maybe I just like working with you.”
Your sessions went on as they always did, at the lake, in the cupboard-station, in private. Only you were becoming more friendly. You talked about more than class, stopped to listen to a cassette Sirius brought you, smoked and laughed together as Sirius convinced you to arm wrestle or play “thumb war”. It was easy, comfortable… A secret.
“Do you remember playing when we were little?” Sirius asked you one day, watching as you hugged his leather jacket around you as you sat by the lake, a cigarette between his fingers.
“I remember winning,” you said.
“You remember me winning, right.” He nodded, and you laughed, shaking your head. “Days like this remind me of going to yours for that holiday party your parents always threw.” The lake wasn’t frozen over yet, snow blanketed the ground, and the trees around you were bare, but there was still a warmth in the air that made it comfortable enough to sit. “And sneaking off to get dessert early.”
“Tilly made a good chocolate pudding,” you said, laughing. “That was always the best part of my holiday.“
“Me?”
“Dessert.”
The door to the room on the seventh floor was opened very quickly, Sirius sneaking in and swiftly shutting it behind him as he fanned his hand in the air. “Did you spray perfume down the hall or something?” He asked, making you frown. “It reeks of you.” You moved over as he sat next to you.
“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”
“You really can’t smell it?” You were looking at him like he’d gone mad. You looked around, the open bottle of potion you’d brewed before your last exam making you stiffen. You quickly put a lid on the vial.
“Um,” you said quietly, clearing your throat, “I thought you might try brewing your own Amortentia today — you know, since the exam is next week? I think you’ll get everything else—”
“You couldn’t have warned me?”
“You’ll do fine.”
He sighed as he started, grabbing ingredients. You very quickly took away the moonstone powder and replaced it with powdered moonstone. Two very different things.
He started adding ingredients, very careful with his portions.
“Don’t cut the leaves,” you reminded him as you took notes to help him remember what you’d changed about his approach.
He nodded and said, “Put them in whole, or it changes the structure.” You nodded along. There was a moment before he spoke again. “Which way do I stir?” He asked before he did it, making you chuckle.
“Clockwise.” He nodded. “Just seven times.”
He counted quietly, and when he was done, the potion began to bubble, popping and letting off a faint smell. “I’ve done it wrong, haven’t I?”
“Not yet.” He sighed. “Now add the moonstone before it stops bubbling.”
He was quick to add it, watching the potion settle and shine after he did, steam letting off a familiar scent. “You’re brilliant.”
“I’d argue that you are.”
He grinned, laughing as he looked over the cauldron. “So, who should I give it to?”
“Look, I know you’re joking, but—“
“But, just play along. Hypothetically, if it wasn’t so dangerous, who should I give it to?” You raised a brow. “Come on.”
“I don’t know, what about McKinnon?” He looked like he was going to throw up. “Never mind.”
“That’d be like giving a love potion to my sister.” He shook his head. “I mean, I could give it to you, but, of course, I don’t need to—“
“I’m sorry, have you lost your mind? Don't flatter yourself—“
“Oh! So I should give it to you?” He shrugged. “Alright.” He reached for the ladle, and you quickly grabbed his hand to stop him. He reached with the other one, and you took it, too. He laughed as you did, struggling against your grip to grab the ladle and pulling your arms toward him.
The struggle died when you found yourself inches from him yet again, breath fanning your lips as he met your eyes in a sudden stillness. The room seemed more quiet than it usually did, more confined, and heavy with the scent of leather and tobacco that had you drawing closer to him.
He kissed you first, quick and unsure, before he pulled back like he remembered he should ask for permission. But you didn’t give him the chance to speak, kissing him as your hands went to his shoulders with a softness that made him melt into you. His hand held your face like you were precious, your waist like you’d slip away, but his mouth moved like he was hungry, searching for more as he kissed you with the most gentle force you’d felt.
The next time you saw each other was in passing in the hall, his shoulder brushing yours as he walked past.
You found a note in your bag when you got back to the common room.
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"N—!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him flirting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other hookup he's had in the past month to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
diver
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.
He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.
But why’d Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just… breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”
Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”
The stammering is immediate.
“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“
“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—
God, you can't even say it. Falling for—
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Agh—"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now it’s your turn to curse.
“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man.
“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”
“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”
“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“
“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”
You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.
That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
“Argh— What the fuck!”
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”
Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”
You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”
“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”
His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's not—"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”
But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Yup.” Prick.
“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”
“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Bucky.”
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”
With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”
Your face flushes. “Bucky.”
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.
He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”
“Shut up.”
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“
You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”
“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”
“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.
“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.
Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”
You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”
“Gonna come from just the tip?”
“Shit. Maybe.”
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
“Breathe,” he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”
You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”
“Do you want me to come immediately?”
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, blink with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”
“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?
“You—You’re not.”
“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“
“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“
“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking girl—“
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
“Thank you, sweet girl.”
Did he just—
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”
“For sleeping with you?”
“No. For letting me sleep with you.”
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—
“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”
“I’m literally inside you right now.”
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”
You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”
“Sweet girl, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”
Your left cheek.
“How come I live to rile you up?”
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”
“Took you long enough.”
Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”
Bucky snorts. “As of three years ago, more like.”
“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. Three— Okay.”
“Take your time.”
“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”
Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”
Your heart skips. “I think I…”
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”
“You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Obviously.”
You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.
“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”
It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as your head hits the pillow. Bucky kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.
“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”
“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.
“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”
A pause.
Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”
You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.
And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”
“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.
summary ― .ﾟ ˖ in which jon wanders too far north of the wall into free folk territory and is put under your supervision, mance rayder's daughter, after your voluntary offer of him staying in your tent. you never thought you would be willing to bunk with a crow, but of course, there's a first for everything.
warnings ― .ﾟ ˖ MINORS DNI ! ( 18+ ) | language, graphic smut, unprotected sex ( wrap it before u tap it y'all ), inexperienced!jon, reader taking jon's virginity, little bit of subby!jon, riding, handjob, mentions of blood ( reader bites jon's lip on accident whoops ), oral ( f! recieving ), jon having a praise k!nk, jon having literally no self-control, reader calling jon a crow about a thousand times lmao, minimal use of Y/N, lmk if i missed anything!
word count ― .ﾟ ˖ 3k +
pairing ― .ﾟ ˖ jon snow x fem!rayder!reader.
author’s note ― .ﾟ ˖ jon snow is so babygirl
honestly loved writing this, lmk what you think! also, should i make a part two with ygritte involved ?? wink wink
When you first saw the darkness of his furs sticking out so flamboyantly against the white of the northern snow, you knew Ygritte had struck gold on her hunt with the others.
You watched with a cautious but intrigued look on your face as she pulled him along behind her by a long rope tied around his hands, cradling a longsword in the crook of her arm with a wide smile on her face. But, the look on the crow's face seemed to be the total opposite.
Everything about him was dark, from his ratted furs to his hair that looked like it hadn't been given a good wash in ages, to even the disgruntled frown that didn't seem to leave his face until Ygritte finally untied him from his restraints. He was a crow, through and through.
You had seen plenty men of the Night's Watch before―even killed a few―but the one who stood before you as you made your way into your father's council tent was different. His eyes were a deep, darling brown, holding a youth that couldn't have been any older than your own. Most of the crows you had captured were all old and gray, not nearly as attractive and brooding as this one.
You didn't know there was such a thing.
"Where'd you find this one?" you whispered to Ygritte, your voice low enough for only her ears, your eyes raking over his figure that seemed disproportioned from the thick of the furs and leathers he wore.
"About a few miles north of the wall," she told you, watching him just as closely as you were. "He was just too pretty to pass up." The two of you shared a laugh as she handed you the young crow's sword, heavy and dull in its scabbard.
The Lord of Bones pushed him roughly towards the man sitting in the center of the tent, biting into a hunk of meat as if it were his last meal.
"I smell a crow," Tormund muffled with his mouth full, turning his head barely enough to get a good look at the young man. His scowl hadn't changed, if anything worsened since being shoved into the large tent.
His name had been Jon Snow, which he revealed to Tormund just before kneeling before him and muttering your grace. The entire tent seemed to bustle with laughter at the attempt of respect, you and Ygritte sending each other a knowing look as the crow's face reddened with embarrassment. Tormund may have looked and fought like one, but he was no king.
"Stand boy," a voice hidden in the back of the tent sounded, silencing everyone in the room within a matter of seconds. Your father, Mance Rayder, unveiled himself from the shadowy corner room behind Tormund, looking down upon Jon Snow as he stood.
Jon was quick to rise to his feet, looking up at him as the man stood taller than even Tormund. "We don't kneel for anyone beyond the wall."
Slowly, you moved towards your father from Ygritte's side, resting your hands on the hilt of the crow's sword as you allowed it to stand in front of you. Your father always valued your opinion when coming to decisions over the free folk, and this matter was no different.
Your eyes had hardened by now, catching Jon's gaze with a look that could only be interpreted as defensive. No matter how pretty you thought he was, he was still a man of the Night's watch. Your enemy infiltrating your land.
You watched him carefully as he went on to explain why he had left the Night's Watch, telling your father about the things he had seen in Craster's Keep.
"And why would that make you want to abandon your brothers?" Mance asked, his voice low and gravelly. His words seemed to intimidate the young man, his eyes flitting away from your father's before moving back to them hesitantly.
"Answer the question," you growled, leaning in towards him with a malice that couldn't help but send a chill down his spine. His eyes shot to yours, wondering why you were making such commands in the presence of Mance Rayder.
He explained how the Night's Watch did nothing to prevent Craster from giving up his newborn son to the white walkers, creatures that had been known to be gone for centuries.
"I want to fight for the side that fights for the living," he told your father, sparing you only a quick look as you stepped back to Mance's side. "Did I come to the right place?"
Mance mulled over the boy's words before looking down at you, the look on his face clear that he wanted your opinion. "What do you say, girl? Shall the baby crow stay?"
As you held his sword close to your chest, you stepped closer to Jon, your face inches from his as you gave him a good look over. He seemed nervous, his breathy shaky as it blew past his lips.
"I say he can," you paused, circling around him before meeting his gaze once more with a sly smrik on your lips. "But he stays with me."
He didn't speak much to you at first―or anyone really―only saying a few words when needed to and biting his tongue when you made some snide remark or called him a crow.
Since you had taken the responsibility of monitoring him, you practically stuck to Jon like glue until nightfall―as did many other girls in your camp, including Ygritte. She was an exception, but you had to keep running the rest of them off since their eagerness to catch a glimpse of him drove them to fights and quarrels in the snow.
Not to degrade any of the people in your camp, but men that looked like Jon Snow were not a common sight in free folk territory.
After showing him around the camp and getting him a new set of furs made of polar bear skin and boiled leather, you eventually gave him Longclaw back―which was what he called that heavy sword of his. He was grateful, but his disgruntled frown hardly left his face.
"Lose the frown, Jon Snow," you had told him as he joined you and Ygritte for dinner around the fire you had built near your tent. "You're not in the South anymore. There's no need to look so miserable."
When nightfall finally took the sky, you escorted Jon to your tent with a mischievous smirk on your face, earning looks from other wilding girls―most of them being of annoyance or jealousy. Their glares didn't go unnoticed by Jon, a look of confusion and concern evident on his face.
"Are they always like this?" he asked sheepishly, looking over his shoulder as the two of you stood still in front of the flaps of your tent.
You couldn't help but laugh, the scowls on their faces feral and sour as you led him into your tent.
"You're the first pretty crow they've seen in ages, Jon Snow," you told him with a grin. "They'll claw each other's eyes out to lay naked with you."
Your words seemed to surprise him, but he didn't say anything as a reddish tint rose in his cheeks. He had never been with a girl, he was too young before he joined The Watch, and his vows forbade him from lying with a woman. He had never gotten the chance, so the idea couldn't help but intrigue him.
"Your furs are over there," you pointed to the makeshift bed across from yours, "Though I know you'll be far much warmer over here with me."
He disregarded your comment, silent as he made his way over to his side of the tent and tried not to think too hard about laying with you.
It wasn't a large tent, your furs only a mere few feet from his. You still laid rather close despite being on separate sides.
Beginning to undo your outer layers and shedding them off, you were left in only a thin undershirt and pants that barely left anything to the imagination as you sat across from him.
Jon's eyes widened.
You could feel his eyes on you, his cheeks flushed at the sight of your hardened nipples poking through the fabric as you reached over to light a few candles between the two of you to brighten up the tent. He felt a sting of guilt run through his chest; he didn't want to betray his vows, or even think about betraying them, but you were making it very difficult for him to abstain on his side of the tent.
"What, have you never seen a woman's body before, crow?" you said playfully as you undid your hair from the braid it had been pulled back in all day, tousling it with your tired fingers to get ready for bed.
Jon only widened his eyes, gulping rather harshly as his lips parted, catching your eyes that seemed to be filled with nothing but seduction.
"What do you care?" he looked away, the tension too much for him to bare. His cheeks were flaming red at this point, embarrassment flaring in his chest. He could feel his hard-on begin to grow under his thick trousers, hoping to the Old Gods you couldn't see.
"Oh, right," you said sarcastically. "The Night's Watch will hack your hand off if you even think about touching a woman, is that right? Miserable bastards."
Jon tried to protest, his words caught dead in his mouth as you cut him off abruptly.
"Have you ever laid with a woman, Jon Snow?" you asked lowly, sitting up from your spot on your warm furs before slowly starting to crawl over to him, sultry laced thickly in your voice.
He shook his head, his eyes wide and blown out with lust. You were dangerously close to him, sitting down in front of him with your legs tucked neatly beneath you as you leaned in towards him.
"Do you want to?" you said slyly, your lips inches from his.
Your hand slowly reached out for his, grasping it gently before bringing it to your breast and allowing him to cup it. A shaky sigh blew past his plump lips, his gaze flitting down to your chest as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over your sensitive nipple gently.
The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think. Before he could remember the vow that he had made not long ago. Your sweet scent of firewood and pine was like truth serum to his senses. "More than anything."
His gentle, pleading words were enough for you to bring your lips to his, enveloping in the taste of him as you moved swiftly onto his lap, lips moving in sync hungrily as if he would be your last.
His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against his hard chest. As you lowered your hips down onto his lap, you could feel him hard against your core, making you gasp in surprise.
You laughed gently under your breath in excitement as his eyes fluttered shut, not being able to help yourself as you began to slowly grind against him, earning a low and shaky whimper from his throat.
It was like music to your ears; his soft whimpers and pants. When you had been with other wildling men, they grunted and groaned as they worked their way in and out of you, almost animalistic. Jon was different.
"Do you like it when I do this?" You cooed in his ear. His moans were soft and desperate as he yearned for more of your touch, his hands gentle and needy as they grasped at your hips and worked you across his lap slowly.
He had no idea how much of an effect it had on you. How his exasperated pants made something foreign blossom in your chest and spread down to your lower half.
"Please," he begged as he pulled away from your lips, looking up at you with an adoration you had never seen from any free folk. You had him wrapped around your finger, drunk on your warm touch. Nothing could've riled you up more.
"You can have me however you want," you promised him, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. Slowly, you pulled your undershirt off over your head before wriggling out of your thin pants, leaving your body bare and on display for him. "You're mine now, Jon Snow."
Your hand traveled down slowly between your bodies, running over the front of his trousers and cupping his hard-on, dancing your fingers across it tauntingly. "But first, let me help you with this."
Your fingers quickly worked at the ties at his trousers, pulling it open and helping him get rid of them before assisting him in removing his heavy furs and leathers and throwing them to the side, leaving him bare and warm beneath you, his pale, toned skin burning against your own.
Carefully, you sat back down on his lap, sitting at the edge of his knees so you could get a good look at him splayed out before you. Excitement buzzed in your chest at the sight of his reddened tip, leaking with precum practically begging to be touched.
With a soft look, your hand grasped his hardened cock gently, making him shudder at the sudden contact.
The feeling was foreign to him; Sure, he had used his own hand once or twice to relieve himself when he was feeling desperate, but his calloused and thick hands didn't compare to your small, soft, and experienced ones as you began to pump him gently.
"O-Oh," he sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as you rubbed him carefully, allowing your forehead to press gently to his. You could feel his soft, warm pants fanning against your face, gentle moans falling from his lips every so often.
"You're so good for me," you whispered to him, your thumb running over the slit at the head of his cock, earning a shaky gasp from him. Your lips peppered kisses against his, before moving slowly to his cheeks and working your way down his jaw tauntingly.
The feeling of your lips leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along the skin of his neck and collarbone made him ecstatic. He didn't know what he had done to earn such a heavenly gift from the gods, but he knew he never wanted this to end. He never wanted to be without your touch.
"F-Fuck," he whined, entranced by the look of desire in your eyes as you rubbed him.
His toned stomach contracted gently, his abs tensing as he inched closer and closer to his release. His moans became more guttural, incoherent mumbles to the sound of your name filling your ears.
"I'm g-gonna-" he warned, his eyes fluttering shut. But, before he could finish his sentence, hot, white spurts of his release shot onto his stomach, painting him sinfully as a shaky groan rumbled in his chest in response. It lit something inside you, the way he trembled beneath your touch and moaned your name as if it were a prayer. You could drown in it.
Carefully, you reached for the undershirt you had thrown off and wiped his stomach clean, not caring you had dirtied it and would have to wash it by hand on the morrow.
A calm silence fell between you, allowing his forehead to fall to the crook of your neck as his hands snaked around your waist, pulling your chest flush against his. Your warmth was something he wanted to live in forever. He never wanted to leave this tent.
"You're so-" he mumbled against your skin, his breath faltering as he tried to find the right words. "You're so good at that."
You couldn't help but blush. The way he worshipped you made you ecstatic, your hands raking through his dark curls as you tilted his head up to look at you.
"Can I kiss you?" he rasped. His eyes were full of want, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as he pawed at the flesh of your thigh. Carefully, you moved to bring your lips to his with a wide grin but he stopped you, pulling his head to the side tauntingly.
He shook his head gently. "Not there."
You didn't understand what he meant. Kiss you where?
Cautiously, he pulled you off of his lap and laid you down on the soft furs, his body hovering over yours as he slotted himself in between your legs.
He began to make his way down your body with gentle kisses, nipping at your supple skin as he trailed from the crook of your neck to all the way down between your plush thighs, leaving little love bites in the wake of his mouth as he inched dangerously close to where you needed him most.
"Getting brave, aren't we?" you taunt, his hands moving to tuck your legs onto his shoulders before he gripped your hips with both of his hands firmly, holding you in place as you could feel his warm breath fanning against your glistening core.
He ignored your snide remark, wasting no time before licking a clean stripe against your cunt and beginning to work away at you, his eyes fluttering shut at the sound of your euphoric moans.
Your face contorted with pleasure as you felt his lips wrap around your clit, gently sucking at it, before cautiously bringing his middle and ring fingers to your core and allowing them to curl in an upward motion blissfully.
You had never felt anything like this before. The way his tongue moved against your folds made you ecstatic, wondering what they put in the southern water to make him so good at what he was doing.
"J-Jon," you gasped, your fingers combing through his dark locks and giving them a good tug, earning a moan from him as it vibrated against your core and only pushed you closer to your high. Your thighs clenched around his head in an attempt to pull him closer to you, the tip of his nose brushing up against your clit just enough to make you jolt with a shaky gasp.
He enticed moans out of you like never before, licking and sucking at your core in ways you didn't even know were possible. He seemed so skilled for claiming to have never touched a woman before. Could he have been lying to you?
Your eyes practically rolled to the back of your head as you saw his hips begin to grind slowly against the furs as he lapped away at your core, his cock hard once more from the sweet taste of you. Moans grumbled in his chest as he squeezed your thighs tighter, his fingers sure to leave bruises on your supple skin.
The abrupt feeling of his fingers pulling out of your core made you whine. But his tongue entering you was enough to make you see stars, your back arching up off the soft furs as you could feel the tight coil in your stomach begin to snap.
Your wanton moans filled his ears, loud enough to be heard by the rest of the camp, but you didn't care. Your only concern was him and your climax—which wasn't far off.
"Gods!" your heel dug into the middle of his muscular back as you gripped the furs at your side, your orgasm washing over you unlike ever before. Your thighs trembled gently around Jon's head, his mouth pulling away from your core, his chin glistening with your release as he watched you with a lazy smile while you writhed in pleasure before him.
He pulled himself up so he was hovering over you once more, his face a mere few inches from yours as your chest heaved up and down, coming down from your high. Your eyelids felt heavy as he gripped your hip, and the sheer look of lust in his eyes made your lips crash against his hungrily.
You could taste your release on his lips as his tongue slipped into your mouth, not even thinking before wrapping your legs around his waist and flipping him over on the furs, now sitting on his lap as he laid breathlessly beneath you.
You smiled at the way he looked up at you with want, his hands playing with the flesh of your ass impatiently. His hardened cock beneath your wet core made it hard for you to concentrate, but you still managed to roll your hips against his tauntingly.
"Just lay there, sweet. Let me give you what you want," you rasped, your hands splayed flat on his chest as your teasing became nearly unbearable for him.
"Please," he pleaded. "I need to feel you."
Slowly, you brought your hand to grasp him gently, giving him a few pumps before guiding him towards your entrance as you hovered over him, your eyes not leaving his as you sank down onto him.
Relieved moans left your mouths in unison, your cunt stretching around him sweeter than he could imagine. Your warmth made his heart flutter, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he waited for you to move.
Soft whimpers filled the space between you as your hips slowly began to roll across his lap, your nails raking down the front of his toned chest as you fell into a steady pace. His mind was fogged with the sheer sight of you on top of him, finding the gentle bounce of your breasts with every movement entrancing.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he breathed, his head falling back as he screwed his eyes shut, which couldn't help but send a wave of pleasure straight to your core. You couldn't help yourself when your fingers trailed to your clit and began to rub the sensitive bundle of nerves back and forth, clenching around his length with each roll of your hips.
"Gods," he cursed, sitting up from his spot on the soft furs as you still guided your hips back and forth on his cock.
Your arm automatically slung around his broad shoulders as his own pulled you closer to him by your waist while he propped himself up with his free hand, allowing him to thrust up inside of you and reach deeper than before.
The way the tip of his cock just barely brushed your cervix enraptured you. You were finding it very hard to believe that he had never done this before.
"Right there," you panted out, gripping his bare shoulder so hard your fingernails were sure to leave tiny crescent indents in his skin. His pace quickened, slowly becoming more desperate and sloppy as your moans grew with it. You were sure the entire camp could've heard the lot of you by now.
His lips met yours in an instant, a poor attempt on Jon's part at silencing you as best he could. You allowed his tongue to roam your mouth, your fingers collecting at the nape of his neck to hold him closer to you. But to his surprise―with a sudden thrust of his hips―your teeth caught his bottom lip with a moan.
"Ahh," he hissed, the metallic taste of blood collecting at the front of his mouth. He pulled back, panting heavily as the look of lust didn't leave his eyes. Your lips were reddened and wet, and the way your tongue poked out barely to wipe them clean made a low groan rumble in his chest.
Within an instant, he smashed his lips back onto yours, pushing you back so you were laying flat on the furs now with his hips between your legs, his length still inside of you as he wasted no time to begin a steady pace pistoning in and out of you messily.
"Jon!" you moaned, his cock stretching you perfectly with each thrust. His lips attacked at the supple skin of your neck, peppering little love bites trailing down over your collarbone. You could feel him wince between moans against your skin as your nails dug into his back uncontrollably, leaving long, reddened welts along his pale skin.
Your fingers trailed slowly up to his hair, giving it a good tug as you brought his lips to yours. Your movements earned a low grumble in the back of his throat in response, his hips beginning to stutter as he could feel his climax rising.
You weren't far off either, with his sweet, incandescent moans that made the coil in your stomach tighten filling your ears. "Are you gonna come for me, baby?"
A guttural moan ripped through Jon's throat at your soft whispers, unable to form words as he nodded his head breathlessly. You could feel his cock twitch inside of you, his last few thrusts hard and deep before pulling out of you—just enough to send you over the edge of your high.
You swiftly propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless from your climax as he pumped his shaft a few times before releasing himself all over your stomach and chest. His face contorted with pleasure as you watched him with amazement, a sly smirk creeping on your face as he came hard.
A gentle silence fell between the two of you as he caught his breath, moving to lay next to you on the soft furs and wrapping his arm around your waist before pulling you close to his side. His warmth burned against your cheek as you laid your head on his chest, running your fingers lazily across his skin.
"You were right," he whispered against your hair, pressing a kiss to your head as you snuggled your face into the crook of his neck. You smiled against his skin, "How so?"
You lifted your head up, meeting his darling brown eyes as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
it's jamie's birthday! the day is filled with laughter, cake and a surprise he's been begging you for (for a long, long time)*. ⋆2.5k words
cw: smut. fem!reader. recording during sex. making out. dry humping. piv. unprotected sex. 69ing. doggy style. face down, ass up. missionary. face slapping. spitting. choking. overstimulation. bit of manhandling. dirty talk. praise and degradation. pet names ("angel", "sweetheart", "slut"). creampie. lmk if i missed something!
a/n: i wish i had thought of this months ago, for his actual birthday😔anyway, remember english isn't my first language!
it’s james’ birthday, and the flat you call home feels charged from the second you wake up.
he’s been dropping hints for weeks, his ridiculous grin giving him away every time he says something like, “merlin, you know what’d be the hottest thing ever?” and then trailing off dramatically until you roll your eyes.
you know exactly what he wants—he’s begged, pleaded, pouted. and tonight, you’re finally giving in.
“love,” he breathes when he walks into the bedroom after his shower, hair damp and curling against his forehead, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. his eyes dart immediately to the tripod you’ve set up at the end of the bed. the little red recording light blinks steadily in the dim room. “you didn’t— bloody hell, you actually—”
“happy birthday, jamie” you say softly, suddenly shy under his stunned gaze.
james doesn’t move at first. he just stares, glasses sliding down his nose, his mouth parted like he can’t quite catch up with the moment. then he’s crossing the room in three long strides, crashing his lips to yours.
the kiss is messy, grateful, desperate. his tongue pushes into your mouth before you can even breathe, tasting of mint from his toothpaste, and you whimper into it, grabbing at his damp shirt. james groans like you’ve just handed him the world.
“best bloody gift i’ve ever got,” he pants against your mouth, already pressing you back onto the bed. “fuck, angel, you’re perfect. gonna make the hottest film anyone’s ever seen.”
you laugh breathlessly, though it melts into another moan when his knee wedges between your thighs, grinding up against your center. the camera’s little light winks at you both from the foot of the bed, but all you can focus on is james’ weight pinning you down, his mouth sucking at your bottom lip until you gasp.
his hand finds your jaw, tilting you so he can kiss you deeper, wetter. his tongue slides against yours, sloppy and filthy, spit shining your lips as he pulls back to look at you. “open a bit wider, angel— yeah, like that.” he leans down again, groaning when you let him devour your mouth, the slick sounds surely being caught by the camera.
you whimper when he rolls his hips, cock already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats. the friction makes your head spin.
“james—” you gasp when his fingers slide up your stomach, under the hem of your shirt. “the camera—”
“let it watch,” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw, down your throat. “want us both to see how good you look coming apart for me.”
he sucks a bruise against your pulse point and grinds down harder, the drag of his cock against your clothed pussy making your thighs tremble. you cling to his shoulders, rolling up against him.
“merlin, feel that? that’s all you, baby,” he groans, rutting up with no shame. “dry humping like bloody teenagers, yeah? but better. so much better.”
your laugh cuts off into a gasp when his hand slips into your panties, fingers finding your slit and sliding through the wetness. “already soaked for me,” he grins, voice wrecked. “god, the camera’s gonna love this.”
you buck into his hand, moaning when his thumb circles your clit. his tongue is back in your mouth before you can answer, swallowing every sound you make. the kiss is sloppy, hot, spit running down your chin as his fingers tease you, never quite giving enough pressure.
“james,” you whimper, hips jerking up.
“shh, angel, not yet.” he kisses you again, then pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “wanna take my time— want the tape to show how needy you get for me.”
your cheeks burn, but your body thrums with arousal, slick coating his fingers even as he just rubs lightly at your folds. james moans into your mouth, clearly as turned on by your desperation as you are by his teasing.
when he finally slides one finger inside you, curling just right, you cry out, your back arching off the bed. the camera catches everything—the way your lips part, the way james grins like the cat that got the cream, the way you rut against his hand like you’d let him do this forever.
and he kisses you through it all, tongue fucking your mouth just as his finger fucks your cunt, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you pressed tight against him.
“gonna make you beg before i fuck you,” he murmurs against your spit-slick lips.
james pulls his hand from your panties slowly, deliberately, smearing your wetness over your inner thigh before licking his fingers clean right in front of the camera. his eyes go half-lidded as he sucks them into his mouth, moaning low in his chest.
“christ, baby,” he groans, popping his fingers free with a lewd sound. “you always taste so sweet”
you squirm under his gaze, chest rising and falling too fast. “jamie—”
“shh,” he says, grinning, “birthday boy’s turn now.”
before you can answer, he’s tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them to the floor. he nudges your thighs apart, lowering himself between them like he’s worshiping. his big hands press your knees wider until you’re spread open for him, pussy glistening in the warm light of the bedroom.
the camera’s red light blinks at the foot of the bed, and you realize it has the perfect angle: james’ messy hair buried between your legs, your cunt on full display. the thought makes you clench around nothing.
“fuck, you’re so pretty,” james murmurs, his breath hot against your folds. then his tongue is on you, long and flat, licking a stripe up your slit until it flicks against your clit. you cry out, fisting the sheets, your back arching.
he moans into you like it’s the best meal he’s ever had, slurping shamelessly, loud enough that the camera surely catches every wet sound. he licks into you, nose nudging your clit, then drags his tongue back up to circle it, flicking fast until your hips are jerking against his face.
“james— fuck—”
“that’s it, angel,” he growls into your cunt, his tongue pressing deep again. he eats you like he’s starving, like he could live here between your thighs. he doesn’t care how messy it is; spit and slick drip down his chin as he groans against you, rutting into the mattress just from the taste of you.
your thighs tremble, hands clutching at his curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan. he slides one hand up to squeeze your breast through your shirt, the other pinning your hip so you can’t move away from his mouth. he sucks your clit into his mouth suddenly, hard, and your vision whites out.
“james— oh my god.”
you’re shaking, right on the edge, but before you can tip over he pulls back, face wet, pupils blown. “not yet. want to try something for the camera.”
you blink down at him, breathless, as he climbs back up the bed. he strips his shirt off in one motion, muscles flexing, before tugging down his sweats and boxers. his cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and your mouth waters.
“c’mon, love,” he says, already maneuvering you. “birthday boy wants a sixty-nine.”
you let him guide you, climbing on top of him until you’re straddling his chest, your knees on either side of his head. the camera has the perfect view now: your ass in the air, james’ cock thick and hard against his stomach, your lips stretching around the head as you lean down.
“fuck yes,” he groans when you take him in your mouth. “god, that looks so fucking hot.”
you moan around him when his tongue licks up your slit again, the vibration making him buck into your throat. you swallow him deeper, your spit dripping down his shaft as you bob your head.
he groans into your pussy, the sounds half-choked by your weight on his face.
the camera records every filthy detail: your drool running down his cock, the obscene squelch of his tongue inside you, the way your thighs shake as he sucks your clit hard.
you gag when his hips buck, but instead of pulling back, you moan, your throat working around him. he nearly sobs into your cunt, hips jerking again.
“bloody hell, baby, gonna cum if you keep doing that.” he pants, but his tongue never slows. he’s relentless, eating you like a man obsessed.
your orgasm hits fast and hard, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out around his cock. he groans against you, drinking down every drop, until you collapse forward, chest heaving.
james pulls his mouth from your dripping cunt with a gasp. “you look like a fucking wet dream right now”
he helps you off him gently, laying you flat before flipping you onto your stomach.
“need to fuck you now, angel,” he growls, climbing behind you.
he props a pillow under your hips, spreading your knees wide until your ass is arched perfectly for the camera. his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing, before he pushes in all the way with one hard thrust.
you scream into the sheets, your walls clenching around him.
“look at that,” james groans, grabbing your hips, fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts. “camera’s catching the way your cunt sucks me in— fuck, baby, you’re dripping all over me.”
the angle is obscene: your ass bouncing with every thrust, his cock splitting you open, wetness shining on his length as he slams into you. he groans loudly, one hand sliding up your back until it presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest flat to the mattress.
“yeah, that’s it,” he pants, fucking harder. “just like that, perfect little whore for me.”
you moan into the sheets, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels. his grip on your hips is bruising, pulling you back onto his cock each time he drives in. the bed creaks, the headboard slamming against the wall, the camera catching every filthy sound.
“jamie— fuck.” you sob, your cunt clenching around him.
“say it for the camera,” he groans, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “say you love being fucked like this.”
“i love it!” you cry out, voice breaking. “love it when you fuck me like this, oh my god—”
james moans like he’s possessed, rutting into you harder, his cock hitting deep, wet slaps filling the room.
“gonna make you cum all over me, love, right here for the camera.” he growls.
and when his fingers find your clit, rubbing fast, you do—screaming into the bed as your whole body convulses, cunt gripping him so tight he nearly loses it.
james doesn’t stop even after you collapse from your orgasm, cheek pressed into the sheets, sweat cooling on your skin. his thrusts keep coming, deep and ruthless, cock dragging through your fluttering cunt.
you whimper, muffled into the mattress. “j-james, i—”
he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hand gripping the side of your throat just enough to tilt your face toward the camera. “look at that, sweetheart,” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to make the headboard slam. “already shaking, and i’m nowhere near done. gotta make this tape long enough, don’t we?”
the camera light blinks, recording every ragged sob that leaves your mouth, every slap of his hips against your ass. he grinds his cock into you on each thrust, pulling moans from you that sound obscene.
“face down,” he orders, pressing your cheek fully into the mattress. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pinning you there. the angle makes him feel impossibly deep, the weight of his body holding you in place as he pounds into you.
“james— oh god.” you sob, muffled.
“fuck, you sound wrecked,” he groans, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, sweat dripping onto your skin. “gonna watch this back and stroke my cock to the sound of you crying on my dick.”
the words make you clench around him, a choked scream muffled by the sheets.
he laughs, breathless. “yeah, you love it. my filthy little slut, letting me record you like this. christ, your cunt’s milking me—”
he pulls out suddenly, leaving you gaping and dripping, before flipping you onto your back in one rough motion. you gasp at the sudden exposure, thighs still trembling.
james doesn’t give you time to breathe. he hooks your knees over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half as he lines himself up and slams back into you. the wet sound makes both of you groan.
the camera has the perfect shot now: your tits bouncing, your cunt swallowing his cock, his abs flexing as he fucks you hard.
“open your mouth,” he pants. you do, dazed, and he spits right onto your tongue. “swallow it.”
you obey instantly, whining as you do, and he moans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
“fuck yes! such a good girl.”
his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing lightly as his thrusts grow faster.
your head tips back, eyes rolling, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he slaps your cheek with his free hand, not hard, just enough to make you moan.
“stay awake for me, sweetheart. wanna see those pretty eyes while i fuck the soul out of you.”
you sob, nails clawing at his back, your body jerking with every thrust. “too much— jamie, it’s too much—”
“shhh,” he growls, tightening his hand on your throat just enough to make your head swim. “you can take it. my perfect slut can always take it.”
his thumb rubs your clit suddenly, viciously, and you scream, cumming so hard your vision whites out. your cunt clamps down on his cock, gushing around him, soaking his thighs.
“fuck, baby” james’ hips stutter, but he doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm. “you’re dripping everywhere, christ, it’s all over me.”
you’re shaking, whimpering, but he just grins down at you, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. “not done yet.”
he pulls out again, your slick glistening on his cock, before shoving back in with a groan. his rhythm turns punishing, desperate.
you’re overstimulated, tears streaking your face, but the pressure builds again anyway, unbearable.
“james— fuck— i can’t—”
“yes, you can,” he growls, slapping your tit hard enough to make you jolt. “gonna cum for me again. gonna do it on camera so i can watch you fall apart anytime i want.”
your nails dig into his arms, body shaking, as he slams into you, the wet sounds echoing in the room. he squeezes your throat tighter, his pace erratic now.
“cum with me, angel,” he groans, voice wrecked. “one more, wanna see you fucking lose it.”
the words tip you over. you convulse around him, screaming his name, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. james throws his head back, moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear, as he empties himself inside you, thick and hot.
he fucks his cum into you, hips grinding, until both of you are shaking, sweat-soaked, the sheets ruined beneath you.
finally, he collapses onto your chest, panting, kissing your throat lazily. the camera light still blinks, catching your ruined bodies, the mess between your thighs, the dazed look in your eyes.
james lifts his head just enough to grin at the camera. “best birthday present ever.”
'i'd watch the world burn down just to see you in the lighting of the embers' - faouzia
cw: NSFW 18+, dark!james potter, cheating, oral (f), fingering, unprotected p in v, james and reader are childhood best friends, poor lily, i play with pov a lot in this, open for a part 2….?
5.5k words
james potter masterlist
°˖✧✿✧˖°
You glow.
Like actually, properly glow. Everything about you shines so brightly that James has no choice but to stare, trying to absorb it and take it all in, though it never feels like he can get enough.
People say the same thing about him. Like the Sun, relentlessly cosmic and helplessly necessary for all it touches. But if you’re the Sun, James is your Moon. Your light shines for everyone, and his light shines for you. It’s always been that way. He can’t help but find himself caught in your orbit.
Even when he shouldn’t. Especially when he shouldn’t.
“You’re staring.” It’s Remus’ voice that speaks up from his side, startling him enough to make him jump. The sudden movement just makes the sandy haired man raise his eyebrows. James scoffs and rolls his eyes, because what else can he do? He’s been caught.
“I was looking at my best friend, yes.” James runs a hand through his chocolate-colored curls and shoots Remus a slanted grin. “She looks good tonight, doesn’t she?”
Remus looks disappointed, though James is accustomed to it at this point, recognizing the downward tilt of his friend’s mouth. For one, there’s the notable absence of Lily at his side. And, of course, Lily is also the second reason why Remus is disappointed in James right now, too. Though, that one should be obvious.
“Where’s Lily?” Remus’ eyes dart between James and you a few times before settling on his friend’s face again. “Does she know you’re here?”
James’ eye twitches. He doesn’t know if Remus sees it or not. “She does,” He responds shortly, taking a long gulp of his drink, “Couldn’t make it. Ministry thing.”
“Really?” Remus’ exhale is just short of a scoff. He crosses his arms across his chest. “James-”
“It’s fine, Remus. You know how we are.” As the words leave James’ mouth, you look up. Somehow, you brighten even further when you see him, and he inhales like he’s walked outside, taking in fresh air, his smile unconsciously widening.
“Yes, I think that’s the problem-” Remus’ words are overshadowed by your inevitable arrival. You slide into James’ side, slotting into your place under his arm without hesitation. You fit perfectly against him, as you always have. Perhaps having been at his side like this throughout childhood molded his body to fit your own. Remus remembers seeing the two of you sitting on the train ride to Hogwarts together for the first time just like this, though both of you much younger, shorter with chubbier baby faces.
“Hi, boys!” You greet happily, your smile stunning and your face flushed. It’s clear to both of them that you’ve had a few drinks. Your arm snakes around James’ back, your fingers sliding under the soft fabric of his t-shirt to trace his side. You turn your neck to look up at him and his dark irises are there to meet yours when you do. You give James a smile so sickly sweet Remus thinks he might get a cavity, then you turn your gaze back toward him. “How are we?”
“I’m alright,” Remus says with a nod and a pointed look in James’ direction. “How are you, love? You look a bit… knackered.”
You laugh brightly, running your free hand through your hair. “I’m fine, Remus! Besides, James is here to look out for me.” Your hand behind him pats his back a few times, then stills there against the slight curve at the base of his spine. Something about it makes James’ brain feel a little more drunk than he is. Remus looks uncertain about your answer.
You suddenly brighten more, pulling back from James’ arms to look at him again. “Dance with me!” He registers the music flowing through the flat. No one else is dancing. But you don’t care.
He takes your hand. Remus sends him a warning glare. James goes anyway.
The two of you begin to sway in the middle of Sirius and Remus’ living room. James touches you, but not the way he wants to. His hands stay in yours, on your arms, or find themselves busy twirling you around. You laugh prettily, swaying and running into him as the alcohol continues to flow through your veins.
By the end of the night, the two of you are spent, throats sore from shouting over the music and heads spinning from firewhiskey. You tell him about your new flat, about the uneasy feeling that overtakes you when you’re alone. The offer falls from his tongue easily, sweet and smooth like honey when he whispers in your ear.
“You can stay with me tonight,” He says, and he sees the way you shiver when his lips accidentally brush the shell of your ear. He gets the sudden urge to bite down, to wedge bits of your flesh between his teeth and keep them there.
You agree to go home with him, and you sleep in his bed, in his arms. Just like you used to.
Nothing happens between the two of you, though it takes every bit of self control that James possesses. That thing deep inside him, hidden behind his ribs and tangled within all his organs, lays dormant.
The monster agrees that tonight is not the night.
Lily comes home mid-afternoon, looking incredibly exhausted. James is there when she floos in, lifting her bag for her with a quick wave of his wand and placing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t lean into him like she always does. Instead, her lips purse as she lets James take her hand and levitate her bag up the staircase toward the bedroom. Her fiery curls frame her face, her eyes sharp and gaze intentional.
“Y’alright, love?” James asks, tugging the end of one flaming ringlet. It bounces before falling back into place with the others. She keeps her fierce eyes on him, not moving away but not relaxing into him either. James’ stomach churns with a disgustingly familiar discomfort, the same way it does when his body knows someone is upset with him, even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet.
“Where were you last night?” Lily asks, her voice soft and sweet and just as lovely as the first time James heard it. The melody of her tone doesn’t help the tight grip destroying his intestines, though.
“At Remus and Sirius’ flat, I told you that.” James runs a hand through his curls, the brunette waves parting easily as the pads of his fingers slide between them. It’s soothing, comforting in a small way, mimicking the way you used to do it growing up.
“And then you came back here?” Lily’s follow up question is pointed, accompanied by the crossing of her arms over her middle. She leans on one hip and James feels the sparking tension of a fight, with Lily urging him to light the match and ignite the angry flames that threaten to ruin them both.
“Yes.” James’ tone is defensive. He stands up straighter, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing in his girlfriend’s direction. There’s another question coming. Maybe several. He doesn’t want an interrogation right now.
“Alone?” And there it is. It always comes back to you.
“Lily-”
“Remus told me that she left with you, James.” Lily shifts to the other hip, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows. Her hair falls in the way sparks do as a firework dies, bright and attention-catching. It highlights the growing upset in her expression.
“Yes, she did. She was drunk, so I let her sleep here.” James’ head shakes and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. He meets her eyes again directly, brown clashing with green. “I wanted to make sure she was safe. She said she feels uneasy in her new flat.”
“Oh yes, making sure she was safe, I’m sure that’s it, James.” Lily rolls her eyes, taking off her jacket and tossing it aside. It lands on the back of the couch, destroying the pristine setting. “And where did she sleep?”
James takes a long breath to calm himself down, eyelids opening slowly and gaze looking unimpressed. “Lils, her and I have slept in the same bed since we were-“
“In diapers, yes I know.” Lily rolls her eyes again, this time more dramatically. Or, at least, James thinks she’s being dramatic. You’re only his best friend, after all. “But don’t you think it’s too much? You’re adults now, and you have a girlfriend. Or did you forget?”
“Of course I didn’t forget!” James feels his anger like bugs crawling underneath his skin. “She’s my best friend, and she always has been. You’ve known that since our first year at Hogwarts, Lily-”
“Sometimes, I feel like you treat her more like your girlfriend and me more like your best friend.” Lily’s voice is sharp and precise, striking exactly where she needs to in order to pierce James’ emotional armor. Except, it seems to only piss him off more. He sighs again, exasperatedly running a hand down his face.
“Lily-”
“Have you kissed her?” Each word sharper than a knife, demanding an answer. When she doesn’t immediately receive one, her eyebrows raise higher, the look in her eyes growing somehow even more intense. “Well?”
“I mean, not since fifth year.” James’ scrambled words are clearly not enough for Lily, who throws her arms up with frustration and turns away from him. Her hands rub over her face. James grabs her shoulder gently, turning her around to face him again. “It was only the once, we’ve never kissed again.”
Lily looks directly into his eyes, and James can’t tell what she’s thinking. But he knows what he’s thinking, and it’s that this conversation would never have happened at all if it was you in front of him and not Lily. You’ve always been soft with him, sweet and accommodating, accepting of every part of him. And you, you’re practically a part of him at this point.
“James, I’ve told you, I just don’t think she-”
“Lily, if you’re going to continue getting jealous of my best friend, this isn’t going to work.” The words tumble from his lips before he even registers what he’s saying. All he can think of is you. He wants to be with you. Away from here. Away from this fighting, this tension.
Lily looks a bit like her world is crumbling around her. James had chased her for so long, begged her to spare even a minute of her time. He’s loved her for as long as he can remember, he’s not sure if he knows how to un-love her. But if Lily can’t accept you as a part of his life, then he knows who his priority would be in that choice.
“James.” Lily’s voice is a bit hollow, her hand reaches in his direction but doesn’t touch him. Her brows furrow, her lips turn even further downward, and her gaze becomes a bit unsteady the way it always does when her brain is racing. “You can’t-”
“I mean it, Lily. If you ask me to choose between you and her, I’ll pick her.” James is tense, his muscles tight and ready to move, to leave.
A different look comes across Lily’s face now, one of offense. She looks taken aback by his words and the shaking of her head speeds up. “James, no. I would never ask you to do that.”
He scoffs again, tone getting harsher and crueler each time he opens his mouth and moves his tongue. Lily’s never seen this side of him before, the part of him that lets darkness creep through his veins like poison and destroy everything in its path to get what it wants. “But isn’t that what you’re doing?”
Lily’s expression is becoming more desperate by the moment. She’s grasping for him, holding on as tightly as she can but he’s slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. She hasn’t felt this far from him in years, it’s isolating and she can’t seem to find her way out of this, back to him. “No, James. I’m just trying to-”
He cuts her off with a loud guffaw and a hand through his curls. His eyes are almost wild at this point, and there’s a small moment where Lily wonders just how angry James will let himself get. She’s not scared, but she wonders if maybe she should be.
“What you’re trying to do is separate me from my best friend. That’s not right, girlfriends shouldn’t do that.”
Lily holds her tongue and purses her lips, looking at her shoes. She hasn’t even taken them off yet.
James knows exactly what he’s doing. The monster inside of him claws at his insides, and he swears he can feel every cell screaming at him. He sees Lily cave in the way she never would have before. She was always so strong and lively, and his monster, his demon, has destroyed that. It doesn’t satisfy his craving, though, because Lily hasn’t satisfied the thing inside of him for a long time.
“I can’t do this.” James’ last words to Lily that night are spoken as he moves, a brisk few steps to the door and his hand reaches out for the handle. Lily wraps her arms tightly around her middle and wills herself to scream at him. She doesn’t, because she isn’t sure what she’ll say. There’s a part of her that’s afraid she’ll open her mouth and her tongue will form the words ‘please don’t go’ instead of ‘you shouldn’t speak to me that way, good riddance.’
So instead, she does nothing. And James leaves.
He closes his eyes and rests his neck on the back of Sirius and Remus’ couch. It’s comfortable, the space cozy and lived in, evidence of the lovers renting the place scattered around. James had always known Sirius and Remus would end up together. He’s only told them one time how fitting things would be if he ended up with you, after a few drinks and wedged together in a small alcove, smoking cigarettes in the rain. Sirius had laughed. Remus had stared at James like he was unsure of him.
Remus has always been the one who can see too deeply into James. Like maybe something about the monster deep inside Remus can sniff out the one buried within James.
The aforementioned man settles onto the cushion at the other end of the couch. It shifts enough that James can feel it, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He could recognize Remus’ scent anywhere, having spent countless nights next to him pouring over plans for pranks and the Marauder’s Map.
The faintest hint of chocolate and coffee, the musk of old, worn book pages, and the underlying touch of something distinctly Remus.
“I know you told Lily.” James says, deep tone cutting through the air as he turns his head. He finally peels his eyelids apart, readjusting to the dim light of the cozy living room. He hates the way it reminds him of the Gryffindor common room.
“Of course I told Lily.” Remus doesn’t snap, his tone digging into James without being sharp. Like he can reach down into the deep, dark pits of James’ insides without cutting into him at all. “James-”
He cuts Remus off. The monster rears its ugly head again, growling and writhing in that space within his ribcage.
“I didn’t fucking cheat, Remus.”
Remus just looks at James, unimpressed. “Might as well.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” James’ blood roars, his muscles tense, the vein in his forehead becoming prominent as he clenches his jaw.
“You know exactly what I mean, James. You’re far too close, and you know it. Lily knows it, too.” Remus stays calm, his eyes intense and focused directly on James. Each word is calculated, chosen for a specific reason James doesn’t have the privilege of grasping. He wonders just how many conversations Remus has had with Lily about him behind his back.
“Remus, we’ve always been like this! I don’t know why we left Hogwarts and now everyone acts like-”
“Because we’re adults now, James.” Remus sits forward, elbows on his knees, hands gesturing firmly as he speaks. “You aren’t second years cuddled in bed together during a storm anymore. You can’t just sleep with another woman when you’re with Lily.”
“I didn’t fucking cheat!”
“And that’s what I mean.” Remus’ eyes are almost as alight with emotions as James’ are. “You think that’s the end of it all! Like that matters.”
“Of course it matters!” James can’t even think at this point, his brain abuzz, moving too fast to grasp onto anything. Well… there is one thing he can grasp onto. A growing, living, dark thing.
“Does it?” Remus’ voice is practically a hiss now, and he stands. James does too, and he can feel the tips of his fingers tingle. The monster urges him to clench them into fists. He doesn’t.
“Let me ask you something, James. If she asked you to sleep with her, would you?”
James doesn’t answer immediately. They stare at each other, the air between them so sharp it feels like it could pierce every vulnerable spot James didn’t even know he had. He straightens himself again, gritting his teeth. The monster screams deep inside him.
“It doesn’t even matter anyway. I broke up with Lily.”
“You did what?” Remus is the one to clench his fists first, squaring his shoulders as he moves to his full height. James’ monster doesn’t like that, doesn’t like the way Remus can still tower over James despite his own intimidating height. “James, you-”
The two men don’t get the chance to escalate their conversation, cut short by an unwelcome interruption. It isn’t Sirius stumbling down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes and shouting about being woken up, though that would be understandable. Instead, it’s a steady, urgent tapping that sounds from the kitchen window. There, on the other side of the glass, is your owl.
Both men fall into a standstill, watching as the owl screeches and pecks at the window, a small piece of parchment tied to its scrawny leg. Remus moves then, lanky legs carrying him through the kitchen, long fingers prying at the window panes, a squeak filling the space as the glass sides open.
Your owl darts inside the moment it is given the chance. Its wings flap, fluttering as the bird finds a landing spot directly in front of James. The parchment tied to its leg reflects this choice, his name written on the front in your signature handwriting. James would know it anywhere.
He takes the parchment, untying the knot holding it with a quick tug. It comes loose in his palm, and Remus stands with pursed lips and a disappointed expression as James’ eyes scan over the flowy, inky words.
Remus knows it’s an invitation without James saying anything out loud. He watches the way James seems to brighten a bit, the intensity of his anger dimming as his dark pupils trace each word.
Remus watches James leave with a sick feeling low in his gut. He loves James, he does, but he can see the signs of his monster clear as day. Remus recognizes some of those same signs when he looks in the mirror, though his own monster was thrust upon him without choice. A cruel, unwanted companion.
He doesn’t think he can say the same for James.
“I’m sorry,” You say the moment James floos into your apartment, though there’s no reason for you to feel sorry. “I just- something feels off and I want to make sure-”
“Love, never be sorry for asking me to protect you.” James says with a comforting smile and he reaches out to ruffle your hair as he steps past you into the living room. His eyes take in your new apartment, the colorful decor a contrast from his own monochrome-toned flat with Lily.
You find that it immediately feels more comfortable with James here, though you knew it would. That’s why you invited him over. Your shoulders loosen, the tension that had been taking over your muscles fleeing your body the longer his sunny presence shines through your flat.
The two of you fall into each other like you always do. You order food delivery, cuddling up together on the couch and talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. You both pretend to ignore the way James’ hand continues to slide higher and higher up your thigh. The sun eventually falls below the horizon and for the second night in a row, you and James find yourself in bed together, limbs tangled despite every warning sign against it.
Tonight is different from last night. Tonight, James’ hand finds your thigh under the covers. Your eyes raise to meet his, or at least the faint glint you can see in the darkness of the bedroom. His palm is warm and slightly rough and you know he can feel the way your muscles are tensing underneath his touch. Your breath catches when the tips of his fingers dip below the hem of your shorts and your hand reaches out to grip his wrist.
“James…” Your voice trembles just a bit, but James catches it. He leans close enough to brush the tip of his nose against your own and you lean back, your heart betraying you as it threatens to beat out of your chest. “What about Lily?”
“Forget about Lily,” He whispers as he presses closer to you again. This time his hand slides up the hem of your shorts and he squeezes your inner thigh with an intensity that has you biting your lip. “I think we’re broken up.”
“Really?” You hate the way it comes out as a hopeful squeak, and you open your mouth to ask further questions but James stops you by sliding his middle finger underneath your panties. Your whole body trembles and you gasp. James takes the chance to connect his lips to your own and slide his tongue into your mouth. Your brain short-circuits, overwhelmed by him and the way he’s touching you. It’s better than you could’ve ever imagined it and you can’t believe it’s really happening. You’d question him more if you weren’t currently below him.
(It feels too good to be true because it is.)
He swallows every sound you make as his finger teases your clit. You grip him like you might fall apart if he pulls away, and you truly think that you would. When he slides it lower, pressing it inside you, you can feel the way your eyes roll back and your toes curl. He separates his lips and tongue from your own, burying his face in your neck. He whispers soft words of encouragement when he enters a second finger, and then eventually a third. You squirm and writhe beneath him, simultaneously loving and hating the way he seems to be able to work you without even trying. The way he knows what you need without asking. Things have always been that way, though, between the two of you. Just never like this.
You whine loudly when he pulls his fingers out of you and he laughs brightly. You shove at him with your foot but he catches your ankle, pressing a kiss to the side of it before he lowers himself between your legs. He devours you like a man starving. Slow at first, then insatiable. Your mouth hangs open, your hands buried in his hair, and any thoughts of Lily that might have been lingering in your mind are long gone now.
His tongue slides between your folds with an intensity that has you gasping and panting. You can’t help but roll your hips toward his face, your thighs squeezing his head and he loves it. You fall apart against his tongue and James’ monster roars. He doesn’t think it could get any better until you do it again later on his cock, his hands guiding you to bounce on top of him. He finishes inside you with a low growl of your name, holding you close as he trembles and rocks you both through it.
He doesn’t know how many times the two of you fuck throughout the night. It all blends together, hours of exploration of things the two of you have only ever thought about but never admitted. He takes you in every possible way he can think of, easily shifting your body however he wants it. He loves the way your eyes light up when he tugs you around.
In the morning, the sun shines brighter, the air smells fresher, and James Potter feels like maybe he’s finally satiated his monster. He’s known what it wanted for years now, but he never thought… even when Lily finally became his girlfriend, the monster has never been this quiet.
He kisses you goodbye softly with a smile, and you let him go. You think he’ll be back soon.
James is not expecting for Lily to still be at his flat when he returns, the depths of his brain already trying to figure out how he is going to fit your things in between his own with her gone. He’s not expecting Remus either, or Sirius. Mary and Marlene are both there too, the whole group of them looking at him like he’s a demon they have managed to trap and now need to subdue.
And, James supposes he is. Close enough, anyway.
All of your hopes for something with James shatter the next weekend, when you meet up at Remus and Sirius’ again. Lily is there again this time, hanging off of James’ arm just like she had been all of those times before. Your heart sinks when James meets your eyes and there’s a visible amount of apology swimming within them. Lily is nicer to you than she has been in a while, and it makes your stomach sink in the worst way.
She doesn’t know, does she?
You spend the evening nursing a single drink, not trusting yourself to not get drunk and say something stupid. You should’ve known better than to think James could really end things with Lily. Your eyes burn the entire time you’re there, and in addition to your heartbreak, you find that for some reason, you no longer seem to fit in this group. Like a piece of a puzzle that ended up in the wrong box. Have you always been forcing yourself into his group and you just hadn’t noticed?
Everything seems to have changed, and yet nothing actually has.
You barely manage a goodbye to any of them before leaving, a sick feeling like bile rising up in your throat. You’re worried you might be sick if you see Lily press a kiss to James’ cheek one more time.
Your sheets still smell like him when you flop back down on your bed, the musk of him leftover. Everything you own is covered in him.
You lay there for hours, maybe even days. You barely get up to eat, use the bathroom, and then find your way crawling back into the darkness of your bedroom, tangling in the sheets. You sit in the silence alone, thinking. Oh god, all you can do is think and think and think about James and poor Lily and how royally you’ve fucked everything up.
You decide not to talk to James again. At least for a while, just to let things cool off. It’s the hardest choice you’ve ever made, severing ties with your best friend. But if James and Lily are happy then… you don’t want to come in between them. Even if it makes your heart feel like it’s being ripped to shreds.
It’s not the first time James has chosen Lily over you. This time just hurts more. You’d convinced yourself it was different this time, maybe. But with him, it never is.
You ignore his owls. Each time, you collect the letter, give his owl a treat, then toss the parchment into the fireplace. You don’t want to read his apologies or his excuses. You’ve heard them before.
‘I just… it’s Lily, you know? But you’re still my girl, right?’
You’ve never felt like his girl, and you certainly don’t right now.
James doesn’t seem to get the hint. Actually, you think he does, and instead of listening, he’s stubborn enough to double down.
The letters keep coming. One after the other, again and again, that same scratchy handwriting that spells out your name and is quickly engulfed in the flames of your fireplace once received. Sometimes there are multiple in a day, and the envelopes get thicker and thicker despite the increased frequencies of his owl’s visits. Despite your curiosity, your hurt stops you from ever reading one.
Eventually they stop. And that is almost worse.
With nothing left to distract you, and your entire life crumbling around you, the feeling of unease in your flat continues to grow. You find yourself struggling to sleep, jumping awake with a start several times in the middle of the night for a reason you can’t seem to figure out. Nothing looks out of place, nothing has fallen or changed or looks like it could have made any sort of noise at all. Your wards are not disturbed, all of your precautions still intact. But, it seems as though the moment you fall back asleep, it happens again. This too increases in frequency over time.
Then there’s the little things. Doors left open that you’re certain you closed, your things shifted on your end table just slightly, just enough to notice. There’s a feeling of being watched that makes your stomach churn like it’s going to rip itself apart, but no matter how hard you search, you can’t find anything.
Your mind doesn’t even feel like your own anymore, at least sometimes. You find yourself jumping often, eyes darting around after you swear you see something move in the corner of your vision. You find yourself running into things, though there’s no obvious evidence that any of your furniture has been shifted around at all. Things just feel off in a way that’s new and terrifying.
It doesn't feel better when you finally force yourself to leave your flat again. You walk alone, given your entire friend group is also his friend group, and you aren’t taking any chances with seeing James Potter. Not yet.
You go to the shops, to your job at the bookshop in Diagon Alley, to the park. You can’t shake the feeling of a pair of eyes following you wherever you go, but even your quiet ‘homenum revelio’s give you nothing.
You floo back to your flat one night after a late shift at work, and immediately the hair on the back of your neck stands up. The wards are still intact but you can feel someone else is there. It’s an instinct, and you’ve learned to trust those over the years. Though, recently you don’t feel like you can trust anything anymore.
You tear your flat apart, but once again find nothing. Nothing is obviously out of place, at least no more than things have been. There’s no signs of a break in, magical or otherwise. In fact, the flat seems to look less eerie than usual despite the growing tension in your shoulder blades and clenching of your jaw. Are things cleaner than they were before? How could they be?
It’s that same night you break, unable to sleep while your heart pounds and your mind races. You feel eyes watching you as you sit up from your bed, turning on the light with a flick of your wand, though once again it only reveals that nothing is there. You cry for a while, the anxiety piercing into every one of your cells. Days and weeks at this point of constantly looking over your shoulder in your own home.
Your hand shakes as you gather your quill and parchment. You find your throat dry and oxygen is difficult to take in as you dip the tip of your quill into the jar of ink, then press it to the paper.
And there, in the corner of the room, James watches you write a plea for help to him through the fabric of his invisibility cloak, a smirk on his lips and a glint in his eyes.
Finally, the monster whispers from deep inside him.
It will not sleep for much longer, James can feel it. Despite everything, despite Lily, despite his friends, the monster still wants you. And the monster always gets what it wants in the end. It will consume everything, destroy it, burn it all down. It would tear through anything that would dare stand in its way.
After Y/n Potter finds out about a bet between Theodore Nott and his friends, she is left heartbroken. Theo, who accidentally fell for her, is confident he'll win her back.
Warnings: ANGST, hurt/comfort, depression, heartbreak, slight manipulation, using alcohol to cope. (Let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count: 2.7k
Masterlist I Part 1
The weeks after the betrayal were a blur.
A slow, suffocating kind of numbness settled over you, thick and inescapable, like fog that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs, dulling everything but the ache.
You had always been strong. Brave. The kind of girl who carried other people’s pain like it was lighter than her own. You were the one who gave encouraging smiles across the common room, who let others lean on you even when your own shoulders ached.
But not this time.
Not after Theodore Nott.
Because this time, it wasn’t just heartbreak.
It was devastation. It was betrayal. It was a collapse from the inside out.
You stopped smiling. Stopped laughing. Stopped being you.
The mirror became a stranger you couldn’t meet the eyes of. You stopped brushing your hair. Stopped wearing the scarf he gave you. Stopped singing along to the songs your mum used to play, the ones Theo pretended not to like but had memorized anyway.
Your bed became your sanctuary and your prison. You curled beneath the covers, body rigid, unmoving, hoping the world would forget you existed.
You started skipping meals. At first because you couldn’t stomach the thought of walking into the Great Hall and seeing his face and later, because food tasted like ash in your mouth anyway. Your hands trembled more now. The hollows under your eyes deepened. Some days, you didn’t speak at all.
Classes became background noise. Your quill stayed dry. Professors called your name, and you didn’t answer. The world kept spinning, and you couldn’t understand how it hadn’t stopped.
Hermione asked if you were okay. You told her you were just tired.
Ron asked if Theo did something. You shook your head with a hollow laugh.
Harry didn’t ask at all.
He just watched you from across the room, brows drawn tight, his jaw clenched like it physically hurt him not to step in. But he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew your tells. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that something had broken in you.
The whispers started a few days before Christmas.
It began as murmurs in hallways, then louder, more confident, as the truth clawed its way through the school like wildfire.
“Did you hear what he did to her?”
“She’s Potter’s sister. He’s got a bloody death wish.”
“Merlin, I heard he made a bet, fifty galleons to seduce her, sleep with her, then dump her before the holidays.”
“She trusted him. He used her.”
“She loved him.”
You didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend him. Didn’t speak a word.
Let them say it, all of it. Let them tear his name to shreds, spit it through clenched teeth, pin him to the wall with their fury. You let it happen because part of you hoped if they hated him enough, it might undo how much you still loved him.
But it didn’t.
Because even after everything, you still saw him.
In every hallway you walked down. In the library where you used to sit with your knees brushing under the table. In the Astronomy Tower where you first kissed him beneath the stars. In the corridor where he first touched your cheek, told you that you had ink on your face, and made you blush like an idiot.
You still heard his voice in your head. Still read your old Charms textbook and remembered the note he slipped into it.
You couldn’t eat Chocolate Frogs anymore. Couldn’t bear the thought of one showing up in your bag again, not knowing if it would be a gift or just another cruel echo of what you lost.
And your dreams?
They were the worst of all.
You still dreamed of him.
Of soft kisses and laughter by the lake. Of his hands wrapped around yours. Of the way he used to look at you when you weren’t looking, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable.
Except now, the dreams always ended the same way.
With his voice in that common room.
“She’s easy once you know what to say.”
You’d wake up gasping. Shaking. Sometimes crying so hard you bit your own hand to keep from making noise. Sometimes Harry would find you sitting by the fire hours before dawn, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the flames like they could burn away what he did to you.
And the worst part?
He saw you too.
Not just in classes. Not just in passing.
He looked at you.
Like you were a ghost he’d never stop chasing. Like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and you were the only thing that could fill the gnawing ache he’d carved into himself.
Like he remembered everything too.
You hated that part most of all, the way he still looked at you like he meant it.
As if the boy who shattered you could somehow still feel broken.
As if you weren’t already bleeding enough for the both of you.
And so you held your head high.
Even when it trembled.
Even when your vision blurred.
Because if you let yourself stop, if you let yourself look back…
You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to walk away again.
-----------
It was snowing outside when Theodore cornered you in the Owlery.
The stone walls were slick with cold, the wind slicing in through the high, arched windows, rattling the wooden rafters above. Snow drifted in slow, lazy flurries through the open arches, settling in soft piles near the roosts. Your fingers were stiff, numb with cold as you tried to tie a letter to your owl’s leg, breath fogging in the frigid air.
And then, “Y/N.”
His voice cleaved through the silence like a blade.
You froze mid-motion, the ribbon cutting into your fingers as your grip tightened. The parchment crinkled beneath your hand.
You didn’t turn.
He looked like hell.
Dark circles ringed his eyes like bruises. His lips were cracked, raw from wind or worry, or both. His school robes hung off him like a second skin he no longer fit into, wrinkled, disheveled, the tie completely gone. His hair was unkempt, wind-tossed, but not in the effortlessly cool way it used to be. No. This time, it looked like he hadn’t touched it in days.
There was a strange hollowness in him, like something had caved in and never quite filled back out.
“I need to explain-”
“No.” You cut in sharply, your voice flat and empty. You didn’t even raise your eyes. “You don’t.”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Just go away.”
“I can’t.” His voice cracked, barely audible above the wind. “I’ve tried. Merlin, I’ve tried to leave you alone, but I can’t-”
Your owl gave a sharp shriek and launched into the air, wings slicing through the snowfall, disappearing into the white blur beyond the arches.
You stood still for another breath, another two, then turned to face him.
He looked like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.
And for a moment, just one, he looked hopeful. Like maybe there was something in your eyes that he could still reach.
But there wasn’t.
“You already left me alone, Theodore,” you whispered, voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “The second you agreed to the game.”
He flinched.
You didn’t wait for a response.
Didn’t let yourself linger, because if you did, you weren’t sure your legs would keep moving.
So you walked past him, slow, deliberate, the snow biting at your cheeks like tiny needles, the cold sharp in your lungs. You didn’t stop walking until your fingers were numb and your throat ached from holding in everything you didn’t say.
And behind you, Theodore didn’t follow.
He just stood there.
Silhouetted in snowfall.
Alone.
Exactly the way he made you feel.
-----------
The Yule Ball came and went.
You didn’t go.
The invitations had piled up, boys asking if you’d be their date with nervous grins and trembling hands, but you turned them all down. Politely. Quietly. There was no room left in you for pretty dresses or floating candles or music that reminded you of the way he used to hum under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.
So you stayed in the common room, curled up in a too-large jumper by the fire, pretending to read a book you’d already finished twice. The Gryffindor girls laughed and twirled around you, high on the thrill of the night, but their voices felt miles away.
He went.
Of course he did.
With Daphne Greengrass on his arm, her nails painted emerald to match his tie, the same color as the ribbon he once used to tie up your hair, the one still hidden in the bottom of your trunk.
They looked like a painting: him tall and pale and silent, her laughing too loudly at things he didn’t say. She clung to his side like it meant something, like she didn’t notice how his eyes were always scanning the crowd, looking for a ghost.
Everyone knew it was a front. Even Daphne.
Especially Daphne.
She tried to kiss him during the last song, slow and soft beneath the glittering snowfall that had started to drift from the enchanted ceiling.
He turned his head away.
Didn’t say a word.
Later that night, when the castle had gone quiet and the corridors echoed with the fading warmth of celebration, you slipped out of your dorm and wandered toward the Astronomy Tower. You told yourself you just wanted air. Just wanted to breathe. Just wanted to reclaim something, anything, that hadn’t been touched by him.
But he was already there.
Curled against the far wall, slumped beneath the stars, the moonlight painting sharp angles into his too-thin frame. His cloak was half-off his shoulder, his tie undone, his hair a mess of curls falling into his eyes.
He was drunk.
Alone.
His hands were trembling, white-knuckled around a crumpled piece of parchment. One of yours. You couldn’t tell which one, the ink had bled, distorted by tears and smudged fingerprints. Your handwriting, once so neat, now unreadable.
He held it like it was holy. Like it was all he had left.
He didn’t see you.
Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath when you realized he was crying.
Not the quiet kind.
The kind that ripped out of your chest when no one was listening. The kind that left you empty.
You stood there in silence, the snow creeping in through the open arches, cold settling into your bones.
And for a second, just one, your fingers twitched at your side, like you might go to him. Like you might kneel beside him and wipe the tears from his cheeks and tell him he ruined you, but you still couldn’t bear to see him broken.
But you didn’t.
You turned.
And left before he could ever know you’d been there.
-----------
February.
Your Potions partner dropped the class.
You were assigned a new one.
Theo.
You nearly protested. Nearly walked out.
But something in you, maybe anger, maybe exhaustion, said no.
You sat beside him in stony silence, ignoring the way his fingers twitched near yours, the way his voice caught every time he said your name.
You didn’t speak.
But he did.
Little by little.
Week by week.
He asked if you were okay.
You didn’t answer.
He complimented your potion knowledge.
You ignored him.
He passed you a note once during a silent reading assignment. All it said was:
“I miss the way you smiled at me.”
You burned it with a flick of your wand.
He didn’t pass another one.
But he never stopped looking at you.
-----------
It happened in March.
You were on patrol. Alone. Prefect duty.
There was shouting echoing through the dungeons. At first you thought it was Peeves. But then you recognized the voices.
Theo.
Draco.
“-She’s not yours to fix, Nott!”
“She’s not yours to talk about!”
“You broke her-”
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing it, if I have to!”
You rounded the corner just in time to see Theo punch Draco in the gut.
Hard.
Draco wheezed and stumbled back, red-faced and furious.
But Theo didn’t look angry.
He looked wrecked.
“I love her,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to talk about her like she’s some stupid bet we won.”
“She’s a Potter,” Draco spat. “You think her brother’s ever going to let you near her again?”
“I don’t care what Potter thinks.”
Theo turned, eyes blazing.
“I care what she thinks.”
He looked up, and saw you.
Everything stilled.
You stared at each other in the dark hallway, heart pounding, lips parted.
Then you walked away.
Not because you were angry.
But because, for the first time in months…
You didn’t know what to feel.
-----------
Two days later, a letter showed up on your bed.
Nothing except your name.
You hesitated, fingers trembling, then opened it.
Y/N,
I don’t know how to do this right. I never did.
The night they made the bet, I was drunk. I was stupid. I said yes because I didn’t want to be the one they laughed at. I thought it would be harmless. I thought it would be easy.
But you weren’t easy.
You were brilliant. Brave. Kind. You looked at me like I was worth something, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t think I deserved that.
Somewhere between pretending and falling, I lost track of the lie.
And by the time I realized I loved you, it was too late.
I don’t want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that I never stopped choosing you.
Even now. Even in silence. Even when it hurts.
You cried.
Not because you forgave him.
But because, for the first time, you believed him.
-----------
The next time he approached you, you didn’t walk away.
You didn’t smile either.
You just stood by the Black Lake, arms crossed, as he approached slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear.
“I still hate what you did,” you said softly.
He nodded. “You should.”
“I’m still angry.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Stay angry. Just… be angry with me. Not without me.”
You exhaled shakily. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”
Silence.
Then finally. “You’ll wait… and you’ll make it up to me.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me back, Theodore Nott? You’re going to earn it.”
His mouth parted.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“I can do that.”
And Merlin help you,
You smiled back.
-----------
He wrote you letters. Almost daily.
Never asked for anything.
Just sent you thoughts. Funny stories. Memories. Apologies.
One had a pressed flower from the Black Lake. “Thought you might want to keep it this time.”
One had a bad sketch of you. “My masterpiece. Don’t laugh.”
One had a Chocolate Frog with a note: “For old times. No tricks. Promise.”
You didn’t respond.
But you didn’t throw them away.
-----------
May.
You sat by the lake again, the same log where he first made you laugh.
You heard footsteps.
You didn’t turn.
He sat beside you in silence.
Then, quietly: “Do you hate me less today?”
You smiled, just a little. “Maybe.”
“Enough to go for a walk?”
You looked at him.
His eyes were softer than you remembered. Like he’d carved away every part that used to be cruel just to be worthy of sitting beside you again.
You nodded.
He stood and held out his hand.
You stared at it.
Then, finally, you took it.
It was warm.
Steady.
Real.
He didn’t pull you in.
Didn’t kiss you.
Didn’t rush it.
He just held your hand as you walked, like the slow act of existing beside you was enough.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Because love isn’t loud.
It’s not always fireworks and confessions and screaming matches.
Sometimes, it’s just this.
A quiet beginning.
After everything.
-----------
Epilogue
You kissed him again for the first time in the rain.
He was holding your face, soaked and trembling, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were real again.
“I’m still angry,” you whispered.
He smiled. “Good.”
“And I still don’t trust you fully.”
“I’ll earn it.”
And when you kissed him, he didn’t rush.
He kissed you like he was scared to wake up.
And for the first time since you walked away that night, the world felt right again.
Not perfect.
But healing.
Together.
----------------
Thank you all so much for all the love on Cruel Games. It siriusly (; means so much me, I really thought that this acc would just be something for me to do for fun and that It wouldn't blow up! Also thank you to all the people said I should make a part two, I'll tag you down below!!
Tag List: @lilians17 @thegoddessofnothingness @fries11 @froggiedragon @nayegpr
