D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
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❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
I don’t allow translations, stolen content, or reposts. All my platforms are listed in my "about me".
✧ general masterlist
🌶️ = smut | ⚡= angst | 🙂= fluff
✧ series:
🌶️⚡🙂 Swipe to you [ongoing]
✧ one-shot and multiple parts:
🌶️ 🙂 You Look Better in My Chaos — PART 1/2 [college au]
🌶️You Look Better in My Chaos — PART 2/2 [college au]
🌶️D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D [ Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
🌶️D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D [ Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 2/3]
🌶️D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D [ Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 3/3]
⚡INK STAINS & SKYLINES [Private Investigator AU]
🌶️⚡🙂 The Weight of Still Water [Fishing charter AU · Coastal town AU]
🌶️⚡🙂 Let's stay here a little longer[ State Fair AU]
⚡️🌶 NOT FOREVER, JUST FOR TONIGHT [Yn× Bucky Barnes | Multi-AU]
⚡️LIKE A CRACK IN SOMETHING SOLID [Reader (Yn) × Bucky Barnes | Tattoo Shop ]
🌶️⚡WHISPERS OF AN INTERTWINED DESTINY [Mobster! Bucky Barnes ]
🙂🌶️F I N A L L Y Y O U R S [Brother's Best Friend! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
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❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
This story contains mature content (smut/protection) intended for a mature audience (18+). Reader discretion is advised.
A/N: I haven't forgotten about "Swipe to You"! To be honest, I just didn't like my writing idea anymore (not the story itself), so I'm currently rewriting it. In the meantime, I'm clearing out my one-shot drafts.
F I N A L L Y Y O U R S
[Brother's Best Friend! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
❇ Pairing: Brother’s best friend! Bucky Barnes × Reader (You)
❇ Summary: When John Walker dumps you on the night of the prom, Bucky Barnes, your brother's best friend, saves the day.
❇ Tropes: Brother's Best Friend · Prom Night AU · Protective Bucky · Slow Burn to Smut
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
❇❇❇
It was lovely. Not perfect, but lovely.
Lovely enough to make you feel at least a little bit in your element tonight. The prom. At last. You’d been counting down the days like a kid, even though you were trying to act as if you couldn’t care less.
Your phone vibrated on the bedside table.
John Walker
Hi. I won’t be able to make it tonight. Sorry.
You narrowed your eyes. For a second. Two. Then you grabbed the phone faster than you should have.
You
What? Are you serious?
The reply came almost straight away, as if he’d already prepared what he was going to say in advance.
John Walker
Yeah. Something’s come up. I can’t. You’ll just have to go with someone else.
You felt your jaw clench. Something’s come up. Seriously. That was all he could come up with after asking you three weeks ago, after making you think it was sorted, after letting you choose your dress on the assumption that someone would actually be going with you.
You
You’ve got a ‘thing’ on the very day of the prom? Couldn’t you have told me sooner?
John Walker
I’m sorry, OK? It’s not my fault. I can’t cancel everything for you.
You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you were going to get a headache. ‘Not my fault’. Of course. As if it was you who’d saddled him with a date he couldn’t refuse on the night of the sixth-form prom.
Another message came through before you could reply.
John Walker
You’ll have no trouble finding someone else anyway. You’re not ugly.
You stared at the screen. Rage rose slowly, hot, in your chest. Not ugly. That was his consolation compliment. Not ugly. As if you were an acceptable Plan B and now he was dumping you without even having the decency to ring you.
You started typing a scathing reply, your fingers trembling with anger, then you stopped. What was the point? He didn’t care. He’d probably made up his mind ages ago and was just waiting until the last minute to dump you, like the coward he was.
Your phone rang. A call. John.
You hesitated for a second before answering, your voice already cold.
“What?”
“Listen, I didn’t want to tell you this via messaging, but…” He sounded rushed.
You could hear noise behind him – voices, laughter. He wasn’t even alone.
“I’m going to the ball with someone else. It’s better this way. ”
You let out a small, dry, joyless laugh.
“Someone else. Great. Thanks for the info, John. Really.”
“Hey, don’t get upset. The prom doesn’t matter. You can just stay at home if you don’t have anyone to go with. ”
He laughed. He really laughed. As if it were a joke.
You felt your eyes sting, but no tears came. Just that burning sensation behind your eyelids, the sort that comes when you’re more annoyed than anything else. You hung up without replying. Straight away. The silence in your room settled once more, heavy.
You dropped the phone onto your bed as if it had burnt your fingers. Your dress was still hanging on the chair. All ready. Pointless now.
You let out a long sigh and slumped back, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling.
“Arsehole…” you murmured to yourself, your voice low and weary.
Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated again. Not John this time.
A message from your brother.
Steve
Are you ready? I’ll be round to pick you up in an hour.
You stared at the screen without replying straight away. Steve. Your big brother. The one who was still asking if you needed him to come with you ‘just in case’. The one who didn’t even know that your date had just dumped you like an old sock.
You left the phone without replying.
For now, you just wanted to stay there, in your dress that would now be of no use, cursing John Walker and all the lads who acted like kings because they knew they could.
You lay there for a while, the phone resting on your chest, staring at the ceiling as if it were going to offer you a miracle solution. Your dress was still on the chair, perfectly ironed, looking ridiculous now. You finally sat up with a sigh and got up to hang it in the wardrobe. No point in leaving it lying around like the corpse of a party that was never going to happen.
Your phone vibrated again. Steve.
Steve
Did you see my message?
I’ll be there in 50 minutes. Are you ready, or do you want me to help you with anything?
You rolled your eyes. Of course he was offering to help. Steve, the perfect big brother, the one who still checked your shoelaces when you were fifteen. You hesitated, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard, then typed before you could stop yourself.
You
John dumped me. He’s seeing someone else.
The reply came almost instantly.
Steve
What?
Then another message.
Steve
Did he dump you? Today?
You let out a small, joyless chuckle. At least Steve had reacted normally. Not like John, who’d laughed on the phone.You didn’t have time to reply before your bedroom door swung open without a knock. Steve walked in, tall and broad-shouldered, already running a hand through his hair as he always did when he was annoyed.
“Did he dump you?” he repeated aloud, looking downright furious. “That arsehole.”
You slumped back onto the edge of the bed, your hands between your thighs.
“Yeah. First by text. Then he rang me to confirm he was seeing someone else. He even laughed.”
Steve paced up and down your bedroom, his eyebrows furrowed. He was still wearing his uni hoodie, the one he always put on when he came home. “Did he laugh? Did he really laugh?” He stopped and looked at you, looking as if he wanted to head straight over to John’s and smash his face in. “That arsehole. I knew he was like that. I told you, didn’t I? I told you he was just a pretentious idiot.”
You shrugged, trying to act as if it didn’t bother you that much.
“It’s no big deal. I won’t go, that’s all. ”
“Of course you’re going,” Steve cut in sharply. He planted himself in front of you, arms crossed. “You’ve spent weeks talking about that dress. You even made Bucky help you pick out your shoes the other day. You’re not staying here because of that arsehole Walker.”
At the mention of Bucky, you felt your cheeks flush slightly. You looked down at your hands. Steve hadn’t noticed. He carried on grumbling.
“I’m going to have a word with him. I’m going to have a bit of a chat with that little arsehole. He can’t do that to you the night before the prom and just get away with it.”
“Steve, no,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Forget it. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t care. And anyway… it’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to turn to. ”
Steve grunted, that sound he always made when he disagreed but knew you were partly right. He sat down next to you on the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight.
“Are you serious? You’re going to let that bloke ruin your evening just because he’s decided to ditch you for someone else? ” He gave you a gentle nudge with his shoulder, gentler than his words. “You’re better than that. And you’re better than him.”
You rolled your eyes for the umpteenth time that evening, but this time it was almost affectionate. Steve had always been like that. Overprotective, grumpy, but never at you.
He smiled despite himself, that wry smile he used to give when you called him that. Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, read the message and sighed.
“It’s Bucky. He’s asking if everything’s all right. I told him I was at your place.”
Your heart gave a silly little leap in your chest. You acted as if nothing had happened, staring at a spot on the floor.
Steve quickly typed a reply, then put his phone away.
“He’s popping round. He was already in the neighbourhood.”
You nodded without saying a word. Of course Bucky was popping round. He always popped round when Steve needed him. Or when you needed him, even if you never asked him directly.
Steve stood up and gave you one last look.
“We’ll sort this out, OK? Even if I have to drag you to that bloody prom myself. John Walker can go and fuck himself.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving you alone with your dress in the wardrobe and that strange lump in your throat that was no longer just anger.
***
You were still sitting on your bed when you heard the front door open downstairs. Steve’s voice, then another, deeper and calmer. Bucky.
You felt your stomach give a little lurch.
Of course he was already round the corner. Of course he’d come as soon as Steve’d sent him a message. It’d always been like that.You heard their voices coming up the stairs, muffled. You didn’t move. Part of you wanted to disappear into the wardrobe with your dress. The other part… well. The other part knew exactly why your heart was beating faster.
Your bedroom door opened a crack. Steve came in first, followed by Bucky.Bucky was wearing plain black jeans and a dark grey hoodie, his hair still a bit tousled as if he’d been driving with the windows down. He looked at you, and his expression changed in an instant. Softer. More attentive.
“Steve told me what happened,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him. “Walker really is a proper arsehole.”
You shrugged, trying to act as if you didn’t care.
“Yeah. It’s fine. I won’t go. It’s not the end of the world.”
Bucky exchanged a glance with Steve, then stepped forward and sat on the edge of the desk, facing you. Steve remained standing by the door, arms crossed, in his protective big-brother mode.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Bucky continued.
His voice was calm, but there was a note of determination in it.
“If you still want to go… I’ll take you.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You looked up suddenly, your eyes wide.
“What?”
Bucky gave a slight, slightly sheepish but sincere smile.
“I’ll take you to the ball. If you want. I’ve got nothing else on anyway. And…” He shrugged. “You don’t have to miss out on your night because of that guy.”
Steve made a sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.
“Bucky…”
Bucky glanced back over his shoulder at him.
“What?”
Steve frowned, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Are you sure about this? She’s… my little sister. And it’s the prom. There are rules. ”
You rolled your eyes so hard that Bucky stifled a laugh.
“Steve, give it a rest. I’m not asking her to go away for the weekend. It’s just a prom.”
“Yeah, but it’s you,” Steve insisted, ever the protector. “And it’s her. I know you’re a decent guy, but…”
Bucky held up both hands in a gesture of peace, but his smile didn’t fade.
“I know, Steve. I know. I’ll bring her back on time, I won’t let her drink, and I won’t let her out of my sight. I promise.” He turned his head towards you. “If you still want to go, of course. If you don’t feel like it anymore, that’s fine too. We can stay here watching daft films and ordering pizza.”
You looked at him. Really looked at him. The slightly oversized hoodie, the blue eyes staring at you with no trace of pity in their gaze, just… honesty. And something else. Something warmer.
You’d had a crush on him for ten years. Ten years of pretending he was just ‘Steve’s best mate’. And now here he was, sitting in your bedroom, asking to take you to the prom because your date had stood you up.
You felt your cheeks flush. You looked down at your hands to hide your reaction.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice a little quieter than you’d have liked.
Bucky nodded without hesitation.
“Absolutely. I’ll take you. We’ll even do it properly. A dress, photos, whatever you want. I’m all for it.”
Steve sighed behind you, but it was a resigned sigh.
“…Are you really sure?”
“I’m sure,” Bucky replied without even looking at Steve this time. His eyes were still fixed on you. “If she wants to. ”
You felt your heart making a ridiculous noise in your chest. You rolled your eyes for the sake of it, just to hide how much you were freaking out inside.
“You really are an idiot,” you murmured, but a smile was playing at the corners of your lips despite yourself.
Bucky smiled back, even more broadly this time.
“Yeah. But I’ll be your idiot for tonight, if you want. ”
Steve grumbled softly, but he didn’t protest any further. He knew when he’d lost.
You took a deep breath, your gaze still somewhat lost in Bucky’s.
“…Okay, ” you finally said. “Let’s go.”
***
You’d spent the last hour pacing round your room like a caged lion. You were wearing the dress again. You’d put it on, taken it off, put it on again. Your hands were shaking a bit as you tied your shoes. It was ridiculous. It was just Bucky. Bucky doing this out of kindness. Because he was Steve’s best friend. Because he felt sorry for you after John Walker’d dumped you like a piece of rubbish.
You rolled your eyes as you looked at yourself in the mirror.
“Stop freaking out,” you whispered to yourself. “It’s not a proper date.”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
Your heart gave a silly little leap.
You heard Steve open the door, his deep voice carrying all the way upstairs. Then another voice. Lower. Calmer. Bucky.
You took a deep breath, checked your reflection one last time, and walked slowly down the stairs, your heels clicking on the steps.
Downstairs, in the living room, Steve and Bucky were standing face to face. Bucky was wearing a simple but well-cut black suit, a white shirt with the collar open, and no tie. He looked… different. Taller. Broader. His hair was slicked back, a little less tousled than usual. He was holding a small white box in his hand.
Steve, for his part, had his arms crossed, fully in the role of the protective big brother.
“…and you bring her back before half past midnight,” Steve said. “No nonsense. No alcohol. And if she wants to come home earlier, you bring her straight back. Understood?”
Bucky nodded, looking serious.
“Understood. I promise, Steve. I’ll do the right thing.”
Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I know you’re a decent bloke, Buck. That’s why I’m saying yes. But she’s my little sister. So… watch out.”
“I’ll watch out,” Bucky replied with a slight smirk. “I promise.”
That was when they heard you coming. Both heads turned towards you at the same time.Bucky saw you… and froze for a second. His gaze drifted over your dress, then up to your face. There was something in his eyes. Something gentle. Something warm. Something truly intense.
“Wow,” he said softly, almost voicelessly. “You look… stunning.”
You felt your cheeks flush instantly. You rolled your eyes to hide just how much that had affected you.
“Stop it. It’s just a dress.”
“No,” he shook his head, still looking at you as if you were the only thing in the room. “It’s not just a dress.”
Steve cleared his throat loudly, breaking the moment. He looked at you, a mixture of pride and protectiveness on his face.
“You look lovely,” he said.
Then he turned to Bucky with a look that clearly said, ‘I’m keeping an eye on you’.
“I’m counting on you, Barnes.”
Bucky nodded, still serious.
“You can count on me. ”
He stepped towards you, still holding the little white box. He opened it. Inside was a simple yet elegant corsage: a few white and blue flowers, tied with a black ribbon.
“I thought… if you’d like,” he said, taking out the corsage. “Can I put it on for you?”
You nodded, unable to speak straight away. He moved closer. Very close. You could smell his scent, something fresh and warm at the same time. His fingers brushed against your wrist as he fastened the bodice. Gently. Carefully. As if you were made of glass.
Steve was watching the scene from the living room, his arms still crossed, but he wasn’t saying anything anymore. Just a slight, almost imperceptible smirk.
When Bucky had finished, he didn’t step back straight away. He stayed there, your hands almost touching, eye to eye.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard, your heart beating far too fast for what was supposed to be ‘just a friend doing a favour’.
“Yeah,” you replied. “I’m ready.”
Steve sighed behind you, but it was a resigned sigh. Almost amused.
“Have fun,” he said. “And Bucky… bring her back in one piece.”
Bucky smiled without taking his eyes off you.
“I promise.”
***
Bucky’s car was cruising gently through the night. The radio was turned down low, just some background music that neither of you was really listening to. You were sitting in the passenger seat, your hands clenched on your thighs, staring at the road without really seeing it. The blouse he’d put on you earlier still smelled faintly of fresh flowers. Every time you moved, you could feel the ribbon rubbing lightly against your skin.
Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on his knee. He was still wearing that simple black suit, but now that you were alone, you were really looking at him. The way the white shirt stretched slightly across his shoulders. The line of his jaw. The way he’d occasionally cast a quick glance your way, as if to check you were all right.
“You’re quiet,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Are you nervous?”
You shrugged.
“A bit. I feel like everyone’s going to be looking at me and thinking, ‘Look at her, she’s come with her brother’s mate because no one else wanted her’.”
Bucky let out a low chuckle.
“Nobody’s going to think that. And even if they did… they can go and fuck themselves.”
You turned your head towards him. He looked serious.
Really serious.
“You’re only saying that because you’re a nice guy,” you murmured.
He shook his head, a wry smile on his face.
“No. I’m saying it because it’s true. And because I’m glad to be here with you tonight. Not out of pity. Not because Steve asked me. Because I want to.”
You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was going haywire in your chest. You chose to look out of the window to hide your face.
The car pulled into the school hall car park. Music was already spilling out through the open doors. Groups of pupils in suits and dresses were coming and going, laughing, taking photos of each other, smoking discreetly in a corner. The usual smell of end-of-year balls: cheap perfume, sweat, and a bit of alcohol hidden in water bottles.
Bucky switched off the engine and turned to you.
“Shall we go?”
You nodded. He got out, walked round the car and opened the door for you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He held out his hand to help you out. You took it. His fingers felt warm around yours.
As you entered the sports hall, several heads turned. Of course. Bucky Barnes, 20, at uni, arriving with you. Steve’s little sister. The whispers began almost immediately. You pretended not to hear anything, but you could feel the stares. On your dress. On the bodice. On Bucky’s hand, which was still resting lightly on your back to guide you.
You hadn’t gone ten metres before you saw him.
John Walker.
He was standing by the bar, a drink in his hand, with a girl you vaguely knew from Year 10. He was wearing a navy blue tuxedo that suited him well, but his face… his face was already contorting into a shitty expression. He spotted you. He narrowed his eyes. Then he smiled. That smirk of a arsehole who thinks he’s king of the world.
He said something to the girl next to him, then cut across the room straight towards you.
“Fuck, ” you muttered through clenched teeth.
Bucky followed your gaze and sensed your tension. His hand pressed a little harder against your back. Not possessively. Just… there.
John stopped in front of you, hands in his pockets, looking feignedly relaxed.
“Look at that,” he said, his voice already a bit loud. “Rogers’ little sister turning up with her brother’s best mate. That’s cute. Really. ”
He gave you a slow, up-and-down once-over.
“Nice dress. Shame you had to settle for a bloke who still sees you as an eight-year-old.”
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed calm. Too calm.
“Walker, ” he said simply. “Go away.”
John laughed. A dry, nasty laugh.
“Oh, the great Bucky Barnes playing the knight in shining armour. That’s lovely. Really.”
He leaned in towards you a little, close enough for you to smell his cheap aftershave.
“You’ve really sunk that low, haven’t you? Couldn’t you have found someone else? Or maybe…” He smiled even wider. “…you knew Barnes had been fucking you in his head for years and you just seized the opportunity?” ”
The silence that followed was icy.
You felt the rage rising so fast you struggled to breathe.
“Fuck off, John.”
He laughed louder.
“Oh, she’s got some balls now, has she? That’s cute. Especially coming from someone who got dumped by text two hours ago. ”
Bucky took a step forward. Not much. Just enough for his shoulder to be slightly in front of yours. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You’re going to back off, Walker. Right now.”
John raised his hands in a feigned gesture of surrender, but he was still smiling. “Ohhh, the stand-in big brother protecting his little protégée. How touching.” He looked at you again.
“Enjoy your evening, princess. When he realises you’re just Steve’s annoying little sister, he’ll dump you like everyone else. ”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his group, laughing.
You stood there frozen, your body tense as a string. Shame burned your cheeks. Not because you believed what he was saying. But because he’d said it in front of everyone. Because he’d turned something nice into something dirty.
Bucky turned towards you. He slid a hand onto your arm, gently, just above your elbow.
“Breathe,” he said in a low voice. “He’s just a jealous, immature arsehole. He knows he’s screwed up and he’s trying to wind you up to make himself feel better.”
You nodded, but your throat felt tight.
“He said that in front of everyone…”
“And nobody cares,” Bucky replied.
He leaned in a little closer, close enough for you to hear him clearly.
“Do you want to leave? I’ll take you straight home. We’ll order a pizza and watch a film. Just say the word.”
You looked up at him. He was serious. Completely serious. He was really giving you the choice, right there and then.
You took a deep, shaky breath.
“No,” you said. “I want to stay. I don’t want him to win.”
Bucky nodded, a small, proud smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Then we’re staying. And we’re going to have a bloody good night.”
He held out his hand to you.
“Will you dance with me?”
You placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady.
Behind you, the music changed. A slower song. Bucky led you onto the dance floor without letting go of your hand for a single second.
John Walker could go and get lost.
Tonight, you were with Bucky.
And for now, that was all that mattered.
You danced to one song. Then two. Bucky held you properly, one hand in yours, the other resting lightly on your waist – respectful but present. Whenever the crowd got too close, he’d guide you a little closer to him without saying a word. You could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your dress. It was both comforting and completely nerve-wracking.
After the second song, he leaned in towards your ear.
“Want to get some fresh air? ”
You nodded without thinking. The air in the gym had become stifling, between the loud music, the bodies dancing and the nasty looks John Walker kept giving you from time to time. Bucky let go of your hand just long enough to guide you towards the side exit, the one leading to the small garden behind the gym.
Outside, the air was cool. Not cold, just enough to make you shiver slightly. There were a few other couples smoking or snogging in the dark corners, but Bucky led you further away, towards a stone bench set a little apart, under a tree. The music from the ball could still be heard, muffled, like a distant heartbeat.
You sat down. He stood there for a second, his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers, watching you. The light streaming from the gym windows illuminated his face just enough for you to see the expression in his eyes. Gentle. Intense. A little too much for you to handle tonight.
He finally sat down next to you, not too close, but close enough for you to feel his presence.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked softly.
You shrugged.
“Yeah. A bit.” You fiddled with the ribbon on your blouse. “Thanks… for earlier. With John. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I had to,” he replied without hesitation. “He was acting like a jerk. And I can’t stand it when people talk to you like that.”
You turned your head toward him. He was staring right at you. There was no pity in his gaze. Just… something warm. Something sincere. It made you feel even more uncomfortable.
“Bucky…” you began, your voice a little lower. “You’re doing this because you’re Steve’s friend, right?”
He furrowed his brow slightly.
“What?”
You felt frustration rising. Not at him. At yourself. At this situation. At the fact that you’d had a crush on him for ten damn years and knew full well that, to him, you were just his best friend’s little sister.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” you continued, your voice a little harsher now. “You’re here, you’re being chivalrous, you’re standing up for me, you’re asking me to the ball… because Steve asked you to look after me. Or because you feel obliged. Or out of pity. Because you saw that John had dumped me and you thought, Steve’s little sister’s going to be on her own, I’ve got to do something”.
Bucky looked at you for a long moment without saying a word. You saw something flash across his eyes. Something that looked like frustration. Not anger. Just… weariness.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Do you really think that?” he asked, his voice low.
You shrugged, on the defensive.
“Well, yeah. It makes sense. You’ve been my brother’s best friend forever. You’ve known me since I was eight. To you, I’m just… the annoying little sister. And now you’re playing the hero because that’s what you do. You’re the good guy. The one who helps out.”
Bucky let out a short, dry, joyless chuckle. He sat up straight and looked at you squarely this time.
“You’re completely wrong. ”
“Oh yeah?” you retorted, a little more sharply than you’d have liked. “Then explain to me why you’re here tonight, in a suit, looking at me as if I were the only girl at the ball. Explain to me why you stepped between me and John as if you wanted to hit him. Explain to me why you told me earlier in the car that you were glad to be here with me.”
He remained silent for a few seconds. You could hear your own breathing, a little too rapid.Then he spoke. His voice was calm, but there was a tension underlying it. A tension you’d never really heard in him before.
“I’m here because I want to be here. Full stop. Not because Steve asked me. Not out of pity. Not because I feel obliged.”
He turned fully towards you on the bench.
“I’m here because when Steve told me that John had dumped you, I wanted to offer to come with you. Because I wanted to spend my evening with you. Because I’ve been watching you for a while now and I keep telling myself that you’re more than just ‘Steve’s little sister’.”
You felt your heart racing. You rolled your eyes, more out of habit than conviction.
“Stop it…”
“No,” he cut in gently but firmly. “I’m not going to stop. Do you want it straight? I’ll give it to you.” He leaned in a little closer. “I’ve been watching you for months. Not like my best friend’s sister. I look at you and I think to myself that you’re gorgeous, that you’re funny, that you’ve got a nasty temper and that I like it. And tonight, when I saw John talking to you like a piece of shit, I wanted to smash his face in. Not because Steve asked me to look out for you. Because it was you. And because I’m fed up with pretending I don’t feel anything.”
The silence that followed was heavy. You could feel the blood pounding in your temples. You didn’t know where to look. His eyes were too intense. Too honest.
You lowered your head, staring at your hands on your knees.
“…You’re only saying that because you’re a nice person,” you murmured, your voice even quieter.
Bucky sighed. Not because he was annoyed. Just… a bit tired of seeing you doubt yourself.
He slid two fingers under your chin and gently lifted your head. His touch was light. Gentle. But he didn’t let go of you straight away.
“I’m not just being nice,” he said quietly. “I’m being honest. And if you carry on believing that I’m doing all this out of pity or a sense of duty… then I’ll spend the rest of the evening proving you wrong.”
Your eyes remained locked on his. You could feel the warmth of his fingers beneath your chin. You could smell his perfume mingling with the fresh air of the garden. And something in your stomach tightened. It wasn’t just desire. It was something deeper. Something more frightening.
You swallowed.
“Bucky…”
He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Do you want to go home?” he asked. “I’ll take you home straight away if that’s what you want. But if you stay… stop putting me in the ‘your brother’s best friend doing his duty’ box. Because tonight, I’m just a guy who wants to spend time with a girl he’s fancied for a while. And who really wants to kiss her if she lets him.”
He withdrew his fingers from your chin, slowly, as if giving you the choice of whether or not to step back.
You didn’t step back.
The music carried on playing in the distance. Someone laughed somewhere in the garden. But here, on this bench, there were just the two of you and that tension that had just shifted from ‘friends’ to something far more dangerous.
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, his eyes lingering on your mouth for a second too long.
Then he stood up and held out his hand to you.
“Shall we go back to the dance floor?” he asked softly. “Or do you want us to stay here a bit longer… and have a proper chat?”
You placed your hand in his.
And you didn’t answer straight away.
You walked back into the gym hand in hand.
Bucky hadn’t let go of you since you’d left the bench. His fingers were intertwined with yours, firm, warm. Not possessive. Just… there. As if he’d decided that now he’d spoken, he wasn’t going to back down.
As soon as you walked in, several people looked at you. John Walker was still there, leaning against a wall with his new girlfriend, a smug grin on his face. He saw you. He saw your clasped hands. His expression tightened slightly. Bucky ignored him completely. He just pulled you towards the dance floor as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
The music was slower now. One of those slightly sensual songs that teachers used to play when they wanted the pupils to get a bit too close. Bucky turned to face you, pulled you against him without asking. One hand on your waist, the other still holding yours against his chest. You started dancing.
You could feel his body against yours. Warm. Solid. You could feel his steady breathing in his chest. And you could also feel him looking at you. Not just looking at you. He was devouring you with his eyes. As if he’d stopped holding back.
“Are you still stressed?” he murmured close to your ear.
You shook your head.
“No.” You hesitated. “Well… a bit. But not for the same reasons.”
He let out a low, hoarse chuckle. His hand on your waist tightened slightly. You could feel his fingers through the thin fabric of your dress.
“Tell me.”
You looked up at him. He was far too close. You could see every detail of his face. The small scar near his eyebrow. The way his blue eyes were darker tonight.
“I’m freaking out because you’re looking at me as if you want to eat me alive,” you replied frankly. “And because I want you to. And that freaks me out a bit.”
Bucky slowed down the dance. He looked at you for a long moment, then slid his hand a little lower down your waist, just above your hips. Not in a sleazy way. Just… deliberate.
“I’m looking at you like this because I want to devour you whole,” he replied, his voice low and direct. “I’ve been feeling that way for a while. And tonight… I’m not holding back as much.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine. You rolled your eyes, more to keep your composure than because you were actually annoyed.
“You’re really not subtle, Barnes.”
“No,” he admitted with a slight smirk. “I’m not subtle. I go all out. And I think you’ve realised that by now.”
He turned you round slowly, then pulled you back against him, even closer this time. Your chest brushed against his with every movement. You could feel the heat of his body. You could also feel that he was hard somewhere against your thigh, and that he wasn’t even trying to hide it completely. It sent a sudden wave of heat surging between your legs.
You swallowed.
“Bucky… we’re in the middle of the gym,” you whispered.
“I know,” he replied.
He leaned in, his mouth right next to your ear.
“And I’ve been holding back from kissing you in front of everyone for ages. So dance with me and stop teasing me with your eyes. ”
You let out a nervous little laugh.
“I’m the one teasing you? You’re holding me as if you want to shag me against a wall. ”
He growled softly, almost an animal sound. His hand slid a little lower down your back, just above your bum. No lower. Just enough for you to realise he was thinking about it.
“Because I feel like it,” he said simply. “Because I’ve been watching you in that dress for ages now and I want to pull it up. Because I’ve been thinking about your lips ever since we went out into the garden. And because I know you’ve had a crush on me for ten years and I’m an idiot for taking so long to show you that I fancy you too.”
You nearly stumbled. He caught you easily, his arm now wrapped more firmly around your waist.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice a little hoarse.
“Absolutely.” He looked down at your mouth for a second. “I want to kiss you. I want to touch you. I want to hear you moan my name. And I want to do it tonight, if you’ll let me. Not because I’m Steve’s mate. Not out of pity. Because I’ve wanted you for far too long and tonight, I’m all in.”
The song ended. Another one started, a faster one. But you didn’t move. You stayed glued to each other in the middle of the dance floor, staring at each other as if the rest of the world no longer existed.
You felt your breathing quicken. Your body was reacting to his words, to his closeness, to the way he was holding you. You were soaking wet. Literally. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.
“Maybe we should… go out for a bit longer,” you said, your voice low.
Bucky nodded. He didn’t smile. He looked tense. In control, but on the verge of losing it.
“Yeah. We should. ”
He let go of you just enough to take your hand and lead you towards the exit. This time, he didn’t stop at the garden. He led you down the corridor leading to the changing rooms and the locked classrooms. He pushed open a door at random. An empty classroom. Dark. Just the light coming from the corridor through the glass in the door.
He let you in and closed the door behind you.
The silence was heavy.
Bucky leaned against the door for a moment, looking at you. Then he pushed himself away and approached slowly. He stopped right in front of you, close enough for you to feel his warmth.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Tell me I’m going too far and I’ll back off. Right now.”
You shook your head.
“I don’t want you to back off.”
He let out a low curse through clenched teeth. Then he slipped a hand behind your neck and pulled you towards him.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was intense, a bit desperate, full of ten years of pent-up tension. His mouth on yours, his tongue demanding entry, his body gently pushing you against a desk. You moaned into his mouth without being able to stop yourself. He responded with a growl, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping the fabric of your dress.
When he pulled away, you were both breathing a little too heavily.
“Fuck, ” he murmured against your lips. “You’ve no idea what you do to me. ”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile was shaky.
“I’m starting to get the picture.”
He slid a hand over your thigh, over the top of your dress, and moved it up slowly. Not far enough to be indecent. Just enough for you to feel his warm fingers on your skin.
“I want to touch you,” he said. “I want to make you come. I want to hear you. But not here. Not in a classroom with the whole prom going on next door. ”
He pressed his forehead against yours.
“I want to take you home. Or go somewhere. Anywhere. I want us to finish this evening just the two of us. Just the two of us, really.”
You swallowed, your heart pounding.
“Take me,” you said. “Take me away from here. ”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to control himself. Then he nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.”
He took your hand again. This time, his fingers were trembling slightly.
Before leaving the hall, he turned back to you one last time.
“One last thing,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Tonight, I’m not your brother’s mate. I’m just a bloke who’s wanted you for far too long. And who’s going to show you just how serious he is. If you let me.”
You squeezed his hand tighter.
“I’ll let you. ”
He smiled. A real smile – warm, a little dangerous.
“Right, let’s go.”
You walked out of the gym without looking back.
Bucky was still holding your hand, his fingers clasped around yours as if he were afraid you’d change your mind. You didn’t bump into anyone important. Just a few students smoking outside who gave you sidelong glances. John Walker was probably still inside being a wanker. You didn’t give a damn about him now.
The cool night air hit you right in the face as you reached the car. Bucky opened the passenger door for you, helped you in, then got round to the other side. He set off without saying a word straight away. The radio stayed off. There was nothing but the sound of the engine and your slightly too rapid breathing.
He drove on in silence for a while, his hands on the steering wheel, the headlights illuminating the empty road. Every now and then, he’d glance over at you. A sombre look. Hunger. Tension.
You finally broke the silence, your voice a little hoarse.
“Where are we going?”
Bucky kept his eyes on the road.
“Anywhere. As long as it’s not back to your place straight away.” He paused. “I don’t want to drive you back as if nothing’s happened. Not after what’s just happened.”
You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you. Your thighs were pressed tightly together. You could still feel the warmth of his kiss in the classroom. You could also feel that your knickers were soaking wet. Completely. And you knew he knew.
“Do you regret it?” you asked bluntly.
He turned his head towards you for a second, looking almost shocked.
“Regret it?” He let out a short, dry laugh. “no. I don’t regret it. I just regret taking so long to show you that I wanted you. ”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, then rested it back on the steering wheel.
“I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying not to touch you whilst I’m driving. You’ve no idea what you do to me.”
You turned your upper body towards him, leaning against the door. “Tell me.”
Bucky gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His jaw was clenched.
“I think about your mouth. The way you moaned when I kissed you. I think about your legs in that dress. I think about what I want to do with my hands, my mouth.”
He glanced quickly at you.
“And I think you’re soaking wet right now. Tell me I’m wrong. ”
You felt your cheeks burn, but you didn’t look away. You were too turned on to feel ashamed.
“You’re not wrong,” you replied, your voice low. “I’m soaking wet. Ever since we were in the garden. Ever since you were honest with me. Ever since you said you wanted to eat me raw.”
Bucky growled. A real guttural sound. He changed lanes a bit more abruptly than necessary.
“Fuck, ” he murmured. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to pull over and jump on you right now. ”
“What if I told you I want you to?” you retorted, just as bluntly. “That I want you to touch me. That I want to feel your mouth on me.”
The silence that followed was electric.
Bucky slowed down and pulled into a small, deserted car park next to a sports ground. He switched off the engine. The headlights went out. All that remained was the moonlight and the distant streetlamps.
He turned fully towards you.
His eyes were dark. Really dark.
“Did you just say you used to wank thinking about me?” he asked, his voice low and tense.
You nodded, without any shame now.
“For years. Ever since I was sixteen. I told myself it was wrong because you were Steve’s mate. But I did it anyway.”
Bucky ran a hand over his face, as if trying to control himself.
He lowered his hand and looked at you.
“Do you know how much I want you right now? How much I want to get you down on your knees on this seat and make you suck my cock? How much I want to lick you until you scream my name?”
He leaned towards you over the centre console. His hand rested on your thigh, just above your knee, and slowly moved upwards, gently parting the fabric of your dress.
“I want to feel how wet you are for me. I want to hear you beg. And then… I want to fuck you. Gently at first. Then harder. Because I’m totally into you, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been completely into you for far too long.”
His hand stopped halfway up your thigh. No higher. He was waiting.
You were breathing faster now. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.
“Bucky…” you murmured.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “But if you tell me to carry on… I’m going to touch you. Right here. Right now.”
You looked at his hand on your thigh. Then at his face. He looked tense. In control, but on the verge of losing it. His eyes were fixed on you as if you were the only thing that existed.
You placed your hand over his and moved it a little higher up your thigh.
“Keep going,” you said.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if praying to keep his composure. Then he opened his eyes and slid his hand higher, under your dress this time. His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, slowly moving up towards your knickers.
When he felt just how wet you were, he let out a low swear.
“Fuck… are you this wet for me?”
You nodded, your teeth clenched on your lower lip.
He ran a finger over your thong, slowly, pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. He hadn’t slipped inside yet. He was toying with you. He was building the tension.
“I’m going to make you come in this car,” he said, his voice low and dirty. “With my fingers first. Then with my mouth. And after that… I’m going to fuck you. Because I’ve wanted this for far too long and tonight, I’m taking what I want. If you let me. ”
You moaned softly when he pressed a little harder on your clitoris through the fabric.
“I’ll let you,” you whispered. “I’ll let you have everything.”
Bucky withdrew his hand, slowly, as if he were forcing himself not to go any further just yet. He leaned in and kissed you. A gentler kiss this time, but still intense. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“We’re not going to do it here,” he said. “Not in a car in a car park. I want to make love to you properly. I want to see you. I want us to take our time.”
He stroked your cheek with his thumb.
“I know a place. A bit further on. Quiet. No one to bother us. Do you want to go there?”
You nodded without hesitation.
“Take me there.”
Bucky turned the ignition back on. His hands were trembling slightly on the steering wheel.
Before setting off again, he gave you one last look, his eyes dark and burning.
“Once we’re there… I won’t hold back any more. I’m going to show you just how madly I’m into you. Are you sure?”
You smiled, nervous but certain.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
He nodded, a wry smile on his face that promised things that were both naughty and sweet at the same time.
The car set off again.
And the tension inside the car had become almost unbearable.
Bucky switched off the engine in a small, deserted car park by the lake. The place was quiet, far from everything. Just trees all around, the moon reflecting on the water, and no one in sight. He switched off the headlights. The car became almost completely dark, lit only by the pale light filtering through the windows.
He turned towards you. His eyes were dark, his breathing a little uneven.
“We’re here,” he said softly. “If you want us to stop, we’ll stop. Even now. Even in five minutes. Just say the word. ”
You shook your head. Your hands were trembling slightly on your thighs.
“I don’t want to stop. I want you. I really want you.”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if he needed to calm himself down. Then he leaned towards you and kissed you. It wasn’t the prom kiss anymore. It was deeper, slower, more intense. His tongue caressed yours, his teeth gently nibbling your lower lip. One of his hands moved up to your cheek, the other rested on your thigh, just below the hem of your dress.
You moaned against his mouth as he began to stroke the inside of your thigh, moving slowly upwards. His fingers were warm, a little rough. He pulled away just enough to speak against your lips.
“I’ll take it slowly, OK? I want you to feel good. I want you to want everything I’m going to do to you.”
You nodded, your voice a little lost.
“OK.”
He kissed you again, longer this time, whilst his hand continued to move upwards. When he reached your thong, he ran a finger over the fabric. He could feel just how wet you already were. He let out a low sound, almost a groan.
“Are you already that wet for me?”
You nodded, a little embarrassed but too turned on to lie.
“Since a while ago. Ever since you started talking to me in the car.”
This time, Bucky slid his fingers under your thong. He ran a finger along your slit, slowly, gathering your arousal. He moved it up to your clitoris and traced small, gentle circles. You gave a slight start, one hand clutching his forearm.
“Breathe,” he murmured against your neck. “Let yourself go. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
He continued to caress you, patiently, attentive to your every reaction. When he sensed that you were beginning to relax, he slid a finger inside you. Gently. Very gently. You felt a slight burning sensation, but no real pain. Just a new feeling of being stretched.
“Are you OK?” he asked straight away, his eyes fixed on your face.
“Yes…” you replied, your voice a little breathless. “Carry on. ”
He moved his finger slowly, back and forth, whilst continuing to stimulate your clitoris with his thumb. After a moment, he added a second finger. This time, you felt the stretching more distinctly. You grimaced slightly.
Bucky stopped immediately.
“Too much?” ”
“A bit…” you admitted. “You’re… big. Even with your fingers.”
He smiled gently, almost proudly, but there was tenderness in his gaze.
“I know. We’ll take it very slowly. I’ll open you up gently. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He began moving his fingers again, even more slowly, bending them slightly to find the right angle. After a few minutes, the discomfort turned to pleasure. You started moving your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. Bucky watched your every reaction, adjusting his movements in response to your sighs and moans.
When he sensed you were ready, he withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth and licked them slowly, never taking his eyes off you. You felt your stomach clench violently at the sight.
“You taste incredible,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He leaned back slightly in his seat and began to undo his belt. You watched him, your heart pounding. When he pulled down his trousers and boxers, his cock sprang out – hard, thick, already glistening at the tip. You swallowed. It was really big. Bigger than you’d ever imagined in your fantasies.
Bucky saw the look on your face.
“We’re not going to do it straight away,” he said. “I want you to get used to me first. Come here.”
He tilted his seat back slightly and helped you swing round to the other side. You found yourself straddling him, your dress riding up over your hips. His cock was wedged between the two of you, hot and hard against your thong.
He kissed you again, his hands on your hips, gently guiding you so that you rubbed your pussy against him. The friction of your thong’s thin fabric against his cock was both frustrating and incredibly arousing. You could feel every vein, every throb.
“Like that…” he murmured against your mouth. “Rub yourself against me. Take whatever you want.”
You started moving your hips, rubbing yourself against him. Every time his cock brushed against your clitoris, it sent a shiver through you. Bucky kept his hands on your hips but let you set the pace. He looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
After a while, he slid a hand between you and pushed your thong to one side. His bare cock made direct contact with your soaking wet pussy. The sensation was intense. You moaned loudly when you felt the thick head rub against your clitoris, then slide along your slit.
“Fuck…” Bucky groaned, his head thrown back against the seat. “You’re so hot… so wet…”
He let you keep rubbing against him like that for several minutes. It was delicious torture. His cock slid between your lips, pressing against your entrance without ever really entering. Every time the head brushed against your clitoris, you felt sparks shooting through your whole body.
“Buck…” you murmured, your voice trembling. “I want you. I really want you inside me.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something very serious in his expression now.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
He nodded. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a condom. He tore it open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock, slowly, looking you in the eyes.
“Come here,” he said softly.
He helped you position yourself on top of him. You could feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Even with all the preparation, you knew it was going to be tight.
“Lower yourself gently,” he guided you. “As slowly as you need to. If it’s too much, come back up. We’ve got all the time in the world. ”
You began to lower yourself. The stretching sensation was intense. More intense than with his fingers. You gritted your teeth, your hands resting on his shoulders.
Bucky stroked your back and hips, whispering words of encouragement.
“That’s good… breathe… you’re perfect… take your time…”
When your head finally slipped through, you let out a little cry. Bucky froze completely.
“Are you OK? Do you want me to stop?”
“No…” you said, your voice a little breathless. “Carry on. Just… slowly.”
He let you control the descent. Centimetre by centimetre, you took him inside you. He was really big. You could feel every centimetre stretching you, filling you. It was a mixture of burning pain and deep pleasure. When you’d finally lowered yourself all the way down, sitting on top of him, you needed a few seconds to catch your breath.
Bucky stroked your cheeks, your hair, your shoulders. He kissed you gently, tenderly.
“You took me all the way,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re incredible. ”
You nodded, your eyes a little misty. No tears. Just a powerful emotion, mixed with excitement.
You began to move slowly. Small back-and-forth movements at first. Bucky let you do it, his hands on your hips but without forcing you. He looked at you as if you were giving him something precious.
After a while, the burning sensation turned to pleasure. You started moving up and down more freely. Every time you came back down, you could feel his cock filling you completely. Bucky began to push his hips upwards, gently, in time with you.
“You’re...so tight…” he groaned. “You’re squeezing me so hard…”
He slid a hand between you both and began to stroke your clitoris at the same time. The double stimulation made you see stars. You moaned louder, your movements becoming more erratic.
“Bucky… I… I’m going to… ”
“Let yourself go,” he said, his voice taut. “Come for me. I’ve got you.”
You came with a stifled cry, your body trembling, your insides contracting around him. Bucky kept moving slowly inside you throughout your orgasm, prolonging it, caressing you, kissing you.
When you came down from your wave of pleasure, he kissed you more deeply.
“Do you want me to carry on?” he asked. “I can pull out if you’d like.”
“No,” you replied straight away. “Carry on. I want to feel you come inside me.”
Bucky let out a groan and began to move more freely. Not roughly. But deeper, more steadily. He grabbed you by the hips and guided you, showing you the rhythm he liked. You could feel him growing even bigger inside you.
“I’m going to come…” he warned, his voice breaking. “Fuck… I’m going to come…”
He came with a deep groan, his hips thrusting up against you one last time. You felt the warmth of the condom filling up. He held you tight against him whilst he came, his face buried in your neck, whispering your name.
When he’d calmed down, he stayed like that for a long while, holding you close, still inside you. He kissed you gently on the temple, on the cheek, on the lips.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.
You nodded, exhausted but fulfilled.
“I’m fine. That was… intense. But good. Really good.”
Bucky smiled against your skin. He helped you sit up gently. He took off the condom, tied a knot in it and set it aside. Then he helped you get a bit dressed, settled you back comfortably in his seat, and lay back down beside you.
He held you in his arms, your head resting against his chest. You could hear his heart beating fast.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for letting me do that with you.”
You lifted your head and looked at him. His eyes were a little glistening.
“It wasn’t just sex,” you said softly. “Not for me. ”
“Me neither,” he replied without hesitation. “It was much more than that. And I want to carry on. Not just tonight. I really want to be with you. Not in secret. Not telling myself it’s wrong because I’m Steve’s mate. I want to be with you. Really.”
You felt a lump in your throat. You nodded.
“Me too.”
Bucky kissed you gently, for a long time. A kiss that felt as much like tenderness as it did desire.
“We’ll stay here a while,” he said. “I want to hold you for a bit longer. Then we’ll go home. And tomorrow… we’ll talk to Steve. Together.”
You nodded against his chest.
For the first time in a very long time, you no longer felt like you were just ‘Steve’s little sister’.
You were with Bucky.
***
You woke up slowly, as if your body were struggling to emerge from a very deep sleep. The first thing you felt was warmth. A solid, living warmth against your back. A heavy arm draped around your waist. Steady breathing in your hair.
You opened your eyes.
You were no longer in the car.
You were in a bed. A large single bed, with dark grey sheets and a pillow that was a little too firm. Morning light was streaming in through the half-lowered blinds. There was a small bedside table with an open book, a bottle of water and your phone resting on it.
And behind you, pressed against your back, was Bucky.
His arm was wrapped round your waist, his large, warm hand resting just below your breasts. His leg was tangled with yours. You could feel his breath against the nape of your neck, slow and deep. He was still asleep.
You closed your eyes for a second, letting the memories of that night come flooding back.
The car. His fingers. His mouth. His cock stretching you for the first time. The way he’d looked at you as if you were breaking something inside him and mending it at the same time. The crude words he’d spoken. The moans. The orgasm that had made you tremble against him.
And afterwards… he’d taken you back to his place. You vaguely remembered the journey, him holding your hand on the centre console, the way he’d parked the car in front of a small block of flats near the campus. Him helping you up the stairs, gently undressing you, putting you to bed and snuggling up against you without asking for anything more. Just to hold you.
You must have fallen asleep almost straight away, exhausted, content, a little dazed.And now he was there, pressed up against you as if letting go was out of the question.
You shifted slightly. Bucky grunted in his sleep and pulled you closer to him. His hand moved, sliding over your stomach, then lower, onto your thigh. You felt his cock harden against your bottom.He gradually woke up. You could sense the exact moment he realised where he was and who he was with. His body tensed slightly, then relaxed completely.
“Yes,…” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice deep and hoarse with sleep. “You’re still here. For a second there, I was afraid I’d been dreaming.”
You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.
“I’m still here.”
He kissed your shoulder, slowly, his mouth warm and slightly damp. His hand continued to stroke your thigh, moving gently upwards.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. There was genuine concern in his voice.
You took a moment to check how your body felt. You were a bit sore between your legs. Not really painful, just… used. Full. It was a strange, new sensation, but not an unpleasant one.
“A bit sore,” you replied honestly. “But fine. It was good.”
Bucky sighed against your skin, relieved. He gently rolled you onto your back and leaned over you. His hair was tousled, his eyes still a little puffy from sleep, but he was looking at you as if you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
He kissed you. Gently at first. Then more deeply, his tongue caressing yours, his hand sliding over your breast, his thumb brushing against your nipple.
You moaned into his mouth.
When he pulled away, he stayed very close, his forehead pressed against yours.
“I want to tell you some things,” he said in a low voice. “Raw things. Things I should have told you ages ago. Do you want to hear them?”
You nodded.
Bucky took a deep breath.
“I’ve fancied you for at least two years,” he began, getting straight to the point. “Not just ‘I think you’re cute’. I mean I think about you when I wank. I think about your mouth. About your eyes when you roll them because I’ve said something stupid. About the way you walk. About your voice. I’ve wanked thinking about you so many times I’ve lost count. ”
He slid his hand between your legs, gently, without really touching you yet. Just resting his palm on your pubic area.
“And I felt like a proper arsehole because you’re Steve’s sister and I thought I was a pervert. So I held back. I pretended it was nothing. Until yesterday.”
He slid two fingers between your lips, slowly, gathering the moisture that was already there.
“Yesterday, when Steve told me that John had taken you, I wanted to kill him… Because it was you. And I wanted to be the one to take you away. I wanted to be the one to look at you in that dress. I wanted to be the one to touch you.”
He slid a finger inside you, slowly. You were still sensitive, but the sensation felt good. Deep. He moved his finger with deliberate slowness, looking into your eyes.
“And now that I’ve had you… I don’t want to stop. I want to fuck you every day. I want to make you come with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. I want to hear you scream my name when you come. I want to fill you up. I want to see you with my cum running down your thighs.”
He added a second finger, curving it to press against just the right spot. You moaned, your hips lifting slightly.
“But I want to wake you up like this too,” he continued, his voice softer now. “I want to make you breakfast in the morning. I want you to come round to my place after your future new classes or mine. I want you to leave your things lying around here. I want Steve to know. I don’t want to pretend any more.”
He withdrew his fingers and licked them slowly, without taking his eyes off you.
“I’m all in,” he said simply. “Completely. Not just for the sex. For everything. For you. ”
You felt your eyes sting. No tears. Just an emotion so strong it tightened your throat.
You slid your hand over his cheek, his chin covered in stubble.
“Me too,” you said, your voice a little broken. “I’ve fancied you for ten years. Ever since I was eight and you used to come round to play video games with Steve. I’d look at you and think it was unfair that you were so handsome and that you were my brother’s mate. I spent years pretending it was just a silly crush.”
You slid your hand lower, over his chest, then lower still, until it reached his cock, already hard against your thigh.
“And last night… when you took me… I realised it wasn’t just a crush. It was you. It was always you. ”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if your words were having a powerful effect on him.
He positioned himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance. He didn’t enter you straight away. He just looked at you.
“Are you sure you still want this? You’re sensitive… ”
“I want you,” you replied. “Gently. Like that. In the morning.”
He nodded. He took a condom from the bedside table, put it on, and slid into you slowly, centimetre by centimetre. You were still a little sore, but it felt good. Deep. Fulfilling.
He moved slowly, deeply, looking into your eyes. No haste. No roughness. Just slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling against yours, his mouth kissing you between each breath.
“I love you”, he murmured against your lips at one point.
His voice was low, raw, honest.
“I’ve loved you for a while now. I didn’t want to tell you like this, but… fuck, I love you. ”
You felt a tear roll down your temple. You wiped it away quickly.
“I love you too,” you replied. “I’ve loved you for so long that I’ve forgotten what it was like not to love you. ”
Bucky groaned softly and picked up the pace a little, still deep, still controlled. You came first, silently, your body clinging to him, your nails digging into his back. He followed a few seconds later, his face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a prayer.
Afterwards, he stayed inside you for a long while, just holding you, kissing you gently on the lips, on your eyelids, on your temple.
When he pulled out, he gently cleaned you up with a damp flannel he’d fetched from the bathroom. He dressed you in his oversized T-shirt, held you close, and you lay there, staring at the ceiling, your fingers intertwined.
“We’re going to have to talk to Steve,” you said after a long silence.
Bucky nodded.
“Yeah. Today. I don’t want to put it off. I don’t want him to find out from someone else.”
You felt a little knot of anxiety in your stomach.
“Do you think he’ll flip out? ”
Bucky smiled gently.
“Probably a bit. But he’s fond of me. And he loves you even more. He’ll come round to it in the end.” He kissed your hair. “And if he gets too grumpy… Nat’ll be there to calm him down.”
Bucky pulled you closer to him.
“Listen… whatever Steve says, I’m with you now. I really am. I’m not going to back down. I’m not going to let you deal with this on your own. We’ll do this together. All right?”
You nodded against his chest.
“All right.”
You stayed like that for a long time, gently touching each other, exchanging slow kisses, whispering things that were both raw and tender at the same time.
At one point, your phone vibrated on the bedside table.
Steve
Where are you? Are you home? I didn’t see you last night.
You showed the message to Bucky. He sighed.
“Let’s go. We’ll talk to him this morning.”
You nodded.
An hour later, you were both dressed (you in one of his jumpers and a T-shirt, him in jeans and a hoodie), and Bucky was driving you home. He held your hand on the centre console the whole way.
When you arrived, Steve’s car was parked outside. And next to it… Natasha’s motorbike.
Bucky switched off the engine and turned to you.
“Ready? ”
You took a deep breath.
“Ready.”
You went inside together.
Steve was in the kitchen, making coffee. Natasha was sitting on the worktop, eating a piece of toast, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, her red hair tied back in a ponytail.
Steve saw you come in. He saw your hand in Bucky’s. He saw Bucky’s jumper that you were wearing. He saw the way Bucky was looking at you.
He put the coffee pot down.
“Oh wow,” he said quietly.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, a small, sidelong smile playing on her lips.
“Well,” she murmured. “This is going to be interesting.”
Steve looked at you. Really looked at you. Not in an angry big brother sort of way. Just… surprised. A bit hurt. But not angry.
“Is it him?” he asked simply.
You nodded.
“It’s him. It’s been him for a long time.”
Steve ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bucky.
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
“I didn’t know how,” Bucky replied honestly. “And I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position. But I love her. I really do. It’s not just a one-night stand. I want to be with her.”
Steve looked at Natasha. She shrugged with a small smile.
“They’re cute,” she said. “And they’re adults. Let them live a bit, Rogers.”
Steve sighed deeply. He finally nodded.
“…I don’t want any details. Ever. But…” He looked at you. “Are you happy?”
You nodded, your eyes a little glistening.
“Yes. I’m happy.”
Steve looked at Bucky one last time.
“If you hurt him, Barnes, I’ll kill you.”
Bucky gave a small, sad smile.
“I know. I won’t hurt him. I promise.”
Steve nodded. He came over to you and gave you a brief hug. A proper big-brother hug.
“ If you need to talk… you know where to find me.”
Then he stepped back and looked at Bucky.
“Coffee?”
Bucky smiled, relieved.
“Yeah. Coffee.”
You all sat down around the kitchen table. Natasha gave you a discreet wink. Steve grumbled a bit, but not too much. Bucky held your hand under the table.And for the first time in a very long time, you no longer felt like you were hiding anything.
You were with Bucky.
He was fully committed.
And even though it was a bit chaotic, a bit complicated, a bit too fast… it felt right.
This story contains mature content (smut/protection) intended for a mature audience (18+). Reader discretion is advised.
A/N: I haven't forgotten about "Swipe to You"! To be honest, I just didn't like my writing idea anymore (not the story itself), so I'm currently rewriting it. In the meantime, I'm clearing out my one-shot drafts.
F I N A L L Y Y O U R S
[Brother's Best Friend! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
❇ Pairing: Brother’s best friend! Bucky Barnes × Reader (You)
❇ Summary: When John Walker dumps you on the night of the prom, Bucky Barnes, your brother's best friend, saves the day.
❇ Tropes: Brother's Best Friend · Prom Night AU · Protective Bucky · Slow Burn to Smut
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
❇❇❇
It was lovely. Not perfect, but lovely.
Lovely enough to make you feel at least a little bit in your element tonight. The prom. At last. You’d been counting down the days like a kid, even though you were trying to act as if you couldn’t care less.
Your phone vibrated on the bedside table.
John Walker
Hi. I won’t be able to make it tonight. Sorry.
You narrowed your eyes. For a second. Two. Then you grabbed the phone faster than you should have.
You
What? Are you serious?
The reply came almost straight away, as if he’d already prepared what he was going to say in advance.
John Walker
Yeah. Something’s come up. I can’t. You’ll just have to go with someone else.
You felt your jaw clench. Something’s come up. Seriously. That was all he could come up with after asking you three weeks ago, after making you think it was sorted, after letting you choose your dress on the assumption that someone would actually be going with you.
You
You’ve got a ‘thing’ on the very day of the prom? Couldn’t you have told me sooner?
John Walker
I’m sorry, OK? It’s not my fault. I can’t cancel everything for you.
You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you were going to get a headache. ‘Not my fault’. Of course. As if it was you who’d saddled him with a date he couldn’t refuse on the night of the sixth-form prom.
Another message came through before you could reply.
John Walker
You’ll have no trouble finding someone else anyway. You’re not ugly.
You stared at the screen. Rage rose slowly, hot, in your chest. Not ugly. That was his consolation compliment. Not ugly. As if you were an acceptable Plan B and now he was dumping you without even having the decency to ring you.
You started typing a scathing reply, your fingers trembling with anger, then you stopped. What was the point? He didn’t care. He’d probably made up his mind ages ago and was just waiting until the last minute to dump you, like the coward he was.
Your phone rang. A call. John.
You hesitated for a second before answering, your voice already cold.
“What?”
“Listen, I didn’t want to tell you this via messaging, but…” He sounded rushed.
You could hear noise behind him – voices, laughter. He wasn’t even alone.
“I’m going to the ball with someone else. It’s better this way. ”
You let out a small, dry, joyless laugh.
“Someone else. Great. Thanks for the info, John. Really.”
“Hey, don’t get upset. The prom doesn’t matter. You can just stay at home if you don’t have anyone to go with. ”
He laughed. He really laughed. As if it were a joke.
You felt your eyes sting, but no tears came. Just that burning sensation behind your eyelids, the sort that comes when you’re more annoyed than anything else. You hung up without replying. Straight away. The silence in your room settled once more, heavy.
You dropped the phone onto your bed as if it had burnt your fingers. Your dress was still hanging on the chair. All ready. Pointless now.
You let out a long sigh and slumped back, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling.
“Arsehole…” you murmured to yourself, your voice low and weary.
Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated again. Not John this time.
A message from your brother.
Steve
Are you ready? I’ll be round to pick you up in an hour.
You stared at the screen without replying straight away. Steve. Your big brother. The one who was still asking if you needed him to come with you ‘just in case’. The one who didn’t even know that your date had just dumped you like an old sock.
You left the phone without replying.
For now, you just wanted to stay there, in your dress that would now be of no use, cursing John Walker and all the lads who acted like kings because they knew they could.
You lay there for a while, the phone resting on your chest, staring at the ceiling as if it were going to offer you a miracle solution. Your dress was still on the chair, perfectly ironed, looking ridiculous now. You finally sat up with a sigh and got up to hang it in the wardrobe. No point in leaving it lying around like the corpse of a party that was never going to happen.
Your phone vibrated again. Steve.
Steve
Did you see my message?
I’ll be there in 50 minutes. Are you ready, or do you want me to help you with anything?
You rolled your eyes. Of course he was offering to help. Steve, the perfect big brother, the one who still checked your shoelaces when you were fifteen. You hesitated, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard, then typed before you could stop yourself.
You
John dumped me. He’s seeing someone else.
The reply came almost instantly.
Steve
What?
Then another message.
Steve
Did he dump you? Today?
You let out a small, joyless chuckle. At least Steve had reacted normally. Not like John, who’d laughed on the phone.You didn’t have time to reply before your bedroom door swung open without a knock. Steve walked in, tall and broad-shouldered, already running a hand through his hair as he always did when he was annoyed.
“Did he dump you?” he repeated aloud, looking downright furious. “That arsehole.”
You slumped back onto the edge of the bed, your hands between your thighs.
“Yeah. First by text. Then he rang me to confirm he was seeing someone else. He even laughed.”
Steve paced up and down your bedroom, his eyebrows furrowed. He was still wearing his uni hoodie, the one he always put on when he came home. “Did he laugh? Did he really laugh?” He stopped and looked at you, looking as if he wanted to head straight over to John’s and smash his face in. “That arsehole. I knew he was like that. I told you, didn’t I? I told you he was just a pretentious idiot.”
You shrugged, trying to act as if it didn’t bother you that much.
“It’s no big deal. I won’t go, that’s all. ”
“Of course you’re going,” Steve cut in sharply. He planted himself in front of you, arms crossed. “You’ve spent weeks talking about that dress. You even made Bucky help you pick out your shoes the other day. You’re not staying here because of that arsehole Walker.”
At the mention of Bucky, you felt your cheeks flush slightly. You looked down at your hands. Steve hadn’t noticed. He carried on grumbling.
“I’m going to have a word with him. I’m going to have a bit of a chat with that little arsehole. He can’t do that to you the night before the prom and just get away with it.”
“Steve, no,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Forget it. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t care. And anyway… it’s not as if I’ve got anyone else to turn to. ”
Steve grunted, that sound he always made when he disagreed but knew you were partly right. He sat down next to you on the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight.
“Are you serious? You’re going to let that bloke ruin your evening just because he’s decided to ditch you for someone else? ” He gave you a gentle nudge with his shoulder, gentler than his words. “You’re better than that. And you’re better than him.”
You rolled your eyes for the umpteenth time that evening, but this time it was almost affectionate. Steve had always been like that. Overprotective, grumpy, but never at you.
He smiled despite himself, that wry smile he used to give when you called him that. Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, read the message and sighed.
“It’s Bucky. He’s asking if everything’s all right. I told him I was at your place.”
Your heart gave a silly little leap in your chest. You acted as if nothing had happened, staring at a spot on the floor.
Steve quickly typed a reply, then put his phone away.
“He’s popping round. He was already in the neighbourhood.”
You nodded without saying a word. Of course Bucky was popping round. He always popped round when Steve needed him. Or when you needed him, even if you never asked him directly.
Steve stood up and gave you one last look.
“We’ll sort this out, OK? Even if I have to drag you to that bloody prom myself. John Walker can go and fuck himself.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving you alone with your dress in the wardrobe and that strange lump in your throat that was no longer just anger.
***
You were still sitting on your bed when you heard the front door open downstairs. Steve’s voice, then another, deeper and calmer. Bucky.
You felt your stomach give a little lurch.
Of course he was already round the corner. Of course he’d come as soon as Steve’d sent him a message. It’d always been like that.You heard their voices coming up the stairs, muffled. You didn’t move. Part of you wanted to disappear into the wardrobe with your dress. The other part… well. The other part knew exactly why your heart was beating faster.
Your bedroom door opened a crack. Steve came in first, followed by Bucky.Bucky was wearing plain black jeans and a dark grey hoodie, his hair still a bit tousled as if he’d been driving with the windows down. He looked at you, and his expression changed in an instant. Softer. More attentive.
“Steve told me what happened,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him. “Walker really is a proper arsehole.”
You shrugged, trying to act as if you didn’t care.
“Yeah. It’s fine. I won’t go. It’s not the end of the world.”
Bucky exchanged a glance with Steve, then stepped forward and sat on the edge of the desk, facing you. Steve remained standing by the door, arms crossed, in his protective big-brother mode.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Bucky continued.
His voice was calm, but there was a note of determination in it.
“If you still want to go… I’ll take you.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You looked up suddenly, your eyes wide.
“What?”
Bucky gave a slight, slightly sheepish but sincere smile.
“I’ll take you to the ball. If you want. I’ve got nothing else on anyway. And…” He shrugged. “You don’t have to miss out on your night because of that guy.”
Steve made a sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.
“Bucky…”
Bucky glanced back over his shoulder at him.
“What?”
Steve frowned, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Are you sure about this? She’s… my little sister. And it’s the prom. There are rules. ”
You rolled your eyes so hard that Bucky stifled a laugh.
“Steve, give it a rest. I’m not asking her to go away for the weekend. It’s just a prom.”
“Yeah, but it’s you,” Steve insisted, ever the protector. “And it’s her. I know you’re a decent guy, but…”
Bucky held up both hands in a gesture of peace, but his smile didn’t fade.
“I know, Steve. I know. I’ll bring her back on time, I won’t let her drink, and I won’t let her out of my sight. I promise.” He turned his head towards you. “If you still want to go, of course. If you don’t feel like it anymore, that’s fine too. We can stay here watching daft films and ordering pizza.”
You looked at him. Really looked at him. The slightly oversized hoodie, the blue eyes staring at you with no trace of pity in their gaze, just… honesty. And something else. Something warmer.
You’d had a crush on him for ten years. Ten years of pretending he was just ‘Steve’s best mate’. And now here he was, sitting in your bedroom, asking to take you to the prom because your date had stood you up.
You felt your cheeks flush. You looked down at your hands to hide your reaction.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice a little quieter than you’d have liked.
Bucky nodded without hesitation.
“Absolutely. I’ll take you. We’ll even do it properly. A dress, photos, whatever you want. I’m all for it.”
Steve sighed behind you, but it was a resigned sigh.
“…Are you really sure?”
“I’m sure,” Bucky replied without even looking at Steve this time. His eyes were still fixed on you. “If she wants to. ”
You felt your heart making a ridiculous noise in your chest. You rolled your eyes for the sake of it, just to hide how much you were freaking out inside.
“You really are an idiot,” you murmured, but a smile was playing at the corners of your lips despite yourself.
Bucky smiled back, even more broadly this time.
“Yeah. But I’ll be your idiot for tonight, if you want. ”
Steve grumbled softly, but he didn’t protest any further. He knew when he’d lost.
You took a deep breath, your gaze still somewhat lost in Bucky’s.
“…Okay, ” you finally said. “Let’s go.”
***
You’d spent the last hour pacing round your room like a caged lion. You were wearing the dress again. You’d put it on, taken it off, put it on again. Your hands were shaking a bit as you tied your shoes. It was ridiculous. It was just Bucky. Bucky doing this out of kindness. Because he was Steve’s best friend. Because he felt sorry for you after John Walker’d dumped you like a piece of rubbish.
You rolled your eyes as you looked at yourself in the mirror.
“Stop freaking out,” you whispered to yourself. “It’s not a proper date.”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
Your heart gave a silly little leap.
You heard Steve open the door, his deep voice carrying all the way upstairs. Then another voice. Lower. Calmer. Bucky.
You took a deep breath, checked your reflection one last time, and walked slowly down the stairs, your heels clicking on the steps.
Downstairs, in the living room, Steve and Bucky were standing face to face. Bucky was wearing a simple but well-cut black suit, a white shirt with the collar open, and no tie. He looked… different. Taller. Broader. His hair was slicked back, a little less tousled than usual. He was holding a small white box in his hand.
Steve, for his part, had his arms crossed, fully in the role of the protective big brother.
“…and you bring her back before half past midnight,” Steve said. “No nonsense. No alcohol. And if she wants to come home earlier, you bring her straight back. Understood?”
Bucky nodded, looking serious.
“Understood. I promise, Steve. I’ll do the right thing.”
Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I know you’re a decent bloke, Buck. That’s why I’m saying yes. But she’s my little sister. So… watch out.”
“I’ll watch out,” Bucky replied with a slight smirk. “I promise.”
That was when they heard you coming. Both heads turned towards you at the same time.Bucky saw you… and froze for a second. His gaze drifted over your dress, then up to your face. There was something in his eyes. Something gentle. Something warm. Something truly intense.
“Wow,” he said softly, almost voicelessly. “You look… stunning.”
You felt your cheeks flush instantly. You rolled your eyes to hide just how much that had affected you.
“Stop it. It’s just a dress.”
“No,” he shook his head, still looking at you as if you were the only thing in the room. “It’s not just a dress.”
Steve cleared his throat loudly, breaking the moment. He looked at you, a mixture of pride and protectiveness on his face.
“You look lovely,” he said.
Then he turned to Bucky with a look that clearly said, ‘I’m keeping an eye on you’.
“I’m counting on you, Barnes.”
Bucky nodded, still serious.
“You can count on me. ”
He stepped towards you, still holding the little white box. He opened it. Inside was a simple yet elegant corsage: a few white and blue flowers, tied with a black ribbon.
“I thought… if you’d like,” he said, taking out the corsage. “Can I put it on for you?”
You nodded, unable to speak straight away. He moved closer. Very close. You could smell his scent, something fresh and warm at the same time. His fingers brushed against your wrist as he fastened the bodice. Gently. Carefully. As if you were made of glass.
Steve was watching the scene from the living room, his arms still crossed, but he wasn’t saying anything anymore. Just a slight, almost imperceptible smirk.
When Bucky had finished, he didn’t step back straight away. He stayed there, your hands almost touching, eye to eye.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard, your heart beating far too fast for what was supposed to be ‘just a friend doing a favour’.
“Yeah,” you replied. “I’m ready.”
Steve sighed behind you, but it was a resigned sigh. Almost amused.
“Have fun,” he said. “And Bucky… bring her back in one piece.”
Bucky smiled without taking his eyes off you.
“I promise.”
***
Bucky’s car was cruising gently through the night. The radio was turned down low, just some background music that neither of you was really listening to. You were sitting in the passenger seat, your hands clenched on your thighs, staring at the road without really seeing it. The blouse he’d put on you earlier still smelled faintly of fresh flowers. Every time you moved, you could feel the ribbon rubbing lightly against your skin.
Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on his knee. He was still wearing that simple black suit, but now that you were alone, you were really looking at him. The way the white shirt stretched slightly across his shoulders. The line of his jaw. The way he’d occasionally cast a quick glance your way, as if to check you were all right.
“You’re quiet,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Are you nervous?”
You shrugged.
“A bit. I feel like everyone’s going to be looking at me and thinking, ‘Look at her, she’s come with her brother’s mate because no one else wanted her’.”
Bucky let out a low chuckle.
“Nobody’s going to think that. And even if they did… they can go and fuck themselves.”
You turned your head towards him. He looked serious.
Really serious.
“You’re only saying that because you’re a nice guy,” you murmured.
He shook his head, a wry smile on his face.
“No. I’m saying it because it’s true. And because I’m glad to be here with you tonight. Not out of pity. Not because Steve asked me. Because I want to.”
You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was going haywire in your chest. You chose to look out of the window to hide your face.
The car pulled into the school hall car park. Music was already spilling out through the open doors. Groups of pupils in suits and dresses were coming and going, laughing, taking photos of each other, smoking discreetly in a corner. The usual smell of end-of-year balls: cheap perfume, sweat, and a bit of alcohol hidden in water bottles.
Bucky switched off the engine and turned to you.
“Shall we go?”
You nodded. He got out, walked round the car and opened the door for you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He held out his hand to help you out. You took it. His fingers felt warm around yours.
As you entered the sports hall, several heads turned. Of course. Bucky Barnes, 20, at uni, arriving with you. Steve’s little sister. The whispers began almost immediately. You pretended not to hear anything, but you could feel the stares. On your dress. On the bodice. On Bucky’s hand, which was still resting lightly on your back to guide you.
You hadn’t gone ten metres before you saw him.
John Walker.
He was standing by the bar, a drink in his hand, with a girl you vaguely knew from Year 10. He was wearing a navy blue tuxedo that suited him well, but his face… his face was already contorting into a shitty expression. He spotted you. He narrowed his eyes. Then he smiled. That smirk of a arsehole who thinks he’s king of the world.
He said something to the girl next to him, then cut across the room straight towards you.
“Fuck, ” you muttered through clenched teeth.
Bucky followed your gaze and sensed your tension. His hand pressed a little harder against your back. Not possessively. Just… there.
John stopped in front of you, hands in his pockets, looking feignedly relaxed.
“Look at that,” he said, his voice already a bit loud. “Rogers’ little sister turning up with her brother’s best mate. That’s cute. Really. ”
He gave you a slow, up-and-down once-over.
“Nice dress. Shame you had to settle for a bloke who still sees you as an eight-year-old.”
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed calm. Too calm.
“Walker, ” he said simply. “Go away.”
John laughed. A dry, nasty laugh.
“Oh, the great Bucky Barnes playing the knight in shining armour. That’s lovely. Really.”
He leaned in towards you a little, close enough for you to smell his cheap aftershave.
“You’ve really sunk that low, haven’t you? Couldn’t you have found someone else? Or maybe…” He smiled even wider. “…you knew Barnes had been fucking you in his head for years and you just seized the opportunity?” ”
The silence that followed was icy.
You felt the rage rising so fast you struggled to breathe.
“Fuck off, John.”
He laughed louder.
“Oh, she’s got some balls now, has she? That’s cute. Especially coming from someone who got dumped by text two hours ago. ”
Bucky took a step forward. Not much. Just enough for his shoulder to be slightly in front of yours. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You’re going to back off, Walker. Right now.”
John raised his hands in a feigned gesture of surrender, but he was still smiling. “Ohhh, the stand-in big brother protecting his little protégée. How touching.” He looked at you again.
“Enjoy your evening, princess. When he realises you’re just Steve’s annoying little sister, he’ll dump you like everyone else. ”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his group, laughing.
You stood there frozen, your body tense as a string. Shame burned your cheeks. Not because you believed what he was saying. But because he’d said it in front of everyone. Because he’d turned something nice into something dirty.
Bucky turned towards you. He slid a hand onto your arm, gently, just above your elbow.
“Breathe,” he said in a low voice. “He’s just a jealous, immature arsehole. He knows he’s screwed up and he’s trying to wind you up to make himself feel better.”
You nodded, but your throat felt tight.
“He said that in front of everyone…”
“And nobody cares,” Bucky replied.
He leaned in a little closer, close enough for you to hear him clearly.
“Do you want to leave? I’ll take you straight home. We’ll order a pizza and watch a film. Just say the word.”
You looked up at him. He was serious. Completely serious. He was really giving you the choice, right there and then.
You took a deep, shaky breath.
“No,” you said. “I want to stay. I don’t want him to win.”
Bucky nodded, a small, proud smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Then we’re staying. And we’re going to have a bloody good night.”
He held out his hand to you.
“Will you dance with me?”
You placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady.
Behind you, the music changed. A slower song. Bucky led you onto the dance floor without letting go of your hand for a single second.
John Walker could go and get lost.
Tonight, you were with Bucky.
And for now, that was all that mattered.
You danced to one song. Then two. Bucky held you properly, one hand in yours, the other resting lightly on your waist – respectful but present. Whenever the crowd got too close, he’d guide you a little closer to him without saying a word. You could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your dress. It was both comforting and completely nerve-wracking.
After the second song, he leaned in towards your ear.
“Want to get some fresh air? ”
You nodded without thinking. The air in the gym had become stifling, between the loud music, the bodies dancing and the nasty looks John Walker kept giving you from time to time. Bucky let go of your hand just long enough to guide you towards the side exit, the one leading to the small garden behind the gym.
Outside, the air was cool. Not cold, just enough to make you shiver slightly. There were a few other couples smoking or snogging in the dark corners, but Bucky led you further away, towards a stone bench set a little apart, under a tree. The music from the ball could still be heard, muffled, like a distant heartbeat.
You sat down. He stood there for a second, his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers, watching you. The light streaming from the gym windows illuminated his face just enough for you to see the expression in his eyes. Gentle. Intense. A little too much for you to handle tonight.
He finally sat down next to you, not too close, but close enough for you to feel his presence.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked softly.
You shrugged.
“Yeah. A bit.” You fiddled with the ribbon on your blouse. “Thanks… for earlier. With John. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I had to,” he replied without hesitation. “He was acting like a jerk. And I can’t stand it when people talk to you like that.”
You turned your head toward him. He was staring right at you. There was no pity in his gaze. Just… something warm. Something sincere. It made you feel even more uncomfortable.
“Bucky…” you began, your voice a little lower. “You’re doing this because you’re Steve’s friend, right?”
He furrowed his brow slightly.
“What?”
You felt frustration rising. Not at him. At yourself. At this situation. At the fact that you’d had a crush on him for ten damn years and knew full well that, to him, you were just his best friend’s little sister.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” you continued, your voice a little harsher now. “You’re here, you’re being chivalrous, you’re standing up for me, you’re asking me to the ball… because Steve asked you to look after me. Or because you feel obliged. Or out of pity. Because you saw that John had dumped me and you thought, Steve’s little sister’s going to be on her own, I’ve got to do something”.
Bucky looked at you for a long moment without saying a word. You saw something flash across his eyes. Something that looked like frustration. Not anger. Just… weariness.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Do you really think that?” he asked, his voice low.
You shrugged, on the defensive.
“Well, yeah. It makes sense. You’ve been my brother’s best friend forever. You’ve known me since I was eight. To you, I’m just… the annoying little sister. And now you’re playing the hero because that’s what you do. You’re the good guy. The one who helps out.”
Bucky let out a short, dry, joyless chuckle. He sat up straight and looked at you squarely this time.
“You’re completely wrong. ”
“Oh yeah?” you retorted, a little more sharply than you’d have liked. “Then explain to me why you’re here tonight, in a suit, looking at me as if I were the only girl at the ball. Explain to me why you stepped between me and John as if you wanted to hit him. Explain to me why you told me earlier in the car that you were glad to be here with me.”
He remained silent for a few seconds. You could hear your own breathing, a little too rapid.Then he spoke. His voice was calm, but there was a tension underlying it. A tension you’d never really heard in him before.
“I’m here because I want to be here. Full stop. Not because Steve asked me. Not out of pity. Not because I feel obliged.”
He turned fully towards you on the bench.
“I’m here because when Steve told me that John had dumped you, I wanted to offer to come with you. Because I wanted to spend my evening with you. Because I’ve been watching you for a while now and I keep telling myself that you’re more than just ‘Steve’s little sister’.”
You felt your heart racing. You rolled your eyes, more out of habit than conviction.
“Stop it…”
“No,” he cut in gently but firmly. “I’m not going to stop. Do you want it straight? I’ll give it to you.” He leaned in a little closer. “I’ve been watching you for months. Not like my best friend’s sister. I look at you and I think to myself that you’re gorgeous, that you’re funny, that you’ve got a nasty temper and that I like it. And tonight, when I saw John talking to you like a piece of shit, I wanted to smash his face in. Not because Steve asked me to look out for you. Because it was you. And because I’m fed up with pretending I don’t feel anything.”
The silence that followed was heavy. You could feel the blood pounding in your temples. You didn’t know where to look. His eyes were too intense. Too honest.
You lowered your head, staring at your hands on your knees.
“…You’re only saying that because you’re a nice person,” you murmured, your voice even quieter.
Bucky sighed. Not because he was annoyed. Just… a bit tired of seeing you doubt yourself.
He slid two fingers under your chin and gently lifted your head. His touch was light. Gentle. But he didn’t let go of you straight away.
“I’m not just being nice,” he said quietly. “I’m being honest. And if you carry on believing that I’m doing all this out of pity or a sense of duty… then I’ll spend the rest of the evening proving you wrong.”
Your eyes remained locked on his. You could feel the warmth of his fingers beneath your chin. You could smell his perfume mingling with the fresh air of the garden. And something in your stomach tightened. It wasn’t just desire. It was something deeper. Something more frightening.
You swallowed.
“Bucky…”
He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Do you want to go home?” he asked. “I’ll take you home straight away if that’s what you want. But if you stay… stop putting me in the ‘your brother’s best friend doing his duty’ box. Because tonight, I’m just a guy who wants to spend time with a girl he’s fancied for a while. And who really wants to kiss her if she lets him.”
He withdrew his fingers from your chin, slowly, as if giving you the choice of whether or not to step back.
You didn’t step back.
The music carried on playing in the distance. Someone laughed somewhere in the garden. But here, on this bench, there were just the two of you and that tension that had just shifted from ‘friends’ to something far more dangerous.
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, his eyes lingering on your mouth for a second too long.
Then he stood up and held out his hand to you.
“Shall we go back to the dance floor?” he asked softly. “Or do you want us to stay here a bit longer… and have a proper chat?”
You placed your hand in his.
And you didn’t answer straight away.
You walked back into the gym hand in hand.
Bucky hadn’t let go of you since you’d left the bench. His fingers were intertwined with yours, firm, warm. Not possessive. Just… there. As if he’d decided that now he’d spoken, he wasn’t going to back down.
As soon as you walked in, several people looked at you. John Walker was still there, leaning against a wall with his new girlfriend, a smug grin on his face. He saw you. He saw your clasped hands. His expression tightened slightly. Bucky ignored him completely. He just pulled you towards the dance floor as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.
The music was slower now. One of those slightly sensual songs that teachers used to play when they wanted the pupils to get a bit too close. Bucky turned to face you, pulled you against him without asking. One hand on your waist, the other still holding yours against his chest. You started dancing.
You could feel his body against yours. Warm. Solid. You could feel his steady breathing in his chest. And you could also feel him looking at you. Not just looking at you. He was devouring you with his eyes. As if he’d stopped holding back.
“Are you still stressed?” he murmured close to your ear.
You shook your head.
“No.” You hesitated. “Well… a bit. But not for the same reasons.”
He let out a low, hoarse chuckle. His hand on your waist tightened slightly. You could feel his fingers through the thin fabric of your dress.
“Tell me.”
You looked up at him. He was far too close. You could see every detail of his face. The small scar near his eyebrow. The way his blue eyes were darker tonight.
“I’m freaking out because you’re looking at me as if you want to eat me alive,” you replied frankly. “And because I want you to. And that freaks me out a bit.”
Bucky slowed down the dance. He looked at you for a long moment, then slid his hand a little lower down your waist, just above your hips. Not in a sleazy way. Just… deliberate.
“I’m looking at you like this because I want to devour you whole,” he replied, his voice low and direct. “I’ve been feeling that way for a while. And tonight… I’m not holding back as much.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine. You rolled your eyes, more to keep your composure than because you were actually annoyed.
“You’re really not subtle, Barnes.”
“No,” he admitted with a slight smirk. “I’m not subtle. I go all out. And I think you’ve realised that by now.”
He turned you round slowly, then pulled you back against him, even closer this time. Your chest brushed against his with every movement. You could feel the heat of his body. You could also feel that he was hard somewhere against your thigh, and that he wasn’t even trying to hide it completely. It sent a sudden wave of heat surging between your legs.
You swallowed.
“Bucky… we’re in the middle of the gym,” you whispered.
“I know,” he replied.
He leaned in, his mouth right next to your ear.
“And I’ve been holding back from kissing you in front of everyone for ages. So dance with me and stop teasing me with your eyes. ”
You let out a nervous little laugh.
“I’m the one teasing you? You’re holding me as if you want to shag me against a wall. ”
He growled softly, almost an animal sound. His hand slid a little lower down your back, just above your bum. No lower. Just enough for you to realise he was thinking about it.
“Because I feel like it,” he said simply. “Because I’ve been watching you in that dress for ages now and I want to pull it up. Because I’ve been thinking about your lips ever since we went out into the garden. And because I know you’ve had a crush on me for ten years and I’m an idiot for taking so long to show you that I fancy you too.”
You nearly stumbled. He caught you easily, his arm now wrapped more firmly around your waist.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice a little hoarse.
“Absolutely.” He looked down at your mouth for a second. “I want to kiss you. I want to touch you. I want to hear you moan my name. And I want to do it tonight, if you’ll let me. Not because I’m Steve’s mate. Not out of pity. Because I’ve wanted you for far too long and tonight, I’m all in.”
The song ended. Another one started, a faster one. But you didn’t move. You stayed glued to each other in the middle of the dance floor, staring at each other as if the rest of the world no longer existed.
You felt your breathing quicken. Your body was reacting to his words, to his closeness, to the way he was holding you. You were soaking wet. Literally. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.
“Maybe we should… go out for a bit longer,” you said, your voice low.
Bucky nodded. He didn’t smile. He looked tense. In control, but on the verge of losing it.
“Yeah. We should. ”
He let go of you just enough to take your hand and lead you towards the exit. This time, he didn’t stop at the garden. He led you down the corridor leading to the changing rooms and the locked classrooms. He pushed open a door at random. An empty classroom. Dark. Just the light coming from the corridor through the glass in the door.
He let you in and closed the door behind you.
The silence was heavy.
Bucky leaned against the door for a moment, looking at you. Then he pushed himself away and approached slowly. He stopped right in front of you, close enough for you to feel his warmth.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Tell me I’m going too far and I’ll back off. Right now.”
You shook your head.
“I don’t want you to back off.”
He let out a low curse through clenched teeth. Then he slipped a hand behind your neck and pulled you towards him.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was intense, a bit desperate, full of ten years of pent-up tension. His mouth on yours, his tongue demanding entry, his body gently pushing you against a desk. You moaned into his mouth without being able to stop yourself. He responded with a growl, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping the fabric of your dress.
When he pulled away, you were both breathing a little too heavily.
“Fuck, ” he murmured against your lips. “You’ve no idea what you do to me. ”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile was shaky.
“I’m starting to get the picture.”
He slid a hand over your thigh, over the top of your dress, and moved it up slowly. Not far enough to be indecent. Just enough for you to feel his warm fingers on your skin.
“I want to touch you,” he said. “I want to make you come. I want to hear you. But not here. Not in a classroom with the whole prom going on next door. ”
He pressed his forehead against yours.
“I want to take you home. Or go somewhere. Anywhere. I want us to finish this evening just the two of us. Just the two of us, really.”
You swallowed, your heart pounding.
“Take me,” you said. “Take me away from here. ”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to control himself. Then he nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.”
He took your hand again. This time, his fingers were trembling slightly.
Before leaving the hall, he turned back to you one last time.
“One last thing,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Tonight, I’m not your brother’s mate. I’m just a bloke who’s wanted you for far too long. And who’s going to show you just how serious he is. If you let me.”
You squeezed his hand tighter.
“I’ll let you. ”
He smiled. A real smile – warm, a little dangerous.
“Right, let’s go.”
You walked out of the gym without looking back.
Bucky was still holding your hand, his fingers clasped around yours as if he were afraid you’d change your mind. You didn’t bump into anyone important. Just a few students smoking outside who gave you sidelong glances. John Walker was probably still inside being a wanker. You didn’t give a damn about him now.
The cool night air hit you right in the face as you reached the car. Bucky opened the passenger door for you, helped you in, then got round to the other side. He set off without saying a word straight away. The radio stayed off. There was nothing but the sound of the engine and your slightly too rapid breathing.
He drove on in silence for a while, his hands on the steering wheel, the headlights illuminating the empty road. Every now and then, he’d glance over at you. A sombre look. Hunger. Tension.
You finally broke the silence, your voice a little hoarse.
“Where are we going?”
Bucky kept his eyes on the road.
“Anywhere. As long as it’s not back to your place straight away.” He paused. “I don’t want to drive you back as if nothing’s happened. Not after what’s just happened.”
You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you. Your thighs were pressed tightly together. You could still feel the warmth of his kiss in the classroom. You could also feel that your knickers were soaking wet. Completely. And you knew he knew.
“Do you regret it?” you asked bluntly.
He turned his head towards you for a second, looking almost shocked.
“Regret it?” He let out a short, dry laugh. “no. I don’t regret it. I just regret taking so long to show you that I wanted you. ”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, then rested it back on the steering wheel.
“I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying not to touch you whilst I’m driving. You’ve no idea what you do to me.”
You turned your upper body towards him, leaning against the door. “Tell me.”
Bucky gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His jaw was clenched.
“I think about your mouth. The way you moaned when I kissed you. I think about your legs in that dress. I think about what I want to do with my hands, my mouth.”
He glanced quickly at you.
“And I think you’re soaking wet right now. Tell me I’m wrong. ”
You felt your cheeks burn, but you didn’t look away. You were too turned on to feel ashamed.
“You’re not wrong,” you replied, your voice low. “I’m soaking wet. Ever since we were in the garden. Ever since you were honest with me. Ever since you said you wanted to eat me raw.”
Bucky growled. A real guttural sound. He changed lanes a bit more abruptly than necessary.
“Fuck, ” he murmured. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to pull over and jump on you right now. ”
“What if I told you I want you to?” you retorted, just as bluntly. “That I want you to touch me. That I want to feel your mouth on me.”
The silence that followed was electric.
Bucky slowed down and pulled into a small, deserted car park next to a sports ground. He switched off the engine. The headlights went out. All that remained was the moonlight and the distant streetlamps.
He turned fully towards you.
His eyes were dark. Really dark.
“Did you just say you used to wank thinking about me?” he asked, his voice low and tense.
You nodded, without any shame now.
“For years. Ever since I was sixteen. I told myself it was wrong because you were Steve’s mate. But I did it anyway.”
Bucky ran a hand over his face, as if trying to control himself.
He lowered his hand and looked at you.
“Do you know how much I want you right now? How much I want to get you down on your knees on this seat and make you suck my cock? How much I want to lick you until you scream my name?”
He leaned towards you over the centre console. His hand rested on your thigh, just above your knee, and slowly moved upwards, gently parting the fabric of your dress.
“I want to feel how wet you are for me. I want to hear you beg. And then… I want to fuck you. Gently at first. Then harder. Because I’m totally into you, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been completely into you for far too long.”
His hand stopped halfway up your thigh. No higher. He was waiting.
You were breathing faster now. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.
“Bucky…” you murmured.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “But if you tell me to carry on… I’m going to touch you. Right here. Right now.”
You looked at his hand on your thigh. Then at his face. He looked tense. In control, but on the verge of losing it. His eyes were fixed on you as if you were the only thing that existed.
You placed your hand over his and moved it a little higher up your thigh.
“Keep going,” you said.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if praying to keep his composure. Then he opened his eyes and slid his hand higher, under your dress this time. His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, slowly moving up towards your knickers.
When he felt just how wet you were, he let out a low swear.
“Fuck… are you this wet for me?”
You nodded, your teeth clenched on your lower lip.
He ran a finger over your thong, slowly, pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. He hadn’t slipped inside yet. He was toying with you. He was building the tension.
“I’m going to make you come in this car,” he said, his voice low and dirty. “With my fingers first. Then with my mouth. And after that… I’m going to fuck you. Because I’ve wanted this for far too long and tonight, I’m taking what I want. If you let me. ”
You moaned softly when he pressed a little harder on your clitoris through the fabric.
“I’ll let you,” you whispered. “I’ll let you have everything.”
Bucky withdrew his hand, slowly, as if he were forcing himself not to go any further just yet. He leaned in and kissed you. A gentler kiss this time, but still intense. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“We’re not going to do it here,” he said. “Not in a car in a car park. I want to make love to you properly. I want to see you. I want us to take our time.”
He stroked your cheek with his thumb.
“I know a place. A bit further on. Quiet. No one to bother us. Do you want to go there?”
You nodded without hesitation.
“Take me there.”
Bucky turned the ignition back on. His hands were trembling slightly on the steering wheel.
Before setting off again, he gave you one last look, his eyes dark and burning.
“Once we’re there… I won’t hold back any more. I’m going to show you just how madly I’m into you. Are you sure?”
You smiled, nervous but certain.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
He nodded, a wry smile on his face that promised things that were both naughty and sweet at the same time.
The car set off again.
And the tension inside the car had become almost unbearable.
Bucky switched off the engine in a small, deserted car park by the lake. The place was quiet, far from everything. Just trees all around, the moon reflecting on the water, and no one in sight. He switched off the headlights. The car became almost completely dark, lit only by the pale light filtering through the windows.
He turned towards you. His eyes were dark, his breathing a little uneven.
“We’re here,” he said softly. “If you want us to stop, we’ll stop. Even now. Even in five minutes. Just say the word. ”
You shook your head. Your hands were trembling slightly on your thighs.
“I don’t want to stop. I want you. I really want you.”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if he needed to calm himself down. Then he leaned towards you and kissed you. It wasn’t the prom kiss anymore. It was deeper, slower, more intense. His tongue caressed yours, his teeth gently nibbling your lower lip. One of his hands moved up to your cheek, the other rested on your thigh, just below the hem of your dress.
You moaned against his mouth as he began to stroke the inside of your thigh, moving slowly upwards. His fingers were warm, a little rough. He pulled away just enough to speak against your lips.
“I’ll take it slowly, OK? I want you to feel good. I want you to want everything I’m going to do to you.”
You nodded, your voice a little lost.
“OK.”
He kissed you again, longer this time, whilst his hand continued to move upwards. When he reached your thong, he ran a finger over the fabric. He could feel just how wet you already were. He let out a low sound, almost a groan.
“Are you already that wet for me?”
You nodded, a little embarrassed but too turned on to lie.
“Since a while ago. Ever since you started talking to me in the car.”
This time, Bucky slid his fingers under your thong. He ran a finger along your slit, slowly, gathering your arousal. He moved it up to your clitoris and traced small, gentle circles. You gave a slight start, one hand clutching his forearm.
“Breathe,” he murmured against your neck. “Let yourself go. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
He continued to caress you, patiently, attentive to your every reaction. When he sensed that you were beginning to relax, he slid a finger inside you. Gently. Very gently. You felt a slight burning sensation, but no real pain. Just a new feeling of being stretched.
“Are you OK?” he asked straight away, his eyes fixed on your face.
“Yes…” you replied, your voice a little breathless. “Carry on. ”
He moved his finger slowly, back and forth, whilst continuing to stimulate your clitoris with his thumb. After a moment, he added a second finger. This time, you felt the stretching more distinctly. You grimaced slightly.
Bucky stopped immediately.
“Too much?” ”
“A bit…” you admitted. “You’re… big. Even with your fingers.”
He smiled gently, almost proudly, but there was tenderness in his gaze.
“I know. We’ll take it very slowly. I’ll open you up gently. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He began moving his fingers again, even more slowly, bending them slightly to find the right angle. After a few minutes, the discomfort turned to pleasure. You started moving your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. Bucky watched your every reaction, adjusting his movements in response to your sighs and moans.
When he sensed you were ready, he withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth and licked them slowly, never taking his eyes off you. You felt your stomach clench violently at the sight.
“You taste incredible,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He leaned back slightly in his seat and began to undo his belt. You watched him, your heart pounding. When he pulled down his trousers and boxers, his cock sprang out – hard, thick, already glistening at the tip. You swallowed. It was really big. Bigger than you’d ever imagined in your fantasies.
Bucky saw the look on your face.
“We’re not going to do it straight away,” he said. “I want you to get used to me first. Come here.”
He tilted his seat back slightly and helped you swing round to the other side. You found yourself straddling him, your dress riding up over your hips. His cock was wedged between the two of you, hot and hard against your thong.
He kissed you again, his hands on your hips, gently guiding you so that you rubbed your pussy against him. The friction of your thong’s thin fabric against his cock was both frustrating and incredibly arousing. You could feel every vein, every throb.
“Like that…” he murmured against your mouth. “Rub yourself against me. Take whatever you want.”
You started moving your hips, rubbing yourself against him. Every time his cock brushed against your clitoris, it sent a shiver through you. Bucky kept his hands on your hips but let you set the pace. He looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
After a while, he slid a hand between you and pushed your thong to one side. His bare cock made direct contact with your soaking wet pussy. The sensation was intense. You moaned loudly when you felt the thick head rub against your clitoris, then slide along your slit.
“Fuck…” Bucky groaned, his head thrown back against the seat. “You’re so hot… so wet…”
He let you keep rubbing against him like that for several minutes. It was delicious torture. His cock slid between your lips, pressing against your entrance without ever really entering. Every time the head brushed against your clitoris, you felt sparks shooting through your whole body.
“Buck…” you murmured, your voice trembling. “I want you. I really want you inside me.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you. There was something very serious in his expression now.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
He nodded. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a condom. He tore it open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock, slowly, looking you in the eyes.
“Come here,” he said softly.
He helped you position yourself on top of him. You could feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Even with all the preparation, you knew it was going to be tight.
“Lower yourself gently,” he guided you. “As slowly as you need to. If it’s too much, come back up. We’ve got all the time in the world. ”
You began to lower yourself. The stretching sensation was intense. More intense than with his fingers. You gritted your teeth, your hands resting on his shoulders.
Bucky stroked your back and hips, whispering words of encouragement.
“That’s good… breathe… you’re perfect… take your time…”
When your head finally slipped through, you let out a little cry. Bucky froze completely.
“Are you OK? Do you want me to stop?”
“No…” you said, your voice a little breathless. “Carry on. Just… slowly.”
He let you control the descent. Centimetre by centimetre, you took him inside you. He was really big. You could feel every centimetre stretching you, filling you. It was a mixture of burning pain and deep pleasure. When you’d finally lowered yourself all the way down, sitting on top of him, you needed a few seconds to catch your breath.
Bucky stroked your cheeks, your hair, your shoulders. He kissed you gently, tenderly.
“You took me all the way,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re incredible. ”
You nodded, your eyes a little misty. No tears. Just a powerful emotion, mixed with excitement.
You began to move slowly. Small back-and-forth movements at first. Bucky let you do it, his hands on your hips but without forcing you. He looked at you as if you were giving him something precious.
After a while, the burning sensation turned to pleasure. You started moving up and down more freely. Every time you came back down, you could feel his cock filling you completely. Bucky began to push his hips upwards, gently, in time with you.
“You’re...so tight…” he groaned. “You’re squeezing me so hard…”
He slid a hand between you both and began to stroke your clitoris at the same time. The double stimulation made you see stars. You moaned louder, your movements becoming more erratic.
“Bucky… I… I’m going to… ”
“Let yourself go,” he said, his voice taut. “Come for me. I’ve got you.”
You came with a stifled cry, your body trembling, your insides contracting around him. Bucky kept moving slowly inside you throughout your orgasm, prolonging it, caressing you, kissing you.
When you came down from your wave of pleasure, he kissed you more deeply.
“Do you want me to carry on?” he asked. “I can pull out if you’d like.”
“No,” you replied straight away. “Carry on. I want to feel you come inside me.”
Bucky let out a groan and began to move more freely. Not roughly. But deeper, more steadily. He grabbed you by the hips and guided you, showing you the rhythm he liked. You could feel him growing even bigger inside you.
“I’m going to come…” he warned, his voice breaking. “Fuck… I’m going to come…”
He came with a deep groan, his hips thrusting up against you one last time. You felt the warmth of the condom filling up. He held you tight against him whilst he came, his face buried in your neck, whispering your name.
When he’d calmed down, he stayed like that for a long while, holding you close, still inside you. He kissed you gently on the temple, on the cheek, on the lips.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice.
You nodded, exhausted but fulfilled.
“I’m fine. That was… intense. But good. Really good.”
Bucky smiled against your skin. He helped you sit up gently. He took off the condom, tied a knot in it and set it aside. Then he helped you get a bit dressed, settled you back comfortably in his seat, and lay back down beside you.
He held you in his arms, your head resting against his chest. You could hear his heart beating fast.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for letting me do that with you.”
You lifted your head and looked at him. His eyes were a little glistening.
“It wasn’t just sex,” you said softly. “Not for me. ”
“Me neither,” he replied without hesitation. “It was much more than that. And I want to carry on. Not just tonight. I really want to be with you. Not in secret. Not telling myself it’s wrong because I’m Steve’s mate. I want to be with you. Really.”
You felt a lump in your throat. You nodded.
“Me too.”
Bucky kissed you gently, for a long time. A kiss that felt as much like tenderness as it did desire.
“We’ll stay here a while,” he said. “I want to hold you for a bit longer. Then we’ll go home. And tomorrow… we’ll talk to Steve. Together.”
You nodded against his chest.
For the first time in a very long time, you no longer felt like you were just ‘Steve’s little sister’.
You were with Bucky.
***
You woke up slowly, as if your body were struggling to emerge from a very deep sleep. The first thing you felt was warmth. A solid, living warmth against your back. A heavy arm draped around your waist. Steady breathing in your hair.
You opened your eyes.
You were no longer in the car.
You were in a bed. A large single bed, with dark grey sheets and a pillow that was a little too firm. Morning light was streaming in through the half-lowered blinds. There was a small bedside table with an open book, a bottle of water and your phone resting on it.
And behind you, pressed against your back, was Bucky.
His arm was wrapped round your waist, his large, warm hand resting just below your breasts. His leg was tangled with yours. You could feel his breath against the nape of your neck, slow and deep. He was still asleep.
You closed your eyes for a second, letting the memories of that night come flooding back.
The car. His fingers. His mouth. His cock stretching you for the first time. The way he’d looked at you as if you were breaking something inside him and mending it at the same time. The crude words he’d spoken. The moans. The orgasm that had made you tremble against him.
And afterwards… he’d taken you back to his place. You vaguely remembered the journey, him holding your hand on the centre console, the way he’d parked the car in front of a small block of flats near the campus. Him helping you up the stairs, gently undressing you, putting you to bed and snuggling up against you without asking for anything more. Just to hold you.
You must have fallen asleep almost straight away, exhausted, content, a little dazed.And now he was there, pressed up against you as if letting go was out of the question.
You shifted slightly. Bucky grunted in his sleep and pulled you closer to him. His hand moved, sliding over your stomach, then lower, onto your thigh. You felt his cock harden against your bottom.He gradually woke up. You could sense the exact moment he realised where he was and who he was with. His body tensed slightly, then relaxed completely.
“Yes,…” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice deep and hoarse with sleep. “You’re still here. For a second there, I was afraid I’d been dreaming.”
You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.
“I’m still here.”
He kissed your shoulder, slowly, his mouth warm and slightly damp. His hand continued to stroke your thigh, moving gently upwards.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. There was genuine concern in his voice.
You took a moment to check how your body felt. You were a bit sore between your legs. Not really painful, just… used. Full. It was a strange, new sensation, but not an unpleasant one.
“A bit sore,” you replied honestly. “But fine. It was good.”
Bucky sighed against your skin, relieved. He gently rolled you onto your back and leaned over you. His hair was tousled, his eyes still a little puffy from sleep, but he was looking at you as if you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
He kissed you. Gently at first. Then more deeply, his tongue caressing yours, his hand sliding over your breast, his thumb brushing against your nipple.
You moaned into his mouth.
When he pulled away, he stayed very close, his forehead pressed against yours.
“I want to tell you some things,” he said in a low voice. “Raw things. Things I should have told you ages ago. Do you want to hear them?”
You nodded.
Bucky took a deep breath.
“I’ve fancied you for at least two years,” he began, getting straight to the point. “Not just ‘I think you’re cute’. I mean I think about you when I wank. I think about your mouth. About your eyes when you roll them because I’ve said something stupid. About the way you walk. About your voice. I’ve wanked thinking about you so many times I’ve lost count. ”
He slid his hand between your legs, gently, without really touching you yet. Just resting his palm on your pubic area.
“And I felt like a proper arsehole because you’re Steve’s sister and I thought I was a pervert. So I held back. I pretended it was nothing. Until yesterday.”
He slid two fingers between your lips, slowly, gathering the moisture that was already there.
“Yesterday, when Steve told me that John had taken you, I wanted to kill him… Because it was you. And I wanted to be the one to take you away. I wanted to be the one to look at you in that dress. I wanted to be the one to touch you.”
He slid a finger inside you, slowly. You were still sensitive, but the sensation felt good. Deep. He moved his finger with deliberate slowness, looking into your eyes.
“And now that I’ve had you… I don’t want to stop. I want to fuck you every day. I want to make you come with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. I want to hear you scream my name when you come. I want to fill you up. I want to see you with my cum running down your thighs.”
He added a second finger, curving it to press against just the right spot. You moaned, your hips lifting slightly.
“But I want to wake you up like this too,” he continued, his voice softer now. “I want to make you breakfast in the morning. I want you to come round to my place after your future new classes or mine. I want you to leave your things lying around here. I want Steve to know. I don’t want to pretend any more.”
He withdrew his fingers and licked them slowly, without taking his eyes off you.
“I’m all in,” he said simply. “Completely. Not just for the sex. For everything. For you. ”
You felt your eyes sting. No tears. Just an emotion so strong it tightened your throat.
You slid your hand over his cheek, his chin covered in stubble.
“Me too,” you said, your voice a little broken. “I’ve fancied you for ten years. Ever since I was eight and you used to come round to play video games with Steve. I’d look at you and think it was unfair that you were so handsome and that you were my brother’s mate. I spent years pretending it was just a silly crush.”
You slid your hand lower, over his chest, then lower still, until it reached his cock, already hard against your thigh.
“And last night… when you took me… I realised it wasn’t just a crush. It was you. It was always you. ”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second, as if your words were having a powerful effect on him.
He positioned himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance. He didn’t enter you straight away. He just looked at you.
“Are you sure you still want this? You’re sensitive… ”
“I want you,” you replied. “Gently. Like that. In the morning.”
He nodded. He took a condom from the bedside table, put it on, and slid into you slowly, centimetre by centimetre. You were still a little sore, but it felt good. Deep. Fulfilling.
He moved slowly, deeply, looking into your eyes. No haste. No roughness. Just slow, deep thrusts, his hips rolling against yours, his mouth kissing you between each breath.
“I love you”, he murmured against your lips at one point.
His voice was low, raw, honest.
“I’ve loved you for a while now. I didn’t want to tell you like this, but… fuck, I love you. ”
You felt a tear roll down your temple. You wiped it away quickly.
“I love you too,” you replied. “I’ve loved you for so long that I’ve forgotten what it was like not to love you. ”
Bucky groaned softly and picked up the pace a little, still deep, still controlled. You came first, silently, your body clinging to him, your nails digging into his back. He followed a few seconds later, his face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a prayer.
Afterwards, he stayed inside you for a long while, just holding you, kissing you gently on the lips, on your eyelids, on your temple.
When he pulled out, he gently cleaned you up with a damp flannel he’d fetched from the bathroom. He dressed you in his oversized T-shirt, held you close, and you lay there, staring at the ceiling, your fingers intertwined.
“We’re going to have to talk to Steve,” you said after a long silence.
Bucky nodded.
“Yeah. Today. I don’t want to put it off. I don’t want him to find out from someone else.”
You felt a little knot of anxiety in your stomach.
“Do you think he’ll flip out? ”
Bucky smiled gently.
“Probably a bit. But he’s fond of me. And he loves you even more. He’ll come round to it in the end.” He kissed your hair. “And if he gets too grumpy… Nat’ll be there to calm him down.”
Bucky pulled you closer to him.
“Listen… whatever Steve says, I’m with you now. I really am. I’m not going to back down. I’m not going to let you deal with this on your own. We’ll do this together. All right?”
You nodded against his chest.
“All right.”
You stayed like that for a long time, gently touching each other, exchanging slow kisses, whispering things that were both raw and tender at the same time.
At one point, your phone vibrated on the bedside table.
Steve
Where are you? Are you home? I didn’t see you last night.
You showed the message to Bucky. He sighed.
“Let’s go. We’ll talk to him this morning.”
You nodded.
An hour later, you were both dressed (you in one of his jumpers and a T-shirt, him in jeans and a hoodie), and Bucky was driving you home. He held your hand on the centre console the whole way.
When you arrived, Steve’s car was parked outside. And next to it… Natasha’s motorbike.
Bucky switched off the engine and turned to you.
“Ready? ”
You took a deep breath.
“Ready.”
You went inside together.
Steve was in the kitchen, making coffee. Natasha was sitting on the worktop, eating a piece of toast, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, her red hair tied back in a ponytail.
Steve saw you come in. He saw your hand in Bucky’s. He saw Bucky’s jumper that you were wearing. He saw the way Bucky was looking at you.
He put the coffee pot down.
“Oh wow,” he said quietly.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, a small, sidelong smile playing on her lips.
“Well,” she murmured. “This is going to be interesting.”
Steve looked at you. Really looked at you. Not in an angry big brother sort of way. Just… surprised. A bit hurt. But not angry.
“Is it him?” he asked simply.
You nodded.
“It’s him. It’s been him for a long time.”
Steve ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bucky.
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
“I didn’t know how,” Bucky replied honestly. “And I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position. But I love her. I really do. It’s not just a one-night stand. I want to be with her.”
Steve looked at Natasha. She shrugged with a small smile.
“They’re cute,” she said. “And they’re adults. Let them live a bit, Rogers.”
Steve sighed deeply. He finally nodded.
“…I don’t want any details. Ever. But…” He looked at you. “Are you happy?”
You nodded, your eyes a little glistening.
“Yes. I’m happy.”
Steve looked at Bucky one last time.
“If you hurt him, Barnes, I’ll kill you.”
Bucky gave a small, sad smile.
“I know. I won’t hurt him. I promise.”
Steve nodded. He came over to you and gave you a brief hug. A proper big-brother hug.
“ If you need to talk… you know where to find me.”
Then he stepped back and looked at Bucky.
“Coffee?”
Bucky smiled, relieved.
“Yeah. Coffee.”
You all sat down around the kitchen table. Natasha gave you a discreet wink. Steve grumbled a bit, but not too much. Bucky held your hand under the table.And for the first time in a very long time, you no longer felt like you were hiding anything.
You were with Bucky.
He was fully committed.
And even though it was a bit chaotic, a bit complicated, a bit too fast… it felt right.
A/N: Oh, hi! Wow, it's been a long time since I've written anything at all. But anyway, between my studies, or rather the exams that are finally over, and this heat wave that seems to be trying to kill us all, I had to take a little break because I didn't have much time, but I'm back now.
WHISPERS OF AN INTERTWINED DESTINY
[Mob! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
✻ Pairing: Mobster! Bucky Barnes × Reader (You)
✻ Summary: Two souls refuse to lose one another. Faced with the visceral fear of oblivion that grips Bucky Barnes and the terror of the void that haunts you, every glance becomes a promise, every word an anchor. Between secrets whispered in the dead of night and silent battles against fate, will love survive the fractures of time, or will it fade into the echo of one final confession?
✻ Tropes: Mob AU · Psychological Hurt/Comfort · Fear of Oblivion · Midnight Confessions
✻ Word count: +11kwords
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
✻✻✻
Inside the warehouse, it smelled of damp concrete, cold cigarette butts, and leather so worn it was almost transparent.
You were slumped on that old couch that had seen its share of nights. With your knees pulled up, you were floating in Bucky’s black shirt, which was way too big for you. The sleeves fell over your fingers, the crumpled collar still held the warmth of his skin, and that scent that never left him: cheap soap, city rain, and that faint metallic taste that clung to his skin like a second layer.
Bucky was leaning against the coffee table, with his back to the window. He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart without really intending to put it back together just yet. His shoulders were all tense under his gray sweater. He wasn’t looking at you. He almost always acted like that when the silence became too heavy.
You tugged at the hem of your shirt, the fabric slipping through your fingers.
“Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there pretending I’m invisible?”
His voice was deep, a little hoarse.
“I know you’re there.”
“Then talk.”
“About what?”
You let out a little laugh, but there was no joy in it.
“Nonsense. The weather. The rain. And the fact that I’m wearing your damn shirt, and you’re acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
Bucky set a part of the gun down on the table. The sound of metal against wood echoed a little too loudly in the silence.
“It looks good on you,” he said.
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
He shrugged, just a tiny gesture.
“What else do you want me to say? That it touches me to see you in it? That I like the idea of you carrying my scent?”
The silence settled again, even heavier than before. You felt your cheeks grow hot despite yourself. Your fingers gripped the fabric on your thighs tighter. The shirt still smelled like him. It was silly, and yet it was exactly what you’d been looking for when you took it from the back of the chair that morning.
“You left it there on purpose,” you say in a lower voice.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally turned around, his blue eyes were clouded over, as they always were when he was trying not to give anything away.
“Maybe. ”
You stood up. The shirt slid down over your bare thighs. You were wearing only shorts underneath. Your bare feet touched the cold floor. You took three steps toward him. Not enough to touch him. Just enough for him to sense your presence.
“You’re hiding your hands,” you remarked.
Bucky looked down at his own palms as if he were seeing them for the first time. There was a fresh cut at the base of his left thumb, already half-healed. He clenched his fist.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your wounds, except when you have no choice. ”
He didn’t answer. He just watched you put on his shirt—the way the crumpled collar rested against your collarbone, the way you kept tugging at the sleeves that were too long. The cliché was there, silent, between the two of you: that sharing of clothes that said everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
The warehouse door creaked.
Steve walked in, shaking the water off his coat. He still wore that calm, weary expression he’d had for years. His eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. He saw the shirt. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Am I here at a bad time?” he asked simply.
Bucky shook his head.
“No. What’s going on?”
Steve walked over to the table. He set down a thick envelope.
“The guys from Red Hook talked. They saw some photos. Of the two of you. Not very recent, but recent enough that they’re making the rounds.”
You felt your stomach knot up. Your left hand instinctively gripped your right wrist, where Bucky’s sleeve was slipping.
“Photos of what?”
Steve looked you straight in the eye.
“Of the two of you. Together. Not fighting. Just… living.” He turned to Bucky. “Someone’s starting to connect the dots. And that someone has friends who don’t like connected dots.”
Bucky remained silent for a long moment. You saw his jaw clench. His right hand the one with the cut rested on the edge of the table, his fingers white.
“Who has the photos?” he asked at last.
“Isabella Davis intercepted them before they reached the person you’re thinking of. She’ll be here in five minutes. She wanted to give them to you in person. ”
You felt a chill run up your spine. Isabella Davis. Always in the know. Always with a smile that was too wide and eyes that saw too far. You tugged at Bucky’s shirt again, as if the fabric could protect you from the outside world.
Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It was a brief, brotherly gesture.
“Be careful. Both of you.” He took one last look at the shirt you were wearing, then walked out without saying another word.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
You sat on the edge of the table, next to the envelope Steve had left behind. The shirt rode up a little on your thighs. Bucky didn’t look away this time.
“Are you going to open it?” you asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because as soon as I open it, it’ll become real.”
You let out a shaky sigh.
“It’s already real, Bucky. I’m wearing your shirt. I sleep in your bed half the time. People are starting to notice. You can’t keep hiding everything.”
He stepped closer. Not quickly. As if he were testing every centimeter. He stopped less than a meter away. Close enough for you to see the raindrop still sliding down his neck.
“I’m hiding it because if I don’t, you’ll end up hurt. Or worse.”
“I’m already hurt,” you said softly. “The emptiness scares me more than bullets.”
His eyes darkened. He raised his hand the one with the cut and lightly brushed the collar of his own shirt on your shoulder. Just a light touch. His fingers lingered there, warm through the fabric.
“You’re wearing this as if it were yours,” he murmured.
“It’s mine now. You gave it to me without saying a word.”
A dry sound escaped his throat. Almost a laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“So are you.”
The door creaked again.
Isabella Davis walked in just as she always did: without knocking, without apologizing, with a smile that never reached her eyes. She was wearing a long, soaked black coat, boots that clacked on the concrete, and an envelope thinner than Steve’s tucked between two fingers.
She stopped short when she saw you.
“Well,” she said in a hoarse, amused voice. “The boss’s shirt. Wow. I knew you two were sharing things, but I didn’t think it had become public knowledge.”
Bucky stiffened. You didn’t move. You stayed seated on the table, Bucky’s shirt draped over you, your legs bare, your gaze fixed on Isabella.
She set the envelope down next to you.
“The photos. Not pretty. Someone followed you last week. The parking lot behind the club. You were… close. Not kissing, but close enough to raise questions. And the question is: since when does the Big James Barnes let a woman wear his shirt and sleep in his bed without everyone knowing about it?”
You felt Bucky tense up beside you. His free hand rested on your knee, just above the fabric of your shirt. A possessive, protective, involuntary gesture.
Isabella continued, her voice lower now.
“There’s a note with the photos. Unsigned. Just four words: ‘She won’t save you from who you are.’”
The silence that followed was complete.
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the envelope as if it contained a bomb. His hand on your knee tightened slightly. You placed your own hand over his. Your fingers covered the cut he was trying to hide.
“Who?” Bucky asked.
Isabella shrugged.
“If I knew, I would’ve told you already. But what I do know is that someone’s digging. Someone who knows your past. Not just the mob. The other past. The one you never talk about. And that person has decided that Y/N is the weak link.”
You felt a void open up in your chest. Not the usual void. A colder one. An older one. The kind that told you you were going to lose someone again because you weren’t enough.
Bucky turned his head toward you. His blue eyes were dark, but there was something raw in them. Something real.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a request. A statement.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied.
Isabella looked at them in turn, then smiled that smile of hers that never told the whole truth.
“I’ll leave you two alone. But keep the photos. And keep the shirt. It seems to suit both of you. ”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
All that remained was the rain, the disassembled gun on the table, the envelope, and the two of you.
Bucky didn’t take his hand off your knee. You didn’t take yours off his.
You looked down at the shirt. The collar was wrinkled where he’d touched it. You could still smell him on you. Sharing his clothes had always been just a way of saying: I’m here, even when I can’t say it.
“You’re still hiding some wounds,” you whispered without looking at him.
“I’m trying not to inflict any more on you.”
“You can’t hide everything, Bucky. Not from me. Not when I’m wearing your shirt and the world is starting to notice.”
He remained silent for a long moment. Then he took another step toward you. Close enough that his forehead almost brushed yours. His free hand rose and pinched the collar of the shirt between two fingers.
“It’s yours now,” he said very softly. “Like everything I can offer you without destroying you.”
You closed your eyes. The emptiness was still there, but it seemed a little less vast. Because the shirt smelled like him. Because his hand was resting on your knee. Because, for once, he wasn’t walking away.
The rain kept falling.
Later that evening, the rain hadn’t let up. It was now drumming against the narrow windows of a small apartment above a disused garage, somewhere between Red Hook and the waterfront. The place felt cramped, almost stifling: a single main room, a double bed against the back wall, a tiny table, two chairs, and a kitchenette where the lightbulb above the sink flickered every thirty seconds. The air smelled musty, of cold coffee and the damp leather of the jackets drying on the backs of the chairs.
You were still wearing Bucky’s black shirt. You’d thrown his leather jacket on top because the heat was only working halfway. The leather felt heavy on your shoulders. It smelled of rain, smoke, and him. You were sitting in one of the chairs, your feet propped up on the lower bar, swirling a cup of tea between your palms. The tea was too hot. You weren’t really drinking it.
Bucky was standing at the sink. He had taken off his sweater. He was now wearing only a black tank top that revealed the taut lines of his shoulders and his left arm—the one that had been made of metal for far too long. He was rinsing two plates with slow, almost mechanical movements. The water was running. The metal of his left arm clinked softly against the dishes as he moved.
You’d been watching him in silence for several minutes. The silence wasn’t the same as before. It was denser, more charged. Something had shifted since the warehouse. Since the photos. Since Isabella’s words.
You set the cup down. The sound of the ceramic against the table was faint.
“Do you remember what you told me the first night I slept here?” you asked in a calm, almost innocent voice.
You weren’t trying to provoke him. It was just a thought that had come to you, gently, as you watched the rain on the window.
“You told me that rainy nights like this reminded you of Brooklyn before everything went haywire. Before the missions. Before… everything.”
Bucky stopped rinsing the plate.
Water continued to run from the faucet. He stood motionless. His back was stiff, his neck muscles tense. You saw his fingers clench around the edge of the sink. The metal scraped against the stainless steel.
He didn’t answer right away.
You waited. One second. Two. Five.
Then you saw his shoulders start to tremble. Not much. Just a shiver that ran through his whole body, as if an electric current had passed beneath his skin. He let go of the plate. It fell into the sink with a thud. The water kept running.
Bucky raised his right hand to his forehead. His fingers pressed hard against his temple, as if he were trying to hold back something that was slipping away. His breathing changed: shorter, more ragged. He lowered his head, eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth creaked.
You stood up slowly. The leather jacket slipped a little off your shoulders but stayed in place.
“Bucky?”
He didn’t answer you. He was breathing too fast now. You saw the muscles in his back tense beneath his tank top. His left hand, the one with the metal, had clenched the edge of the sink with such force that the knuckles on his right hand turned white. The metal creaked. You could hear the sound of his joints tightening.
He mumbled something. You didn’t understand right away.
“…I don’t… I don’t remember…”
Your chest tightened violently.
You walked around the table in two strides. You stopped right behind him, close enough to feel the heat rising from his skin.
“Bucky. Look at me. ”
He didn’t move. His right hand was now trembling against his forehead. You saw a vein throbbing in his neck, too fast.
“I don’t remember what I told you,” he repeated in a hoarse, broken voice. “I don’t remember. How long ago was that? A week? Two? I… damn it, I don’t know anymore.”
You placed your hands on his shoulder blades. Gently at first. Then more firmly when you sensed he was about to pull away.
“It doesn’t matter. Listen to me.”
“Yes, it does.” His voice rose a notch. Not out of anger. Out of raw panic. “If I start forgetting what I tell you… if I start forgetting the things we share… I’ll end up forgetting you. And then I’ll hurt you without even realizing it. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
You felt the emptiness opening up in your chest, but you pushed it away. Not now. Not with him drowning.
You slid your hands down his arms to his wrists. You gently pulled them so he would let go of the sink. He resisted for a second, then gave in. You turned him toward you. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his gaze lost somewhere between the past and the present.
You cupped his face in your palms. Your thumbs pressed against his cheekbones.
“Look at me,” you said more firmly. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m here. I’m wearing your shirt. I’m wearing your jacket. You gave it to me this morning. Do you remember that? You put it on my shoulders, saying I was shivering. Do you remember how you turned up the collar so I wouldn’t catch a cold?”
He blinked. Once. Twice. His breathing was still too rapid, but he was trying to look at you.
“I… I remember that,” he whispered.
“Good. So you remember me. You remember us. The rest doesn’t matter. The details, the exact words none of that matters. What matters is that you’re here. That I’m here. That I won’t let you go. ”
You wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close to you. He resisted for another second, then his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You felt his whole body tremble. His arms closed around your waist with desperate strength. The metal in his left arm pressed against your back through your jacket. You felt the pressure. You didn’t move.
“You won’t forget me,” you whispered in his ear. “Because I won’t let you forget me. I’ll remind you every day if I have to. I’ll shout it at you if I have to. Do you hear me?”
He nodded against your shoulder. A tiny movement. You felt his warm breath through the fabric of your shirt.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in a broken voice.
“You won’t. Not as long as you let me bring you back when you drift too far away in your mind. ”
You stayed like that for a long time. Standing in the middle of the small kitchen, the rain pounding against the window, the water still running from the faucet, him trembling in your arms, you holding his head against your shoulder as if you could physically prevent his memories from fading away.
Then the door opened.
Wanda walked in without knocking. She was wearing a soaked dark red coat, her hair tied back hastily, her face grave. She stopped short when she saw you. Her gaze shifted from Bucky to you, then back to Bucky. She saw the way he was clinging to you. She saw the way you were holding him.
She didn’t say a word.
“We have six hours,” she said bluntly. Her voice was calm but urgent. “The guys with the photos moved up the deadline. They want an answer before dawn. If we don’t give them what they’re asking for, they’ll release everything. Not just the photos. They also have files on you, Bucky. Old ones. Very old ones. The ones you thought you’d made disappear.”
Bucky slowly sat up. He didn’t quite let go of you. One of his hands remained on your hip, over your jacket. You felt his fingers tighten against the leather.
“What do they want?” he asked.
His voice had returned?low and controlled. But you could still feel the tremor in his arm.
Wanda walked over to the table. She set down a cell phone. The screen was lit up, displaying a blurry photo: a man in a suit, half in shadow, talking to someone off-camera.
“They want you to come alone. Tomorrow morning at four o’clock. A warehouse near the docks. They say they have a proposal. But we both know it’s not a proposal. It’s a trap. And they’re using Y/N as leverage.”
You felt Bucky tense up against you. His hand on your hip tightened.
Wanda continued,
“Lucas Garcia is downstairs. He’s watching the street. He said there were two suspicious cars circling the area for the past hour. We’re being watched. We can’t stay here long. ”
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the phone. His face had gone stone-cold again, but you could see the storm in his eyes. The fear of being forgotten was still there, just beneath the surface. You slipped your hand into his,the flesh-and-blood hand, and squeezed it tightly.
“We’re not going anywhere without thinking it through,” you told Wanda. “Not like this. Not by running away.”
Wanda nodded.
“I know. That’s why I came to warn you. But time is running out. Really running out.”
She took one last look at the way Bucky was holding you, then walked out without saying another word. The door closed softly behind her.
Silence returned.
Bucky looked down at you. His hand was still on your hip. His other hand the metal one hung at his side, his fingers slightly spread.
“You should have left a long time ago,” he said very quietly.
You shook your head. You grabbed the collar of his own shirt that you were wearing and gently pulled him toward you.
“I’m wearing your shirt, Bucky. I’m wearing your jacket. You let me in. You can’t send me away now. ”
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something had changed. The panic was still there, but it was contained. He looked at you as if he were trying to etch every detail of your face into his memory.
“If I ever forget you…” he began.
You placed a finger on his lips.
“You won’t forget me. Because I won’t let you. And because even if one day you no longer remember my name, you’ll remember this.”
You took his metal hand and placed it on your heart, over your jacket and shirt. He felt it beating. Strong. Steady. Alive.
“You’ll remember this,” you repeated. “And that will be enough.”
Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he tilted his head and rested his forehead against yours. His breathing was still a little uneven, but he was calmer.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Downstairs, Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette under an awning, his eyes fixed on the two cars that were still circling at the end of the street. He didn’t come upstairs. He didn’t say a word. He stood there, a solitary figure in the night, silently reminding you that you weren’t really alone. That the outside world hadn’t disappeared.
In the small room, Bucky squeezed your hand tighter.
Time was running out.
But for now, he had you.
And you had him in return.
The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained low and heavy. They’d had to change their hideout during the night. Wanda had insisted. Lucas Garcia had driven them here, to this old glassblowing studio by the canal, a place no one really went to anymore except for a few fringe artists and people who needed to stay out of sight. The place smelled of warm sand, burnt metal, and something sweet coming from the still-warm furnaces.
The back door was blocked. Not completely locked, but the studio’s security system an old contraption cobbled together by the previous owner had been triggered by a power outage during the night. They were stuck inside until someone came from outside or the backup generator kicked back in. For now, they were alone. Stuck. Together.
You were sitting on a barstool near one of the workbenches. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt, but you’d taken off the jacket. It was warm in the studio because the ovens were still holding some heat. The shirt was open at your collarbone. You could still smell him on you.
Bucky was on the other side of the workbench, about one meter fifty away. Not far enough away to be comfortable. Not close enough to be easy. He’d found an old canvas work shirt in a closet and slipped it on over his tank top. The sleeves were rolled up. You could see the tendons in his forearms when he moved.
He was fiddling with a piece of colored glass without really looking at it. You were looking at him.
“You seem tense,” you finally said.
Bucky shrugged without looking up.
“We’re stuck in a glass studio with a door that won’t open. Do you find that relaxing?”
“I find it… interesting.”
You rested your elbows on the workbench. Your shirt slipped a little off your shoulder.
“We have to stay close. Do you hate it as much as you say you do?”
He finally looked up. There was a defensive glint in his blue eyes.
“I don’t hate it. I’m just trying not to make things harder for you than they already are.”
You smile a little. A wry smile, not quite gentle.
“You know, for someone who spends all their time protecting me, you also spend a lot of time pushing me away. It’s exhausting to watch.”
Bucky set down the piece of glass. He leaned on the workbench, both hands flat against it. The distance between you was still the same, but the atmosphere had changed.
“I’m not pushing you away,” he said. His voice was lower now. “I’m protecting you. It’s not the same thing. ”
“It’s exactly the same thing when you do it by keeping me at a distance.” You tilted your head. “Do you think that if we stay too close for too long, I’ll see how broken you are?”
He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the workbench.
“Maybe,” he finally admitted.
The word came out as if he’d had to force it out.
“Maybe I don’t want you to see just how much worse it is than you imagine.”
You felt something tighten in your chest. Not the emptiness. Not yet. Just a strange, almost painful warmth.
“I already see a lot, Bucky. I’ve been wearing your shirt since yesterday. I held you while you were shaking. I know you’re hiding injuries. I know you’re afraid of forgetting. I know you think you’re going to hurt me.”
He clenched his jaw.
“And you’re still here.”
“I’m still here. ”
The silence that followed was different. More intimate. More dangerous.
Bucky slowly walked around the workbench. He stopped less than a meter away from you. You could feel the heat rising from his body. You could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d never dared to ask about.
“You should be afraid of me,” he said. Not a threat. A statement of fact.
You got up from the stool. The shirt fell back onto your thighs. You took a step toward him.
“I’m afraid,” you admitted.
Your voice was soft but clear.
“But not of you. I’m afraid of the emptiness you leave behind when you walk away. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel when you let me wear your shirt and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped.
“It means everything,” he murmured. “That’s why it’s dangerous. ”
You were so close now that you could feel his breath on your cheek. The heat of the studio, the smell of hot glass, the distant sound of cars outside… everything seemed far away. There was nothing left but him, you, and this forced closeness that made every confession both easier and more terrifying at the same time.
You raised your hand and lightly brushed the hem of his new work shirt, right at chest level.
“You’re still hiding something. I can tell.”
He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Nothing ever goes right with you.”
Before he could answer, there was a noise outside. A scream. Then the sound of a door slamming violently. Someone calling for help.
Sophia Miller.
She had arrived earlier that morning with groceries, just as Wanda had asked. A woman in her forties, anxious, with eyes that were always a little too big, and hands that trembled when she was stressed. She sometimes handled small errands for the hideouts. She was reliable, but fragile.
The scream turned into a howl.
Bucky reacted before you even realized what was happening.
He grabbed you around the waist and pinned you against the nearest wall, his body forming a complete barrier between you and the studio’s front door. His left arm the metal one rose to shield your head. His chest pressed against yours. You could feel every tense muscle, every short breath.
The door flew open.
Sophia came running in, her face covered in blood, a gash on her forehead. Behind her, two men in plain clothes were trying to catch up with her. Not cops. Guys sent by the people who had the photos.
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, shielding you with his whole body, his metal arm stretched out in front of him like a shield. You could feel his heart beating against your chest. You could also feel something wet against your side blood. Not yours. His.
“Stay behind me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Sophia stumbled and fell to her knees. The two men stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Bucky. They knew his reputation. They took a step back.
“We just want the girl,” one of them said. “Not you. No trouble.”
Bucky snorted. A cold, dangerous sound.
“Don’t you touch her. Don’t even look at her.”
The two men exchanged a glance. They knew they were no match for him. Not here. They took another step back, then ran out.
The door closed.
Silence fell, broken only by Sophia’s muffled sobs on the floor.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He stayed pressed against you, his body still shielding you, his breathing still rapid. You felt the warmth of his blood seeping through his shirt and staining yours the shirt he was wearing over yours.
You placed a hand on his side. He flinched.
“You’re hurt,” you said.
Not a question.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your injuries unless you have no choice.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Let me see.”
He hesitated. Then he stepped back just enough for you to slip your hand under his shirt. Your fingers found the wound a gash near his ribs, not very deep but bleeding. He’d probably gotten it while protecting you, or maybe earlier, and he’d ignored it.
You felt a sense of emptiness wash over you. Not because he was hurt. Because he’d tried to protect you again without letting you see. Because the forced closeness had just reminded you how much you needed him to let you in completely.
“You’re bleeding on me,” you whispered.
Your voice was low, almost broken.
“And you were going to act like it was nothing. Again.”
Bucky looked down at you. There was guilt in his gaze, but also something rawer. Fear. Not of you. Of what this closeness was doing to him.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late.”
You pressed a little harder on the wound. He winced, but he didn’t pull away.
“You protect me. You hide things from me. You let me wear your shirt. And then you’re surprised that I’m afraid of the void you leave behind when you refuse to let me help you. ”
Sophia was still sobbing on the floor, but you weren’t looking at her anymore. The outside world had vanished. All that remained was that sticky heat between the two of you, the blood mingling, the stained shirt, that body pressed against yours that still refused to open up completely.
Bucky raised his hand his flesh-and-blood hand and brushed your cheek. His thumb traced a line beneath your eye.
“I don’t know how else to do this,” he admitted. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know how to let you in without being afraid of destroying you.”
You rested your forehead against his. The heat of the studio, the smell of blood and glass, the beat of his heart against yours.
“So we’ll learn together,” you say. “Because I’m not going to just stand here and watch you bleed in silence. Not this time. ”
He closed his eyes. His breath mingled with yours.
Outside, the two men were gone. Sophia Miller was still crying. The door was still blocked.
But inside, something had shifted.
Their closeness was no longer just forced.
It had become necessary.
The following night, the glass studio was bathed in semi-darkness. The furnaces had finally cooled down. Only an old oil lamp sitting on the workbench cast a warm, flickering light on the walls. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass hanging here and there danced like eyes that observed without judging.
You were exhausted. Both of you. Bucky’s body was still warm against yours, but there was that heaviness in his limbs that comes after too much adrenaline. Your head rested on his shoulder. His work shirt stained with dried blood was unbuttoned. You’d cleaned and bandaged his wound earlier with what you’d found in the studio’s first-aid kit. Now your hand rested just above the bandage, as if you needed to check that it was still there.
Bucky wasn’t sleeping. Neither were you.
You were unable to pull away. Even when your bodies were crying out for rest, even when your minds were heavy, something kept you glued to each other. Bucky’s metal arm was wrapped around your waist. Your legs were intertwined with his. The shirt you were still wearing his had ridden up over your hips.
The silence lasted a long time. Not the heavy silence of before. A gentler, more worn-out silence. A silence that waited.
You were the one who broke the silence first.
“You once told me you loved quiet spaces,” you murmured against his neck.
Your voice was low, hoarse with fatigue.
“Whispered conversations at dawn. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. You felt his breath in your hair.
“Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. “That’s what we’re doing.”
You waited. You knew there was more. You could feel it in the way his fingers traced slow circles on your hip, right at the edge of your shirt.
“What else are you hiding?” you asked softly. “Not your wounds. I’ve seen them. Not your fear of forgetting. I know that. Something else. A taste. Something you don’t show anyone.”
He remained silent for a long moment. His hand stopped moving on your hip. You felt his heart beating a little faster against your chest.
“I like… creating fragile things,” he said at last.
His voice was so soft that you had to lean in closer to hear him.
“Things that can break if you’re not careful. Glass. Precision mechanisms. Things that require you to be gentle.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light from the oil lamp cast dancing shadows across his face.
“You? Creating fragile things? After everything you’ve broken?”
A small, sad smile tugged at his lips.
“That’s why I love it. Because I spend my life breaking things. And sometimes… I need to remind myself that I can do the opposite, too. That my hands can still make something beautiful if I control them well enough.”
You pressed your palm against his bare chest, right above his heart.
“Is that why you were looking at the glass earlier as if it were alive?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I’ve spent years destroying things. Cities. People. Lives. And now… I look at a piece of glass and tell myself that if I breathe too hard, it might crack. And that calms me down. It makes me feel like I can still choose not to break everything.”
You remained silent for a moment, letting his words settle between you. Your hand slowly moved up to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line of his stubble.
“You’ve never told me that,” you whispered.
“I’m telling you now. Because you’re here. Because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave even when I’m bleeding on you. Because…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because for once, I don’t want this to be just another night where we protect ourselves. I want this to be a night where I give you something real.”
You felt your throat tighten. You moved even closer, your forehead against his.
“Then give me more,” you whispered. “Tell me something else. Something no one else knows.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was even lower, almost a secret whispered directly into your mouth.
“I love the silence just before dawn. Not the silence of the night. The silence of that moment when everyone is still asleep and the world hasn’t woken up yet. I love being awake at that moment. Because it’s the only time I feel… not guilty for existing. When I can just breathe without the past screaming at me. ”
You felt tears welling up, but you didn’t let them fall. You kept them inside, like a secret you shared with him.
“I want to be there the next time you’re awake at dawn,” you said. “Not because you’re afraid. Not because we’re hiding. Just… because.”
He opened his eyes. They shone brightly in the dim light.
“You will be,” he promised. “If you still want me after all this. ”
You were about to answer when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the workbench. An incoming call. The name that appeared on the screen: Loki.
Bucky grunted softly but answered anyway. He put it on speakerphone. Loki Laufeyson’s voice filled the studio, calm, slightly amused, with that accent that always dragged out the vowels a little too long.
“Barnes. I hope I’m not interrupting a… private moment. But I have news that can’t wait. The people who have your photos aren’t acting alone. They’re working with someone who knows your past very well. Not just the soldier. Not just the killer. Someone who knows what you did even before you had that metal arm.”
Bucky stiffened against you. You could feel his muscles tense.
“Who?” he asked.
Loki laughed softly.
“Someone with a name you don’t like to hear. Someone who thinks you’ve owed him a debt for a very long time. I’ll let you guess. But if you want my advice and I know you don’t...don’t go to that meeting tomorrow morning. It’s a trap. And not the kind of trap you walk away from alive.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His free hand gripped your hip a little tighter.
“Why are you helping us, Loki?” he asked at last.
“Because I’m bored,” Loki replied casually. “And because watching big James Barnes try to protect someone instead of destroying everything… it’s entertaining. And maybe a little touching. Don’t get used to it.”
The call cut off.
Silence returned. Heavier this time.
You traced your fingertips across Bucky’s chest.
“We’re not going to that meeting,” you said. “Not like this. Not alone.”
“We don’t have a choice,” he murmured. “They have the photos. They have files on me. If we don’t go, they’ll release everything. And then… ”
“Then we’ll find another way. With Wanda. With Loki, if he’s willing to play along. But we’re not running headlong into a trap.”
Bucky turned his head and pressed a slow, weary kiss to your temple.
“You make me weak, you know that? ”
“No,” you replied. “I make you human. That’s different.”
You stayed like that, exhausted, pressed against each other, your whispers still hanging in the air, when the studio door flew open.
Elijah Anderson burst in. Tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes wide with anxiety, his face pale. He was wearing a coat that was too big for him, and he was breathing too heavily.
“They’re out there,” he said in a trembling voice. “The guys from the photos. They’ve found the place. Lucas is trying to hold them off downstairs, but they’re coming up. You have to get out of here. Now.”
The moment snapped to a halt.
Bucky sprang to his feet, his body shifting from exhaustion to alertness in a split second. He pulled you up with him, his arm still around your waist.
“How many?” he asked.
“Three. Maybe four. They’re armed.” Elijah was glancing frantically around him. “Sophia left an hour ago. She said she’d be back with help, but… I don’t know if she’ll come back. ”
You felt the emptiness reopen in your chest. Not as strongly as before. But it was there. Because the truce was over. Because the night of whispered confidences was already over.
Bucky looked at you. His blue eyes were dark but calm.
“We’re going out the back,” he said. “And this time, you’re staying right by my side. No arguments.”
You nodded. You knew this wasn’t the time to argue.
As you prepared to flee, the oil lamp flickered one last time on the workbench. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass danced one last time across your faces.
The night of confidences was over.
Dawn was approaching.
And with it, danger.
Two days later, the Tailor Shop had swallowed them whole.
It was a small, unassuming sewing workshop on the ground floor of an old building, with a display window full of tailor-made suits and a back room filled with fabrics hanging like stage curtains. The place smelled of clean fabric, warm thread, and a faint scent of vetiver wafting from the old dress forms. They had taken refuge there after fleeing the glass studio. Wanda had connections. No one came asking questions here. Not as long as the curtains stayed drawn and the backlight remained off.
But the noose was tightening.
The photos were now making the rounds. Not everywhere yet. Just enough for people to start talking. Enough for Bucky Barnes’s name to be whispered alongside yours in the same sentences. Enough for the past to resurface like an old scar you thought had healed.
You were standing in front of a large oval mirror in the back room, trying on a gray wool jacket that the tailor had left there. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt underneath, but you’d slipped the jacket on over it. It was too big for you. The shoulders hung loose. You were tugging at the sleeves without really thinking about it.
Bucky was sitting on a cutting table, his legs dangling, a disassembled gun in front of him. He was cleaning it for the third time that morning. His eyes kept darting from the door to you, then back to the door.
The silence between you hadn’t been the same since the night of the confessions. It was sharper. More charged. Because something had changed. Because the word “ex” had been spoken aloud two days earlier by someone who should never have known it. And now it hung between you like a blade.
The door to the back room opened.
Amelia Wilson walked in without knocking. Thirty-six years old, tall, sarcastic to the core, her arms laden with fabric, which she tossed onto a chair. She sometimes worked for the same people as Wanda. She had a mouth that always spoke the truth too soon and too loudly.
She looked at both of you. Her gaze lingered on the jacket you were wearing, then on Bucky’s shirt peeking out from underneath, then on the way Bucky was looking at you as if the world could come crashing down at any moment.
“So it’s true,” she said dryly. “The two of you. Again. I thought it had been over for a long time.” ”
You turned around slowly. The jacket slipped a little off your shoulders.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” you asked.
Your voice was already sharper than you would have liked.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed.
“I mean, everyone knows you were together before. Before Barnes decided his life was too dangerous for a normal girlfriend. Before he dumped you without an explanation. Before he disappeared for six months and you had to pick up the pieces on your own.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
You felt the air grow thin in your lungs. The psychological suffocation came on suddenly, as if the fabric hanging around you were tightening around your throat. You looked at Bucky. He had stopped cleaning the gun. His hands were frozen on the table. His face was set in stone, but you could see the storm in his eyes.
“Amelia,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Shut your mouth.”
She didn’t shut up. She even smiled that bitter smile she saved for moments when she wanted to hurt someone.
“Why? Because it’s awkward to talk about the past when you’re reenacting the exact same scene?” She turned to you. “You know what he did last time, don’t you? He loved you. He touched you. He said things to you. And then one day he decided you deserved better and left without giving you a choice. He treated you like an ex before you even had time to realize you’d become one. ”
You felt your hands trembling. You clenched them on the lapels of your jacket. The wool felt rough beneath your fingers.
“You don’t know anything about what happened between us,” you said.“Nothing at all. ”
“I know what everyone knows,” Amelia replied. “That Bucky Barnes can’t hold on to what he loves. That he’d rather break everything than risk hurting someone. And look at you now. You’re still wearing his shirt. You’re letting him protect you. You’re making exactly the same mistakes all over again.”
A void opened up inside you. Vast. Cold. The suffocation was total. You were struggling to breathe. Amelia’s words pierced your old scars like needles.
Bucky stood up abruptly. The table shifted slightly under his weight. He crossed the two meters separating him from you in three strides. He stood behind you, his body pressed against your back, his left arm wrapped possessively and firmly around your waist. His hand rested on your hip and pulled you against him. You felt his warmth. You also felt the tension in every muscle.
He lowered his head and brought his mouth close to your ear. His voice was low, but loud enough for Amelia to hear.
“She’s not an ex,” he said.
Every word was clear, sharp.
“She’s never been an ex. Because I never really let her go. Because even when I thought I was doing the right thing by walking away, she was still there. In my head. In my heart. In everything I did to try to stop thinking about her. ”
You felt your legs give way. You leaned against him without realizing it. His arm tightened around you.
Amelia looked at them. Her smile had faded a little.
“That’s romantic,” she said sarcastically. “Really. But that doesn’t change the fact that the guys with the photos know all this. They know you’re her weak spot. They know they can get to her through you. And they’re going to do it.”
Bucky looked up. His gaze on Amelia was icy.
“Then they’ll have to get past me first. And I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
He looked down at you again. His hand on your hip slowly traced its way up your side, possessively, but his fingers were gentle as they brushed your jaw to turn your head toward him.
“Look at me,” he whispered.“You’re not an ex. You never were. You’re…”
He searched for the word.
“You’re the only thing I’ve never been able to let go of completely. And I’m not going to make the mistake of pushing you away again. Not this time.” ”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Something rawer. More alive.
Amelia watched them for another moment, then shrugged.
“Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when the noose really tightens. Because it’s tightening. And fast.”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
Silence fell again.
Bucky didn’t let go of you. His arm remained around your waist. His hand slowly caressed your hip through your jacket. You could feel his breath in your hair.
“Is it true?” you asked in a low voice. “Everything she said? That you left without an explanation? That you treated me like an ex before I even understood?”
Bucky turned your head toward him. His blue eyes were dark, but there was a raw vulnerability in them.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “And it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. Because I thought I was protecting you. And all I did was break you.”
You placed your hand on his, resting on your hip.
“Then don’t do it again,” you said.
Your voice was sharp, but your fingers were gentle on his.
“Because this time, if you leave, I won’t let you come back.”
He rested his forehead against yours. The wool jacket crinkled between you.
“I won’t leave anymore,” he promised. “Not as long as you’re wearing my shirt. Not as long as you let me hold you like this.”
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in the tailor’s back room, among the fabrics hanging like silent witnesses, something old and broken was beginning to mend itself.
Immediately after the confrontation with Amelia, Bucky said almost nothing.
He took you by the hand not gently, but not roughly either, just with that possessive urgency that left no room for doubt, and led you through the back of the store to a small, secluded room at the far end. It was a former fitting room that had been converted into a storage area. The walls were covered with fabrics that hung like skins. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The door closed behind you with a metallic click. The outside world vanished.
It was just the two of you.
The vise, the photos, Amelia, the past exploding, the fear of the void, the fear of forgetting… it was all still there, but compressed into this tiny room where the air was hot and heavy with the scent of fabric and Bucky’s leather.
You turned back to him. Your breath was short. The wool jacket was still draped over your shoulders, over his shirt.
“Bucky…”
He didn’t let you finish.
He took a step. Then another. Until your back pressed against the cold wall. His hands rested on either side of your head. He looked at you as if he were finally seeing something he’d spent months refusing to see.
“I treated you like an ex,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And that was a lie. Because you never stopped being mine. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I disappeared. Even when I told you you deserved better. ”
You felt tears welling up. Not the kind you hold back. The kind that come when the masks truly come off.
“You broke me,” you said. “And I let you because I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted.”
He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your mouth.
“It was what I thought I had to do to protect you. And all I did was leave you with that emptiness you hate so much. ”
You rested your hands on his chest. You could feel his heart beating too fast.
“So stop protecting me like that,” you whispered. “Stop making decisions for me. And let me in. Really let me in.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped. The last barriers. The last lies he was still telling himself.
“I don’t know how to go on without you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “And I’m too afraid of hurting you to keep you. But I can’t push you away anymore. Not after seeing you wear my shirt for days. Not after holding you while I was shaking. Not after seeing you face to face with Amelia and wanting to claim you in front of everyone.”
You ran your fingers through his hair. You gently tugged on it so he’d look at you.
“So claim me,” you say. “Here. Now. No more masks. No more ‘I’m protecting you by keeping you at a distance.’ Just you. And me. And everything we’ve broken and are trying to fix. ”
Bucky’s ragged breath brushed against your neck as his fingers closed around your hips with unexpected gentleness. He pulled you against him, closing the remaining distance in one fluid motion that sent a shiver through Y/N. His lips captured yours, no longer with hesitation, but with the raw urgency of someone who’s waited too long. Y/N’s back met the flat surface of the wall, her hands instinctively finding their way into Bucky’s dark hair to anchor his touch. He intensified the pressure, guiding your body against his with your silhouettes perfectly aligned. The textures of your clothes faded away under the friction of your synchronized movements, each gesture becoming a direct response to the broken whispers you exchanged. Bucky planted his feet firmly, lifting Y/N slightly to steady your embrace as your breaths merged completely in the dim light of the room.
An intense heat spread beneath your skin, instantly erasing the fear of the void that had paralyzed you just moments earlier. In Bucky’s mind, the usual chaos of his fragmented memories faded away, giving way to the absolute clarity of your presence. The scent of leather and light rain emanating from him enveloped your senses, creating a bubble of inviolable intimacy where the rest of the world had no hold. Every point of physical contact resonated like an electric shock, filling the cruel void of touch that had haunted him for months. You felt the erratic beating of his heart against your own chest, living proof of his vulnerability shared only with you. A dizzying sense of completeness washed over you, transforming this physical embrace into a silent pact of survival. The rough texture of his hands contrasted with the softness of your own skin, awakening a sensory receptivity pushed to its peak, where every shiver became a confession.
He lifted you higher against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist without you even thinking about it. The wool jacket slipped off your shoulders and fell to the floor. His button-down, the one you were still wearing, was now open; his fingers had undone it with an urgency that contrasted with the tenderness of his kisses on your neck.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered against your skin. “Tell me I’m not dreaming that you’re here, that you’re letting me touch you like this, that you won’t disappear when I close my eyes.”
You cupped his face in your hands and forced him to look at you.
“It’s real,” you said. Your voice was broken but firm. “I’m here. I’m still wearing your shirt. And I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not as long as you’re looking at me like that.”
He growled softly a sound that came from deep within his chest and captured your mouth once more. This time the kiss was deeper, more desperate. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them, lifting them higher. You could feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants, pressed against you. Every movement of your hips sent waves of heat racing up your spine.
You slid a hand between you and undid the buckle of his belt. He helped you, impatient, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he said. The words came out between kisses. “Even when I was pushing you away. Even when I was telling you it was over. Even when I was lying to myself, saying you were better off without me. You were always there. In my head. In my body. In everything I refused to feel. ”
You unzipped his jacket. He did the same with yours. The clothes became obstacles that we pushed aside hastily, without grace, with that urgency that comes when you’ve waited too long.
When he entered you, it was in a single fluid, deep motion, and you both let out a broken sound. He paused for a moment, his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me. ”
You obeyed. You breathed together, in sync, while the outside world the stranglehold, the photos, the past, the fear,finally faded away.
He began to move. Slowly at first. Then deeper, more urgently. Each thrust of his hips was a confession. Each moan you let escape was a response. His hands on your hips were possessive, but his lips on your neck were gentle. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Don’t leave me,” he said at one point. His voice was hoarse. “Even if I get difficult. Even if I tremble. Even if I forget things. Don’t leave me.”
You wrapped your legs around him tighter.
“I’m not leaving you,” you replied. “I’m bringing you back. Always. That’s how it works now.”
The pace quickened. The partition vibrated slightly behind your back. The fabric hanging around you moved in time with your bodies. The bare lightbulb cast shifting shadows on your sweaty skin.
When you came, it was with his name on your lips and his fingers intertwined with yours against the wall. He followed a few seconds later, his body tense as a bow, his face buried in your neck, a low, broken sound escaping from his chest.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward. He was still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breathing slowing down in unison. The sweat was cooling on your skin. The shirt you were still wearing lay open and crumpled between you. His pants were slumped down on his hips. Your legs were still wrapped around him.
Bucky slowly lifted his head. His eyes were dark, shining, and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.
“The masks have come off,” he said softly.
You stroked his cheek with the backs of your fingers.
“Yes,” you replied. “And we’re still here.”
He pulled out of you gently. He set you back on your feet but didn’t step away. He held you close, his arms around your waist, his face buried in your hair.
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in that small, secluded room, amid the fabrics hanging like protective curtains, you had finally let go of everything that separated you.
The exes had become lovers once more.
The masks were gone.
And for the first time in a very long time, the emptiness didn’t feel quite so vast.
A few hours later, the tailor shop was silent.
The bare lightbulb in the small, secluded room had been turned off. You’d come out of the fitting room that had been turned into a storage area, but you hadn’t gone far. Bucky had guided you to an old leather couch at the back of the shop, between rolls of fabric and headless mannequins. You were lying there now, half-dressed, your bodies still bearing the marks of each other.
Your head rested on his chest. His shirt the one you’d been wearing for days was pulled up over your thighs. His pants were pulled up, but his belt remained undone. His metal arm was draped beneath the nape of your neck. His flesh hand traced slow circles on your bare shoulder, right at the edge of the fabric.
The pace had slowed. Artificially. As if the outside world had decided to grant you a few hours of respite before everything exploded.
You could feel his heart beating against your cheek. Steady now. Calmer. You could also smell the scent of both of you on his skin sweat, sex, leather, and that metallic note that never left him.
“You’re still trembling a little,” he murmured against your hair.
You smiled faintly.
“It’s you who makes me tremble. Not fear.”
He let out a small, joyless laugh.
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say that without it sounding like an accusation.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light filtering in from the main window was gray, almost blue. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but it was coming.
“Because this time,” you say softly, “I’m trembling because I can feel you. Not because I’m losing you.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His fingers continued to trace circles on your shoulder. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper that echoed in the silence of the store.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not really. Not for… a long time. Steve, yes. A little. Wanda, when she’s not playing her games. But you…”
He paused. You waited. You could feel that the words were heavy for him.
“You, I trust you like no one else,” he finally continued. “Not just because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave. Not just because you held me when I was shaking. I trust you because you see everything. The worst of it. The chaos in my head. The way I can break everything without meaning to. And you stay anyway. You don’t look at me like a monster that needs fixing. You look at me like someone who can still choose.”
You placed your hand on his chest, right above his heart.
“Because you can,” you said. “And because I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be there when you’re ready.”
He turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to your temple.
“You’re the only one I trust completely,” he whispered. “The only one I can tell this to without fearing it will be used against me. The only one I can give everything I usually hide. Even my weaknesses. Even my fear of forgetting. Even the fact that I loved you before and lost you because of my own fault. ”
You felt your throat tighten. You snuggled closer to him. The renewed connection was there, palpable, in every whispered word, in every silence that was no longer empty.
The door to the back room opened softly.
Lucas Garcia slipped in silently. He was still wearing his dark coat, his eyes tired, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He stopped a few meters from the couch, keeping his distance, but his gaze was serious.
“The messenger has arrived,” he said simply. His voice was low, almost a whisper as well. “He has news. Not good news. But precise.”
Behind him, a smaller figure appeared. A witness. A man in his fifties, his hands in his pockets, his face marked by years of silence and observation. He didn’t say anything right away. He merely nodded toward Bucky, a silent sign of respect.
Lucas continued:
“They’ve moved up the meeting. Not at dawn. In three hours. They want you to come alone, Bucky. With the photos and the files. They say that if you don’t come, everything will be released before noon. Not just about you. About her, too.”
He glanced briefly at you, then turned his attention back to Bucky.
The silent witness spoke for the first time. His voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t use it often.
“I’ve seen the files,” he said. “They have everything. Your past. The missions. The names. And they have proof that you tried to protect Y/N by distancing yourself from her months ago. They’re going to use that to break you. To make you choose between your freedom and her.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. You could feel Bucky tense slightly beneath you. You placed your hand on his chest, a calm, grounded gesture.
Bucky looked at Lucas, then at the witness, then lowered his gaze back to you.
“I’m not going alone,” he said. His voice was clear. “And I’m not choosing between my freedom and her. Because she is my freedom now. The only one I want.”
Lucas nodded, as if he’d expected it.
“So let’s come up with a plan. Wanda will be here in an hour. Loki said he could jam their communications if they try to broadcast anything. But you both need to be ready. Both of you. ”
The witness said nothing more. He nodded again, then stepped back into the shadows, as if he’d already said everything he needed to say.
Lucas watched them for a moment longer,you in Bucky’s shirt, him with his arm around your waist,then he walked out without another word.
The door closed.
You were left alone.
The pace was still slow. Artificially calm. As if these few hours were a poisoned gift before the storm really broke.
Bucky pulled you closer to him. His hand slid through your hair.
“Did you hear me?” he whispered. “I trust only you. Completely. Totally. Even if everything blows up in three hours. Even if I have to risk everything. I choose you. Not safety. Not running away. You. ”
You lifted your head and pressed a slow kiss to his jaw.
“Then let’s go together,” you said. “And let’s get this over with. Not by hiding. Not by pushing each other away. Together.”
He closed his eyes. You could feel his breath against your skin.
Time had slipped away.
A few hours later, dawn had broken, gray and cold, and everything had shifted to a place that no longer really belonged to any single universe. The Tailor Shop was behind you. So was the glass studio. What remained was an old warehouse by the water a place that still smelled of metal and rain, as if Mob!Bucky had never really gone away. The three realities had overlapped in that final confrontation.
Wanda was there, wearing a dark red coat, her arms crossed, her face serious but calm. Steve stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving Bucky. Loki was leaning against a pillar, a smirk on his face that promised nothing good and yet everything at once. Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette near the door, his gaze watchful. Elijah Anderson was further away, looking anxious, his hands trembling slightly. Amelia Wilson was there too, sarcastic to the end, but silent for once. Sophia Miller had left,she’d done all she could.
And right in the middle, there were the two of you.
Bucky and you.
You were still wearing his shirt. It was wrinkled, stained, and open at your collarbone. He’d slipped a jacket over his tank top. His metal arm was visible. He wasn’t hiding it anymore.
The men with the photos and files were standing across from you. Three figures. Faces no one really recognized. They’d brought a laptop. The screen displayed the photos. The files. Everything.
The tallest of the three spoke first.
“You came alone, Barnes. As agreed.”
Bucky didn’t move. His hand was on your hip. Not possessive this time. Just there.
“She stays,” he said. His voice was clear. “And whatever you have on her, destroy it. Now.”
The man sneered.
“You’re in no position to negotiate.”
Wanda took a step forward.
“Yes, I am,” she said simply. “Because what you have isn’t just in your hands anymore. Loki has already started scrambling the channels. And what you think you have as evidence… isn’t as clean as you think it is.”
Loki smiled even wider.
“Files have a funny way of changing when you tinker with them using the right tools. And I have some very good tools.”
The tension rose. The three men exchanged glances. One of them placed his hand on a gun at his belt.
Bucky didn’t flinch.
You’re the one who spoke.
“You want to break him,” you said. Your voice was calm but sharp. “You want him to choose between his freedom and me. But you don’t understand. There’s no choice left to make. Because I’m already everything he’s chosen. And he’s everything I’ve chosen. Even with the photos. Even with the files. Even with everything you can release.”
The tallest of the three narrowed his eyes.
“You sound like someone who has nothing to lose. ”
“I have everything to lose,” you replied. “And that’s why I’m here. Not to negotiate. To finish this.”
Bucky held you a little tighter against him. He didn’t say anything. But you could sense what he wasn’t saying: his complete trust in you. His decision to stop pushing you away. His choice to keep you, even if it made him vulnerable.
The silence lingered.
Then the smallest of the three, the one who had barely spoken, pulled a USB drive out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground.
“Take it,” he said. “That’s all. The originals. The copies. Everything we had. We have nothing left.” ”
Wanda walked over, picked up the drive, and slipped it into her pocket.
“What about the photos that are already circulating?” Steve asked.
The man shrugged.
“You can’t control everything. But whatever concrete evidence we had… it’s gone. For now.”
They retreated. It wasn’t a complete defeat. Just a strategic retreat. They knew the game had changed. That Bucky wasn’t alone anymore. That the girl he’d tried to protect had become his strength.
Once they were gone, silence fell over the warehouse.Wanda approached the two of you. She placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“You made the right choice,” she said softly. “By not coming alone. By not hiding her.”
Steve nodded.
“We’ll clean up the rest. The photos lying around. The rumors. It’ll take time. But we’ll do it. ”
Loki approached as well, a smirk on his face.
“That was almost entertaining, Barnes. Almost. Don’t do that too often. I hate being bored.”
He vanished into the shadows without waiting for a reply.
Lucas Garcia stubbed out his cigarette.
“I’m staying outside. Just in case.”
Elijah Anderson and Amelia Wilson walked away together, whispering to each other. Sophia had already left. The silent witness was gone.
All that remained were Wanda, Steve, and the two of you.Wanda looked at the shirt you were wearing.
“It looks good on you,” she said with a small smile. “Keep it.”
Then she and Steve left too, leaving you alone in the empty warehouse.
The wind blew in through the broken windows. The rain had started again, light and almost silent.Bucky turned toward you. He cupped your face in his hands the flesh hand and the metal hand, both gentle.
“Is it over?” you asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not completely. There will always be photos lying around. People who know. Threats. But…”
He paused. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.
“But we’re not hiding anymore. We’re not pushing each other away anymore. We’re not pretending you’re an ex anymore. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no one can take that away from us.”
You placed your hands on his wrists.
“Even if you forget things?”
“Even if I forget. Because you’ll be there to remind me. Because I trust you with that. Completely.”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Just from an emotion too big to keep inside.
“I love you,” you said. The words came out simple, raw, unvarnished.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were shining.
“I love you too,” he said. “For a long time. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I told you you deserved better. I already loved you. And I still love you. And I’ll love you tomorrow, even if I don’t remember your name. Because my body will remember. Because my skin will remember. Because that shirt on you… it will always remind me.”
You snuggled up against him. He held you close, his metal arm and his flesh-and-blood arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair.
The rain was falling harder now.
And in that bittersweet mix the victory that wasn’t complete, the threat that hadn’t been completely dispelled, but the love that was finally unmasked you stood there.
A/N: Oh, hi! Wow, it's been a long time since I've written anything at all. But anyway, between my studies, or rather the exams that are finally over, and this heat wave that seems to be trying to kill us all, I had to take a little break because I didn't have much time, but I'm back now.
WHISPERS OF AN INTERTWINED DESTINY
[Mob! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
✻ Pairing: Mobster! Bucky Barnes × Reader (You)
✻ Summary: Two souls refuse to lose one another. Faced with the visceral fear of oblivion that grips Bucky Barnes and the terror of the void that haunts you, every glance becomes a promise, every word an anchor. Between secrets whispered in the dead of night and silent battles against fate, will love survive the fractures of time, or will it fade into the echo of one final confession?
✻ Tropes: Mob AU · Psychological Hurt/Comfort · Fear of Oblivion · Midnight Confessions
✻ Word count: +11kwords
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
✻✻✻
Inside the warehouse, it smelled of damp concrete, cold cigarette butts, and leather so worn it was almost transparent.
You were slumped on that old couch that had seen its share of nights. With your knees pulled up, you were floating in Bucky’s black shirt, which was way too big for you. The sleeves fell over your fingers, the crumpled collar still held the warmth of his skin, and that scent that never left him: cheap soap, city rain, and that faint metallic taste that clung to his skin like a second layer.
Bucky was leaning against the coffee table, with his back to the window. He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart without really intending to put it back together just yet. His shoulders were all tense under his gray sweater. He wasn’t looking at you. He almost always acted like that when the silence became too heavy.
You tugged at the hem of your shirt, the fabric slipping through your fingers.
“Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there pretending I’m invisible?”
His voice was deep, a little hoarse.
“I know you’re there.”
“Then talk.”
“About what?”
You let out a little laugh, but there was no joy in it.
“Nonsense. The weather. The rain. And the fact that I’m wearing your damn shirt, and you’re acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
Bucky set a part of the gun down on the table. The sound of metal against wood echoed a little too loudly in the silence.
“It looks good on you,” he said.
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
He shrugged, just a tiny gesture.
“What else do you want me to say? That it touches me to see you in it? That I like the idea of you carrying my scent?”
The silence settled again, even heavier than before. You felt your cheeks grow hot despite yourself. Your fingers gripped the fabric on your thighs tighter. The shirt still smelled like him. It was silly, and yet it was exactly what you’d been looking for when you took it from the back of the chair that morning.
“You left it there on purpose,” you say in a lower voice.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally turned around, his blue eyes were clouded over, as they always were when he was trying not to give anything away.
“Maybe. ”
You stood up. The shirt slid down over your bare thighs. You were wearing only shorts underneath. Your bare feet touched the cold floor. You took three steps toward him. Not enough to touch him. Just enough for him to sense your presence.
“You’re hiding your hands,” you remarked.
Bucky looked down at his own palms as if he were seeing them for the first time. There was a fresh cut at the base of his left thumb, already half-healed. He clenched his fist.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your wounds, except when you have no choice. ”
He didn’t answer. He just watched you put on his shirt—the way the crumpled collar rested against your collarbone, the way you kept tugging at the sleeves that were too long. The cliché was there, silent, between the two of you: that sharing of clothes that said everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
The warehouse door creaked.
Steve walked in, shaking the water off his coat. He still wore that calm, weary expression he’d had for years. His eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. He saw the shirt. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Am I here at a bad time?” he asked simply.
Bucky shook his head.
“No. What’s going on?”
Steve walked over to the table. He set down a thick envelope.
“The guys from Red Hook talked. They saw some photos. Of the two of you. Not very recent, but recent enough that they’re making the rounds.”
You felt your stomach knot up. Your left hand instinctively gripped your right wrist, where Bucky’s sleeve was slipping.
“Photos of what?”
Steve looked you straight in the eye.
“Of the two of you. Together. Not fighting. Just… living.” He turned to Bucky. “Someone’s starting to connect the dots. And that someone has friends who don’t like connected dots.”
Bucky remained silent for a long moment. You saw his jaw clench. His right hand the one with the cut rested on the edge of the table, his fingers white.
“Who has the photos?” he asked at last.
“Isabella Davis intercepted them before they reached the person you’re thinking of. She’ll be here in five minutes. She wanted to give them to you in person. ”
You felt a chill run up your spine. Isabella Davis. Always in the know. Always with a smile that was too wide and eyes that saw too far. You tugged at Bucky’s shirt again, as if the fabric could protect you from the outside world.
Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It was a brief, brotherly gesture.
“Be careful. Both of you.” He took one last look at the shirt you were wearing, then walked out without saying another word.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
You sat on the edge of the table, next to the envelope Steve had left behind. The shirt rode up a little on your thighs. Bucky didn’t look away this time.
“Are you going to open it?” you asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because as soon as I open it, it’ll become real.”
You let out a shaky sigh.
“It’s already real, Bucky. I’m wearing your shirt. I sleep in your bed half the time. People are starting to notice. You can’t keep hiding everything.”
He stepped closer. Not quickly. As if he were testing every centimeter. He stopped less than a meter away. Close enough for you to see the raindrop still sliding down his neck.
“I’m hiding it because if I don’t, you’ll end up hurt. Or worse.”
“I’m already hurt,” you said softly. “The emptiness scares me more than bullets.”
His eyes darkened. He raised his hand the one with the cut and lightly brushed the collar of his own shirt on your shoulder. Just a light touch. His fingers lingered there, warm through the fabric.
“You’re wearing this as if it were yours,” he murmured.
“It’s mine now. You gave it to me without saying a word.”
A dry sound escaped his throat. Almost a laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“So are you.”
The door creaked again.
Isabella Davis walked in just as she always did: without knocking, without apologizing, with a smile that never reached her eyes. She was wearing a long, soaked black coat, boots that clacked on the concrete, and an envelope thinner than Steve’s tucked between two fingers.
She stopped short when she saw you.
“Well,” she said in a hoarse, amused voice. “The boss’s shirt. Wow. I knew you two were sharing things, but I didn’t think it had become public knowledge.”
Bucky stiffened. You didn’t move. You stayed seated on the table, Bucky’s shirt draped over you, your legs bare, your gaze fixed on Isabella.
She set the envelope down next to you.
“The photos. Not pretty. Someone followed you last week. The parking lot behind the club. You were… close. Not kissing, but close enough to raise questions. And the question is: since when does the Big James Barnes let a woman wear his shirt and sleep in his bed without everyone knowing about it?”
You felt Bucky tense up beside you. His free hand rested on your knee, just above the fabric of your shirt. A possessive, protective, involuntary gesture.
Isabella continued, her voice lower now.
“There’s a note with the photos. Unsigned. Just four words: ‘She won’t save you from who you are.’”
The silence that followed was complete.
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the envelope as if it contained a bomb. His hand on your knee tightened slightly. You placed your own hand over his. Your fingers covered the cut he was trying to hide.
“Who?” Bucky asked.
Isabella shrugged.
“If I knew, I would’ve told you already. But what I do know is that someone’s digging. Someone who knows your past. Not just the mob. The other past. The one you never talk about. And that person has decided that Y/N is the weak link.”
You felt a void open up in your chest. Not the usual void. A colder one. An older one. The kind that told you you were going to lose someone again because you weren’t enough.
Bucky turned his head toward you. His blue eyes were dark, but there was something raw in them. Something real.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a request. A statement.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied.
Isabella looked at them in turn, then smiled that smile of hers that never told the whole truth.
“I’ll leave you two alone. But keep the photos. And keep the shirt. It seems to suit both of you. ”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
All that remained was the rain, the disassembled gun on the table, the envelope, and the two of you.
Bucky didn’t take his hand off your knee. You didn’t take yours off his.
You looked down at the shirt. The collar was wrinkled where he’d touched it. You could still smell him on you. Sharing his clothes had always been just a way of saying: I’m here, even when I can’t say it.
“You’re still hiding some wounds,” you whispered without looking at him.
“I’m trying not to inflict any more on you.”
“You can’t hide everything, Bucky. Not from me. Not when I’m wearing your shirt and the world is starting to notice.”
He remained silent for a long moment. Then he took another step toward you. Close enough that his forehead almost brushed yours. His free hand rose and pinched the collar of the shirt between two fingers.
“It’s yours now,” he said very softly. “Like everything I can offer you without destroying you.”
You closed your eyes. The emptiness was still there, but it seemed a little less vast. Because the shirt smelled like him. Because his hand was resting on your knee. Because, for once, he wasn’t walking away.
The rain kept falling.
Later that evening, the rain hadn’t let up. It was now drumming against the narrow windows of a small apartment above a disused garage, somewhere between Red Hook and the waterfront. The place felt cramped, almost stifling: a single main room, a double bed against the back wall, a tiny table, two chairs, and a kitchenette where the lightbulb above the sink flickered every thirty seconds. The air smelled musty, of cold coffee and the damp leather of the jackets drying on the backs of the chairs.
You were still wearing Bucky’s black shirt. You’d thrown his leather jacket on top because the heat was only working halfway. The leather felt heavy on your shoulders. It smelled of rain, smoke, and him. You were sitting in one of the chairs, your feet propped up on the lower bar, swirling a cup of tea between your palms. The tea was too hot. You weren’t really drinking it.
Bucky was standing at the sink. He had taken off his sweater. He was now wearing only a black tank top that revealed the taut lines of his shoulders and his left arm—the one that had been made of metal for far too long. He was rinsing two plates with slow, almost mechanical movements. The water was running. The metal of his left arm clinked softly against the dishes as he moved.
You’d been watching him in silence for several minutes. The silence wasn’t the same as before. It was denser, more charged. Something had shifted since the warehouse. Since the photos. Since Isabella’s words.
You set the cup down. The sound of the ceramic against the table was faint.
“Do you remember what you told me the first night I slept here?” you asked in a calm, almost innocent voice.
You weren’t trying to provoke him. It was just a thought that had come to you, gently, as you watched the rain on the window.
“You told me that rainy nights like this reminded you of Brooklyn before everything went haywire. Before the missions. Before… everything.”
Bucky stopped rinsing the plate.
Water continued to run from the faucet. He stood motionless. His back was stiff, his neck muscles tense. You saw his fingers clench around the edge of the sink. The metal scraped against the stainless steel.
He didn’t answer right away.
You waited. One second. Two. Five.
Then you saw his shoulders start to tremble. Not much. Just a shiver that ran through his whole body, as if an electric current had passed beneath his skin. He let go of the plate. It fell into the sink with a thud. The water kept running.
Bucky raised his right hand to his forehead. His fingers pressed hard against his temple, as if he were trying to hold back something that was slipping away. His breathing changed: shorter, more ragged. He lowered his head, eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth creaked.
You stood up slowly. The leather jacket slipped a little off your shoulders but stayed in place.
“Bucky?”
He didn’t answer you. He was breathing too fast now. You saw the muscles in his back tense beneath his tank top. His left hand, the one with the metal, had clenched the edge of the sink with such force that the knuckles on his right hand turned white. The metal creaked. You could hear the sound of his joints tightening.
He mumbled something. You didn’t understand right away.
“…I don’t… I don’t remember…”
Your chest tightened violently.
You walked around the table in two strides. You stopped right behind him, close enough to feel the heat rising from his skin.
“Bucky. Look at me. ”
He didn’t move. His right hand was now trembling against his forehead. You saw a vein throbbing in his neck, too fast.
“I don’t remember what I told you,” he repeated in a hoarse, broken voice. “I don’t remember. How long ago was that? A week? Two? I… damn it, I don’t know anymore.”
You placed your hands on his shoulder blades. Gently at first. Then more firmly when you sensed he was about to pull away.
“It doesn’t matter. Listen to me.”
“Yes, it does.” His voice rose a notch. Not out of anger. Out of raw panic. “If I start forgetting what I tell you… if I start forgetting the things we share… I’ll end up forgetting you. And then I’ll hurt you without even realizing it. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
You felt the emptiness opening up in your chest, but you pushed it away. Not now. Not with him drowning.
You slid your hands down his arms to his wrists. You gently pulled them so he would let go of the sink. He resisted for a second, then gave in. You turned him toward you. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his gaze lost somewhere between the past and the present.
You cupped his face in your palms. Your thumbs pressed against his cheekbones.
“Look at me,” you said more firmly. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m here. I’m wearing your shirt. I’m wearing your jacket. You gave it to me this morning. Do you remember that? You put it on my shoulders, saying I was shivering. Do you remember how you turned up the collar so I wouldn’t catch a cold?”
He blinked. Once. Twice. His breathing was still too rapid, but he was trying to look at you.
“I… I remember that,” he whispered.
“Good. So you remember me. You remember us. The rest doesn’t matter. The details, the exact words none of that matters. What matters is that you’re here. That I’m here. That I won’t let you go. ”
You wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close to you. He resisted for another second, then his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You felt his whole body tremble. His arms closed around your waist with desperate strength. The metal in his left arm pressed against your back through your jacket. You felt the pressure. You didn’t move.
“You won’t forget me,” you whispered in his ear. “Because I won’t let you forget me. I’ll remind you every day if I have to. I’ll shout it at you if I have to. Do you hear me?”
He nodded against your shoulder. A tiny movement. You felt his warm breath through the fabric of your shirt.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in a broken voice.
“You won’t. Not as long as you let me bring you back when you drift too far away in your mind. ”
You stayed like that for a long time. Standing in the middle of the small kitchen, the rain pounding against the window, the water still running from the faucet, him trembling in your arms, you holding his head against your shoulder as if you could physically prevent his memories from fading away.
Then the door opened.
Wanda walked in without knocking. She was wearing a soaked dark red coat, her hair tied back hastily, her face grave. She stopped short when she saw you. Her gaze shifted from Bucky to you, then back to Bucky. She saw the way he was clinging to you. She saw the way you were holding him.
She didn’t say a word.
“We have six hours,” she said bluntly. Her voice was calm but urgent. “The guys with the photos moved up the deadline. They want an answer before dawn. If we don’t give them what they’re asking for, they’ll release everything. Not just the photos. They also have files on you, Bucky. Old ones. Very old ones. The ones you thought you’d made disappear.”
Bucky slowly sat up. He didn’t quite let go of you. One of his hands remained on your hip, over your jacket. You felt his fingers tighten against the leather.
“What do they want?” he asked.
His voice had returned?low and controlled. But you could still feel the tremor in his arm.
Wanda walked over to the table. She set down a cell phone. The screen was lit up, displaying a blurry photo: a man in a suit, half in shadow, talking to someone off-camera.
“They want you to come alone. Tomorrow morning at four o’clock. A warehouse near the docks. They say they have a proposal. But we both know it’s not a proposal. It’s a trap. And they’re using Y/N as leverage.”
You felt Bucky tense up against you. His hand on your hip tightened.
Wanda continued,
“Lucas Garcia is downstairs. He’s watching the street. He said there were two suspicious cars circling the area for the past hour. We’re being watched. We can’t stay here long. ”
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the phone. His face had gone stone-cold again, but you could see the storm in his eyes. The fear of being forgotten was still there, just beneath the surface. You slipped your hand into his,the flesh-and-blood hand, and squeezed it tightly.
“We’re not going anywhere without thinking it through,” you told Wanda. “Not like this. Not by running away.”
Wanda nodded.
“I know. That’s why I came to warn you. But time is running out. Really running out.”
She took one last look at the way Bucky was holding you, then walked out without saying another word. The door closed softly behind her.
Silence returned.
Bucky looked down at you. His hand was still on your hip. His other hand the metal one hung at his side, his fingers slightly spread.
“You should have left a long time ago,” he said very quietly.
You shook your head. You grabbed the collar of his own shirt that you were wearing and gently pulled him toward you.
“I’m wearing your shirt, Bucky. I’m wearing your jacket. You let me in. You can’t send me away now. ”
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something had changed. The panic was still there, but it was contained. He looked at you as if he were trying to etch every detail of your face into his memory.
“If I ever forget you…” he began.
You placed a finger on his lips.
“You won’t forget me. Because I won’t let you. And because even if one day you no longer remember my name, you’ll remember this.”
You took his metal hand and placed it on your heart, over your jacket and shirt. He felt it beating. Strong. Steady. Alive.
“You’ll remember this,” you repeated. “And that will be enough.”
Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he tilted his head and rested his forehead against yours. His breathing was still a little uneven, but he was calmer.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Downstairs, Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette under an awning, his eyes fixed on the two cars that were still circling at the end of the street. He didn’t come upstairs. He didn’t say a word. He stood there, a solitary figure in the night, silently reminding you that you weren’t really alone. That the outside world hadn’t disappeared.
In the small room, Bucky squeezed your hand tighter.
Time was running out.
But for now, he had you.
And you had him in return.
The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained low and heavy. They’d had to change their hideout during the night. Wanda had insisted. Lucas Garcia had driven them here, to this old glassblowing studio by the canal, a place no one really went to anymore except for a few fringe artists and people who needed to stay out of sight. The place smelled of warm sand, burnt metal, and something sweet coming from the still-warm furnaces.
The back door was blocked. Not completely locked, but the studio’s security system an old contraption cobbled together by the previous owner had been triggered by a power outage during the night. They were stuck inside until someone came from outside or the backup generator kicked back in. For now, they were alone. Stuck. Together.
You were sitting on a barstool near one of the workbenches. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt, but you’d taken off the jacket. It was warm in the studio because the ovens were still holding some heat. The shirt was open at your collarbone. You could still smell him on you.
Bucky was on the other side of the workbench, about one meter fifty away. Not far enough away to be comfortable. Not close enough to be easy. He’d found an old canvas work shirt in a closet and slipped it on over his tank top. The sleeves were rolled up. You could see the tendons in his forearms when he moved.
He was fiddling with a piece of colored glass without really looking at it. You were looking at him.
“You seem tense,” you finally said.
Bucky shrugged without looking up.
“We’re stuck in a glass studio with a door that won’t open. Do you find that relaxing?”
“I find it… interesting.”
You rested your elbows on the workbench. Your shirt slipped a little off your shoulder.
“We have to stay close. Do you hate it as much as you say you do?”
He finally looked up. There was a defensive glint in his blue eyes.
“I don’t hate it. I’m just trying not to make things harder for you than they already are.”
You smile a little. A wry smile, not quite gentle.
“You know, for someone who spends all their time protecting me, you also spend a lot of time pushing me away. It’s exhausting to watch.”
Bucky set down the piece of glass. He leaned on the workbench, both hands flat against it. The distance between you was still the same, but the atmosphere had changed.
“I’m not pushing you away,” he said. His voice was lower now. “I’m protecting you. It’s not the same thing. ”
“It’s exactly the same thing when you do it by keeping me at a distance.” You tilted your head. “Do you think that if we stay too close for too long, I’ll see how broken you are?”
He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the workbench.
“Maybe,” he finally admitted.
The word came out as if he’d had to force it out.
“Maybe I don’t want you to see just how much worse it is than you imagine.”
You felt something tighten in your chest. Not the emptiness. Not yet. Just a strange, almost painful warmth.
“I already see a lot, Bucky. I’ve been wearing your shirt since yesterday. I held you while you were shaking. I know you’re hiding injuries. I know you’re afraid of forgetting. I know you think you’re going to hurt me.”
He clenched his jaw.
“And you’re still here.”
“I’m still here. ”
The silence that followed was different. More intimate. More dangerous.
Bucky slowly walked around the workbench. He stopped less than a meter away from you. You could feel the heat rising from his body. You could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d never dared to ask about.
“You should be afraid of me,” he said. Not a threat. A statement of fact.
You got up from the stool. The shirt fell back onto your thighs. You took a step toward him.
“I’m afraid,” you admitted.
Your voice was soft but clear.
“But not of you. I’m afraid of the emptiness you leave behind when you walk away. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel when you let me wear your shirt and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped.
“It means everything,” he murmured. “That’s why it’s dangerous. ”
You were so close now that you could feel his breath on your cheek. The heat of the studio, the smell of hot glass, the distant sound of cars outside… everything seemed far away. There was nothing left but him, you, and this forced closeness that made every confession both easier and more terrifying at the same time.
You raised your hand and lightly brushed the hem of his new work shirt, right at chest level.
“You’re still hiding something. I can tell.”
He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Nothing ever goes right with you.”
Before he could answer, there was a noise outside. A scream. Then the sound of a door slamming violently. Someone calling for help.
Sophia Miller.
She had arrived earlier that morning with groceries, just as Wanda had asked. A woman in her forties, anxious, with eyes that were always a little too big, and hands that trembled when she was stressed. She sometimes handled small errands for the hideouts. She was reliable, but fragile.
The scream turned into a howl.
Bucky reacted before you even realized what was happening.
He grabbed you around the waist and pinned you against the nearest wall, his body forming a complete barrier between you and the studio’s front door. His left arm the metal one rose to shield your head. His chest pressed against yours. You could feel every tense muscle, every short breath.
The door flew open.
Sophia came running in, her face covered in blood, a gash on her forehead. Behind her, two men in plain clothes were trying to catch up with her. Not cops. Guys sent by the people who had the photos.
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, shielding you with his whole body, his metal arm stretched out in front of him like a shield. You could feel his heart beating against your chest. You could also feel something wet against your side blood. Not yours. His.
“Stay behind me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Sophia stumbled and fell to her knees. The two men stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Bucky. They knew his reputation. They took a step back.
“We just want the girl,” one of them said. “Not you. No trouble.”
Bucky snorted. A cold, dangerous sound.
“Don’t you touch her. Don’t even look at her.”
The two men exchanged a glance. They knew they were no match for him. Not here. They took another step back, then ran out.
The door closed.
Silence fell, broken only by Sophia’s muffled sobs on the floor.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He stayed pressed against you, his body still shielding you, his breathing still rapid. You felt the warmth of his blood seeping through his shirt and staining yours the shirt he was wearing over yours.
You placed a hand on his side. He flinched.
“You’re hurt,” you said.
Not a question.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your injuries unless you have no choice.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Let me see.”
He hesitated. Then he stepped back just enough for you to slip your hand under his shirt. Your fingers found the wound a gash near his ribs, not very deep but bleeding. He’d probably gotten it while protecting you, or maybe earlier, and he’d ignored it.
You felt a sense of emptiness wash over you. Not because he was hurt. Because he’d tried to protect you again without letting you see. Because the forced closeness had just reminded you how much you needed him to let you in completely.
“You’re bleeding on me,” you whispered.
Your voice was low, almost broken.
“And you were going to act like it was nothing. Again.”
Bucky looked down at you. There was guilt in his gaze, but also something rawer. Fear. Not of you. Of what this closeness was doing to him.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late.”
You pressed a little harder on the wound. He winced, but he didn’t pull away.
“You protect me. You hide things from me. You let me wear your shirt. And then you’re surprised that I’m afraid of the void you leave behind when you refuse to let me help you. ”
Sophia was still sobbing on the floor, but you weren’t looking at her anymore. The outside world had vanished. All that remained was that sticky heat between the two of you, the blood mingling, the stained shirt, that body pressed against yours that still refused to open up completely.
Bucky raised his hand his flesh-and-blood hand and brushed your cheek. His thumb traced a line beneath your eye.
“I don’t know how else to do this,” he admitted. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know how to let you in without being afraid of destroying you.”
You rested your forehead against his. The heat of the studio, the smell of blood and glass, the beat of his heart against yours.
“So we’ll learn together,” you say. “Because I’m not going to just stand here and watch you bleed in silence. Not this time. ”
He closed his eyes. His breath mingled with yours.
Outside, the two men were gone. Sophia Miller was still crying. The door was still blocked.
But inside, something had shifted.
Their closeness was no longer just forced.
It had become necessary.
The following night, the glass studio was bathed in semi-darkness. The furnaces had finally cooled down. Only an old oil lamp sitting on the workbench cast a warm, flickering light on the walls. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass hanging here and there danced like eyes that observed without judging.
You were exhausted. Both of you. Bucky’s body was still warm against yours, but there was that heaviness in his limbs that comes after too much adrenaline. Your head rested on his shoulder. His work shirt stained with dried blood was unbuttoned. You’d cleaned and bandaged his wound earlier with what you’d found in the studio’s first-aid kit. Now your hand rested just above the bandage, as if you needed to check that it was still there.
Bucky wasn’t sleeping. Neither were you.
You were unable to pull away. Even when your bodies were crying out for rest, even when your minds were heavy, something kept you glued to each other. Bucky’s metal arm was wrapped around your waist. Your legs were intertwined with his. The shirt you were still wearing his had ridden up over your hips.
The silence lasted a long time. Not the heavy silence of before. A gentler, more worn-out silence. A silence that waited.
You were the one who broke the silence first.
“You once told me you loved quiet spaces,” you murmured against his neck.
Your voice was low, hoarse with fatigue.
“Whispered conversations at dawn. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. You felt his breath in your hair.
“Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. “That’s what we’re doing.”
You waited. You knew there was more. You could feel it in the way his fingers traced slow circles on your hip, right at the edge of your shirt.
“What else are you hiding?” you asked softly. “Not your wounds. I’ve seen them. Not your fear of forgetting. I know that. Something else. A taste. Something you don’t show anyone.”
He remained silent for a long moment. His hand stopped moving on your hip. You felt his heart beating a little faster against your chest.
“I like… creating fragile things,” he said at last.
His voice was so soft that you had to lean in closer to hear him.
“Things that can break if you’re not careful. Glass. Precision mechanisms. Things that require you to be gentle.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light from the oil lamp cast dancing shadows across his face.
“You? Creating fragile things? After everything you’ve broken?”
A small, sad smile tugged at his lips.
“That’s why I love it. Because I spend my life breaking things. And sometimes… I need to remind myself that I can do the opposite, too. That my hands can still make something beautiful if I control them well enough.”
You pressed your palm against his bare chest, right above his heart.
“Is that why you were looking at the glass earlier as if it were alive?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I’ve spent years destroying things. Cities. People. Lives. And now… I look at a piece of glass and tell myself that if I breathe too hard, it might crack. And that calms me down. It makes me feel like I can still choose not to break everything.”
You remained silent for a moment, letting his words settle between you. Your hand slowly moved up to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line of his stubble.
“You’ve never told me that,” you whispered.
“I’m telling you now. Because you’re here. Because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave even when I’m bleeding on you. Because…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because for once, I don’t want this to be just another night where we protect ourselves. I want this to be a night where I give you something real.”
You felt your throat tighten. You moved even closer, your forehead against his.
“Then give me more,” you whispered. “Tell me something else. Something no one else knows.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was even lower, almost a secret whispered directly into your mouth.
“I love the silence just before dawn. Not the silence of the night. The silence of that moment when everyone is still asleep and the world hasn’t woken up yet. I love being awake at that moment. Because it’s the only time I feel… not guilty for existing. When I can just breathe without the past screaming at me. ”
You felt tears welling up, but you didn’t let them fall. You kept them inside, like a secret you shared with him.
“I want to be there the next time you’re awake at dawn,” you said. “Not because you’re afraid. Not because we’re hiding. Just… because.”
He opened his eyes. They shone brightly in the dim light.
“You will be,” he promised. “If you still want me after all this. ”
You were about to answer when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the workbench. An incoming call. The name that appeared on the screen: Loki.
Bucky grunted softly but answered anyway. He put it on speakerphone. Loki Laufeyson’s voice filled the studio, calm, slightly amused, with that accent that always dragged out the vowels a little too long.
“Barnes. I hope I’m not interrupting a… private moment. But I have news that can’t wait. The people who have your photos aren’t acting alone. They’re working with someone who knows your past very well. Not just the soldier. Not just the killer. Someone who knows what you did even before you had that metal arm.”
Bucky stiffened against you. You could feel his muscles tense.
“Who?” he asked.
Loki laughed softly.
“Someone with a name you don’t like to hear. Someone who thinks you’ve owed him a debt for a very long time. I’ll let you guess. But if you want my advice and I know you don’t...don’t go to that meeting tomorrow morning. It’s a trap. And not the kind of trap you walk away from alive.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His free hand gripped your hip a little tighter.
“Why are you helping us, Loki?” he asked at last.
“Because I’m bored,” Loki replied casually. “And because watching big James Barnes try to protect someone instead of destroying everything… it’s entertaining. And maybe a little touching. Don’t get used to it.”
The call cut off.
Silence returned. Heavier this time.
You traced your fingertips across Bucky’s chest.
“We’re not going to that meeting,” you said. “Not like this. Not alone.”
“We don’t have a choice,” he murmured. “They have the photos. They have files on me. If we don’t go, they’ll release everything. And then… ”
“Then we’ll find another way. With Wanda. With Loki, if he’s willing to play along. But we’re not running headlong into a trap.”
Bucky turned his head and pressed a slow, weary kiss to your temple.
“You make me weak, you know that? ”
“No,” you replied. “I make you human. That’s different.”
You stayed like that, exhausted, pressed against each other, your whispers still hanging in the air, when the studio door flew open.
Elijah Anderson burst in. Tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes wide with anxiety, his face pale. He was wearing a coat that was too big for him, and he was breathing too heavily.
“They’re out there,” he said in a trembling voice. “The guys from the photos. They’ve found the place. Lucas is trying to hold them off downstairs, but they’re coming up. You have to get out of here. Now.”
The moment snapped to a halt.
Bucky sprang to his feet, his body shifting from exhaustion to alertness in a split second. He pulled you up with him, his arm still around your waist.
“How many?” he asked.
“Three. Maybe four. They’re armed.” Elijah was glancing frantically around him. “Sophia left an hour ago. She said she’d be back with help, but… I don’t know if she’ll come back. ”
You felt the emptiness reopen in your chest. Not as strongly as before. But it was there. Because the truce was over. Because the night of whispered confidences was already over.
Bucky looked at you. His blue eyes were dark but calm.
“We’re going out the back,” he said. “And this time, you’re staying right by my side. No arguments.”
You nodded. You knew this wasn’t the time to argue.
As you prepared to flee, the oil lamp flickered one last time on the workbench. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass danced one last time across your faces.
The night of confidences was over.
Dawn was approaching.
And with it, danger.
Two days later, the Tailor Shop had swallowed them whole.
It was a small, unassuming sewing workshop on the ground floor of an old building, with a display window full of tailor-made suits and a back room filled with fabrics hanging like stage curtains. The place smelled of clean fabric, warm thread, and a faint scent of vetiver wafting from the old dress forms. They had taken refuge there after fleeing the glass studio. Wanda had connections. No one came asking questions here. Not as long as the curtains stayed drawn and the backlight remained off.
But the noose was tightening.
The photos were now making the rounds. Not everywhere yet. Just enough for people to start talking. Enough for Bucky Barnes’s name to be whispered alongside yours in the same sentences. Enough for the past to resurface like an old scar you thought had healed.
You were standing in front of a large oval mirror in the back room, trying on a gray wool jacket that the tailor had left there. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt underneath, but you’d slipped the jacket on over it. It was too big for you. The shoulders hung loose. You were tugging at the sleeves without really thinking about it.
Bucky was sitting on a cutting table, his legs dangling, a disassembled gun in front of him. He was cleaning it for the third time that morning. His eyes kept darting from the door to you, then back to the door.
The silence between you hadn’t been the same since the night of the confessions. It was sharper. More charged. Because something had changed. Because the word “ex” had been spoken aloud two days earlier by someone who should never have known it. And now it hung between you like a blade.
The door to the back room opened.
Amelia Wilson walked in without knocking. Thirty-six years old, tall, sarcastic to the core, her arms laden with fabric, which she tossed onto a chair. She sometimes worked for the same people as Wanda. She had a mouth that always spoke the truth too soon and too loudly.
She looked at both of you. Her gaze lingered on the jacket you were wearing, then on Bucky’s shirt peeking out from underneath, then on the way Bucky was looking at you as if the world could come crashing down at any moment.
“So it’s true,” she said dryly. “The two of you. Again. I thought it had been over for a long time.” ”
You turned around slowly. The jacket slipped a little off your shoulders.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” you asked.
Your voice was already sharper than you would have liked.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed.
“I mean, everyone knows you were together before. Before Barnes decided his life was too dangerous for a normal girlfriend. Before he dumped you without an explanation. Before he disappeared for six months and you had to pick up the pieces on your own.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
You felt the air grow thin in your lungs. The psychological suffocation came on suddenly, as if the fabric hanging around you were tightening around your throat. You looked at Bucky. He had stopped cleaning the gun. His hands were frozen on the table. His face was set in stone, but you could see the storm in his eyes.
“Amelia,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Shut your mouth.”
She didn’t shut up. She even smiled that bitter smile she saved for moments when she wanted to hurt someone.
“Why? Because it’s awkward to talk about the past when you’re reenacting the exact same scene?” She turned to you. “You know what he did last time, don’t you? He loved you. He touched you. He said things to you. And then one day he decided you deserved better and left without giving you a choice. He treated you like an ex before you even had time to realize you’d become one. ”
You felt your hands trembling. You clenched them on the lapels of your jacket. The wool felt rough beneath your fingers.
“You don’t know anything about what happened between us,” you said.“Nothing at all. ”
“I know what everyone knows,” Amelia replied. “That Bucky Barnes can’t hold on to what he loves. That he’d rather break everything than risk hurting someone. And look at you now. You’re still wearing his shirt. You’re letting him protect you. You’re making exactly the same mistakes all over again.”
A void opened up inside you. Vast. Cold. The suffocation was total. You were struggling to breathe. Amelia’s words pierced your old scars like needles.
Bucky stood up abruptly. The table shifted slightly under his weight. He crossed the two meters separating him from you in three strides. He stood behind you, his body pressed against your back, his left arm wrapped possessively and firmly around your waist. His hand rested on your hip and pulled you against him. You felt his warmth. You also felt the tension in every muscle.
He lowered his head and brought his mouth close to your ear. His voice was low, but loud enough for Amelia to hear.
“She’s not an ex,” he said.
Every word was clear, sharp.
“She’s never been an ex. Because I never really let her go. Because even when I thought I was doing the right thing by walking away, she was still there. In my head. In my heart. In everything I did to try to stop thinking about her. ”
You felt your legs give way. You leaned against him without realizing it. His arm tightened around you.
Amelia looked at them. Her smile had faded a little.
“That’s romantic,” she said sarcastically. “Really. But that doesn’t change the fact that the guys with the photos know all this. They know you’re her weak spot. They know they can get to her through you. And they’re going to do it.”
Bucky looked up. His gaze on Amelia was icy.
“Then they’ll have to get past me first. And I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
He looked down at you again. His hand on your hip slowly traced its way up your side, possessively, but his fingers were gentle as they brushed your jaw to turn your head toward him.
“Look at me,” he whispered.“You’re not an ex. You never were. You’re…”
He searched for the word.
“You’re the only thing I’ve never been able to let go of completely. And I’m not going to make the mistake of pushing you away again. Not this time.” ”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Something rawer. More alive.
Amelia watched them for another moment, then shrugged.
“Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when the noose really tightens. Because it’s tightening. And fast.”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
Silence fell again.
Bucky didn’t let go of you. His arm remained around your waist. His hand slowly caressed your hip through your jacket. You could feel his breath in your hair.
“Is it true?” you asked in a low voice. “Everything she said? That you left without an explanation? That you treated me like an ex before I even understood?”
Bucky turned your head toward him. His blue eyes were dark, but there was a raw vulnerability in them.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “And it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. Because I thought I was protecting you. And all I did was break you.”
You placed your hand on his, resting on your hip.
“Then don’t do it again,” you said.
Your voice was sharp, but your fingers were gentle on his.
“Because this time, if you leave, I won’t let you come back.”
He rested his forehead against yours. The wool jacket crinkled between you.
“I won’t leave anymore,” he promised. “Not as long as you’re wearing my shirt. Not as long as you let me hold you like this.”
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in the tailor’s back room, among the fabrics hanging like silent witnesses, something old and broken was beginning to mend itself.
Immediately after the confrontation with Amelia, Bucky said almost nothing.
He took you by the hand not gently, but not roughly either, just with that possessive urgency that left no room for doubt, and led you through the back of the store to a small, secluded room at the far end. It was a former fitting room that had been converted into a storage area. The walls were covered with fabrics that hung like skins. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The door closed behind you with a metallic click. The outside world vanished.
It was just the two of you.
The vise, the photos, Amelia, the past exploding, the fear of the void, the fear of forgetting… it was all still there, but compressed into this tiny room where the air was hot and heavy with the scent of fabric and Bucky’s leather.
You turned back to him. Your breath was short. The wool jacket was still draped over your shoulders, over his shirt.
“Bucky…”
He didn’t let you finish.
He took a step. Then another. Until your back pressed against the cold wall. His hands rested on either side of your head. He looked at you as if he were finally seeing something he’d spent months refusing to see.
“I treated you like an ex,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And that was a lie. Because you never stopped being mine. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I disappeared. Even when I told you you deserved better. ”
You felt tears welling up. Not the kind you hold back. The kind that come when the masks truly come off.
“You broke me,” you said. “And I let you because I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted.”
He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your mouth.
“It was what I thought I had to do to protect you. And all I did was leave you with that emptiness you hate so much. ”
You rested your hands on his chest. You could feel his heart beating too fast.
“So stop protecting me like that,” you whispered. “Stop making decisions for me. And let me in. Really let me in.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped. The last barriers. The last lies he was still telling himself.
“I don’t know how to go on without you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “And I’m too afraid of hurting you to keep you. But I can’t push you away anymore. Not after seeing you wear my shirt for days. Not after holding you while I was shaking. Not after seeing you face to face with Amelia and wanting to claim you in front of everyone.”
You ran your fingers through his hair. You gently tugged on it so he’d look at you.
“So claim me,” you say. “Here. Now. No more masks. No more ‘I’m protecting you by keeping you at a distance.’ Just you. And me. And everything we’ve broken and are trying to fix. ”
Bucky’s ragged breath brushed against your neck as his fingers closed around your hips with unexpected gentleness. He pulled you against him, closing the remaining distance in one fluid motion that sent a shiver through Y/N. His lips captured yours, no longer with hesitation, but with the raw urgency of someone who’s waited too long. Y/N’s back met the flat surface of the wall, her hands instinctively finding their way into Bucky’s dark hair to anchor his touch. He intensified the pressure, guiding your body against his with your silhouettes perfectly aligned. The textures of your clothes faded away under the friction of your synchronized movements, each gesture becoming a direct response to the broken whispers you exchanged. Bucky planted his feet firmly, lifting Y/N slightly to steady your embrace as your breaths merged completely in the dim light of the room.
An intense heat spread beneath your skin, instantly erasing the fear of the void that had paralyzed you just moments earlier. In Bucky’s mind, the usual chaos of his fragmented memories faded away, giving way to the absolute clarity of your presence. The scent of leather and light rain emanating from him enveloped your senses, creating a bubble of inviolable intimacy where the rest of the world had no hold. Every point of physical contact resonated like an electric shock, filling the cruel void of touch that had haunted him for months. You felt the erratic beating of his heart against your own chest, living proof of his vulnerability shared only with you. A dizzying sense of completeness washed over you, transforming this physical embrace into a silent pact of survival. The rough texture of his hands contrasted with the softness of your own skin, awakening a sensory receptivity pushed to its peak, where every shiver became a confession.
He lifted you higher against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist without you even thinking about it. The wool jacket slipped off your shoulders and fell to the floor. His button-down, the one you were still wearing, was now open; his fingers had undone it with an urgency that contrasted with the tenderness of his kisses on your neck.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered against your skin. “Tell me I’m not dreaming that you’re here, that you’re letting me touch you like this, that you won’t disappear when I close my eyes.”
You cupped his face in your hands and forced him to look at you.
“It’s real,” you said. Your voice was broken but firm. “I’m here. I’m still wearing your shirt. And I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not as long as you’re looking at me like that.”
He growled softly a sound that came from deep within his chest and captured your mouth once more. This time the kiss was deeper, more desperate. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them, lifting them higher. You could feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants, pressed against you. Every movement of your hips sent waves of heat racing up your spine.
You slid a hand between you and undid the buckle of his belt. He helped you, impatient, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he said. The words came out between kisses. “Even when I was pushing you away. Even when I was telling you it was over. Even when I was lying to myself, saying you were better off without me. You were always there. In my head. In my body. In everything I refused to feel. ”
You unzipped his jacket. He did the same with yours. The clothes became obstacles that we pushed aside hastily, without grace, with that urgency that comes when you’ve waited too long.
When he entered you, it was in a single fluid, deep motion, and you both let out a broken sound. He paused for a moment, his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me. ”
You obeyed. You breathed together, in sync, while the outside world the stranglehold, the photos, the past, the fear,finally faded away.
He began to move. Slowly at first. Then deeper, more urgently. Each thrust of his hips was a confession. Each moan you let escape was a response. His hands on your hips were possessive, but his lips on your neck were gentle. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Don’t leave me,” he said at one point. His voice was hoarse. “Even if I get difficult. Even if I tremble. Even if I forget things. Don’t leave me.”
You wrapped your legs around him tighter.
“I’m not leaving you,” you replied. “I’m bringing you back. Always. That’s how it works now.”
The pace quickened. The partition vibrated slightly behind your back. The fabric hanging around you moved in time with your bodies. The bare lightbulb cast shifting shadows on your sweaty skin.
When you came, it was with his name on your lips and his fingers intertwined with yours against the wall. He followed a few seconds later, his body tense as a bow, his face buried in your neck, a low, broken sound escaping from his chest.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward. He was still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breathing slowing down in unison. The sweat was cooling on your skin. The shirt you were still wearing lay open and crumpled between you. His pants were slumped down on his hips. Your legs were still wrapped around him.
Bucky slowly lifted his head. His eyes were dark, shining, and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.
“The masks have come off,” he said softly.
You stroked his cheek with the backs of your fingers.
“Yes,” you replied. “And we’re still here.”
He pulled out of you gently. He set you back on your feet but didn’t step away. He held you close, his arms around your waist, his face buried in your hair.
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in that small, secluded room, amid the fabrics hanging like protective curtains, you had finally let go of everything that separated you.
The exes had become lovers once more.
The masks were gone.
And for the first time in a very long time, the emptiness didn’t feel quite so vast.
A few hours later, the tailor shop was silent.
The bare lightbulb in the small, secluded room had been turned off. You’d come out of the fitting room that had been turned into a storage area, but you hadn’t gone far. Bucky had guided you to an old leather couch at the back of the shop, between rolls of fabric and headless mannequins. You were lying there now, half-dressed, your bodies still bearing the marks of each other.
Your head rested on his chest. His shirt the one you’d been wearing for days was pulled up over your thighs. His pants were pulled up, but his belt remained undone. His metal arm was draped beneath the nape of your neck. His flesh hand traced slow circles on your bare shoulder, right at the edge of the fabric.
The pace had slowed. Artificially. As if the outside world had decided to grant you a few hours of respite before everything exploded.
You could feel his heart beating against your cheek. Steady now. Calmer. You could also smell the scent of both of you on his skin sweat, sex, leather, and that metallic note that never left him.
“You’re still trembling a little,” he murmured against your hair.
You smiled faintly.
“It’s you who makes me tremble. Not fear.”
He let out a small, joyless laugh.
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say that without it sounding like an accusation.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light filtering in from the main window was gray, almost blue. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but it was coming.
“Because this time,” you say softly, “I’m trembling because I can feel you. Not because I’m losing you.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His fingers continued to trace circles on your shoulder. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper that echoed in the silence of the store.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not really. Not for… a long time. Steve, yes. A little. Wanda, when she’s not playing her games. But you…”
He paused. You waited. You could feel that the words were heavy for him.
“You, I trust you like no one else,” he finally continued. “Not just because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave. Not just because you held me when I was shaking. I trust you because you see everything. The worst of it. The chaos in my head. The way I can break everything without meaning to. And you stay anyway. You don’t look at me like a monster that needs fixing. You look at me like someone who can still choose.”
You placed your hand on his chest, right above his heart.
“Because you can,” you said. “And because I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be there when you’re ready.”
He turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to your temple.
“You’re the only one I trust completely,” he whispered. “The only one I can tell this to without fearing it will be used against me. The only one I can give everything I usually hide. Even my weaknesses. Even my fear of forgetting. Even the fact that I loved you before and lost you because of my own fault. ”
You felt your throat tighten. You snuggled closer to him. The renewed connection was there, palpable, in every whispered word, in every silence that was no longer empty.
The door to the back room opened softly.
Lucas Garcia slipped in silently. He was still wearing his dark coat, his eyes tired, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He stopped a few meters from the couch, keeping his distance, but his gaze was serious.
“The messenger has arrived,” he said simply. His voice was low, almost a whisper as well. “He has news. Not good news. But precise.”
Behind him, a smaller figure appeared. A witness. A man in his fifties, his hands in his pockets, his face marked by years of silence and observation. He didn’t say anything right away. He merely nodded toward Bucky, a silent sign of respect.
Lucas continued:
“They’ve moved up the meeting. Not at dawn. In three hours. They want you to come alone, Bucky. With the photos and the files. They say that if you don’t come, everything will be released before noon. Not just about you. About her, too.”
He glanced briefly at you, then turned his attention back to Bucky.
The silent witness spoke for the first time. His voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t use it often.
“I’ve seen the files,” he said. “They have everything. Your past. The missions. The names. And they have proof that you tried to protect Y/N by distancing yourself from her months ago. They’re going to use that to break you. To make you choose between your freedom and her.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. You could feel Bucky tense slightly beneath you. You placed your hand on his chest, a calm, grounded gesture.
Bucky looked at Lucas, then at the witness, then lowered his gaze back to you.
“I’m not going alone,” he said. His voice was clear. “And I’m not choosing between my freedom and her. Because she is my freedom now. The only one I want.”
Lucas nodded, as if he’d expected it.
“So let’s come up with a plan. Wanda will be here in an hour. Loki said he could jam their communications if they try to broadcast anything. But you both need to be ready. Both of you. ”
The witness said nothing more. He nodded again, then stepped back into the shadows, as if he’d already said everything he needed to say.
Lucas watched them for a moment longer,you in Bucky’s shirt, him with his arm around your waist,then he walked out without another word.
The door closed.
You were left alone.
The pace was still slow. Artificially calm. As if these few hours were a poisoned gift before the storm really broke.
Bucky pulled you closer to him. His hand slid through your hair.
“Did you hear me?” he whispered. “I trust only you. Completely. Totally. Even if everything blows up in three hours. Even if I have to risk everything. I choose you. Not safety. Not running away. You. ”
You lifted your head and pressed a slow kiss to his jaw.
“Then let’s go together,” you said. “And let’s get this over with. Not by hiding. Not by pushing each other away. Together.”
He closed his eyes. You could feel his breath against your skin.
Time had slipped away.
A few hours later, dawn had broken, gray and cold, and everything had shifted to a place that no longer really belonged to any single universe. The Tailor Shop was behind you. So was the glass studio. What remained was an old warehouse by the water a place that still smelled of metal and rain, as if Mob!Bucky had never really gone away. The three realities had overlapped in that final confrontation.
Wanda was there, wearing a dark red coat, her arms crossed, her face serious but calm. Steve stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving Bucky. Loki was leaning against a pillar, a smirk on his face that promised nothing good and yet everything at once. Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette near the door, his gaze watchful. Elijah Anderson was further away, looking anxious, his hands trembling slightly. Amelia Wilson was there too, sarcastic to the end, but silent for once. Sophia Miller had left,she’d done all she could.
And right in the middle, there were the two of you.
Bucky and you.
You were still wearing his shirt. It was wrinkled, stained, and open at your collarbone. He’d slipped a jacket over his tank top. His metal arm was visible. He wasn’t hiding it anymore.
The men with the photos and files were standing across from you. Three figures. Faces no one really recognized. They’d brought a laptop. The screen displayed the photos. The files. Everything.
The tallest of the three spoke first.
“You came alone, Barnes. As agreed.”
Bucky didn’t move. His hand was on your hip. Not possessive this time. Just there.
“She stays,” he said. His voice was clear. “And whatever you have on her, destroy it. Now.”
The man sneered.
“You’re in no position to negotiate.”
Wanda took a step forward.
“Yes, I am,” she said simply. “Because what you have isn’t just in your hands anymore. Loki has already started scrambling the channels. And what you think you have as evidence… isn’t as clean as you think it is.”
Loki smiled even wider.
“Files have a funny way of changing when you tinker with them using the right tools. And I have some very good tools.”
The tension rose. The three men exchanged glances. One of them placed his hand on a gun at his belt.
Bucky didn’t flinch.
You’re the one who spoke.
“You want to break him,” you said. Your voice was calm but sharp. “You want him to choose between his freedom and me. But you don’t understand. There’s no choice left to make. Because I’m already everything he’s chosen. And he’s everything I’ve chosen. Even with the photos. Even with the files. Even with everything you can release.”
The tallest of the three narrowed his eyes.
“You sound like someone who has nothing to lose. ”
“I have everything to lose,” you replied. “And that’s why I’m here. Not to negotiate. To finish this.”
Bucky held you a little tighter against him. He didn’t say anything. But you could sense what he wasn’t saying: his complete trust in you. His decision to stop pushing you away. His choice to keep you, even if it made him vulnerable.
The silence lingered.
Then the smallest of the three, the one who had barely spoken, pulled a USB drive out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground.
“Take it,” he said. “That’s all. The originals. The copies. Everything we had. We have nothing left.” ”
Wanda walked over, picked up the drive, and slipped it into her pocket.
“What about the photos that are already circulating?” Steve asked.
The man shrugged.
“You can’t control everything. But whatever concrete evidence we had… it’s gone. For now.”
They retreated. It wasn’t a complete defeat. Just a strategic retreat. They knew the game had changed. That Bucky wasn’t alone anymore. That the girl he’d tried to protect had become his strength.
Once they were gone, silence fell over the warehouse.Wanda approached the two of you. She placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“You made the right choice,” she said softly. “By not coming alone. By not hiding her.”
Steve nodded.
“We’ll clean up the rest. The photos lying around. The rumors. It’ll take time. But we’ll do it. ”
Loki approached as well, a smirk on his face.
“That was almost entertaining, Barnes. Almost. Don’t do that too often. I hate being bored.”
He vanished into the shadows without waiting for a reply.
Lucas Garcia stubbed out his cigarette.
“I’m staying outside. Just in case.”
Elijah Anderson and Amelia Wilson walked away together, whispering to each other. Sophia had already left. The silent witness was gone.
All that remained were Wanda, Steve, and the two of you.Wanda looked at the shirt you were wearing.
“It looks good on you,” she said with a small smile. “Keep it.”
Then she and Steve left too, leaving you alone in the empty warehouse.
The wind blew in through the broken windows. The rain had started again, light and almost silent.Bucky turned toward you. He cupped your face in his hands the flesh hand and the metal hand, both gentle.
“Is it over?” you asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not completely. There will always be photos lying around. People who know. Threats. But…”
He paused. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.
“But we’re not hiding anymore. We’re not pushing each other away anymore. We’re not pretending you’re an ex anymore. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no one can take that away from us.”
You placed your hands on his wrists.
“Even if you forget things?”
“Even if I forget. Because you’ll be there to remind me. Because I trust you with that. Completely.”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Just from an emotion too big to keep inside.
“I love you,” you said. The words came out simple, raw, unvarnished.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were shining.
“I love you too,” he said. “For a long time. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I told you you deserved better. I already loved you. And I still love you. And I’ll love you tomorrow, even if I don’t remember your name. Because my body will remember. Because my skin will remember. Because that shirt on you… it will always remind me.”
You snuggled up against him. He held you close, his metal arm and his flesh-and-blood arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair.
The rain was falling harder now.
And in that bittersweet mix the victory that wasn’t complete, the threat that hadn’t been completely dispelled, but the love that was finally unmasked you stood there.
A/N: Oh, hi! Wow, it's been a long time since I've written anything at all. But anyway, between my studies, or rather the exams that are finally over, and this heat wave that seems to be trying to kill us all, I had to take a little break because I didn't have much time, but I'm back now.
WHISPERS OF AN INTERTWINED DESTINY
[Mob! Bucky Barnes × Reader]
✻ Pairing: Mobster! Bucky Barnes × Reader (You)
✻ Summary: Two souls refuse to lose one another. Faced with the visceral fear of oblivion that grips Bucky Barnes and the terror of the void that haunts you, every glance becomes a promise, every word an anchor. Between secrets whispered in the dead of night and silent battles against fate, will love survive the fractures of time, or will it fade into the echo of one final confession?
✻ Tropes: Mob AU · Psychological Hurt/Comfort · Fear of Oblivion · Midnight Confessions
✻ Word count: +11kwords
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
✻✻✻
Inside the warehouse, it smelled of damp concrete, cold cigarette butts, and leather so worn it was almost transparent.
You were slumped on that old couch that had seen its share of nights. With your knees pulled up, you were floating in Bucky’s black shirt, which was way too big for you. The sleeves fell over your fingers, the crumpled collar still held the warmth of his skin, and that scent that never left him: cheap soap, city rain, and that faint metallic taste that clung to his skin like a second layer.
Bucky was leaning against the coffee table, with his back to the window. He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart without really intending to put it back together just yet. His shoulders were all tense under his gray sweater. He wasn’t looking at you. He almost always acted like that when the silence became too heavy.
You tugged at the hem of your shirt, the fabric slipping through your fingers.
“Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there pretending I’m invisible?”
His voice was deep, a little hoarse.
“I know you’re there.”
“Then talk.”
“About what?”
You let out a little laugh, but there was no joy in it.
“Nonsense. The weather. The rain. And the fact that I’m wearing your damn shirt, and you’re acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
Bucky set a part of the gun down on the table. The sound of metal against wood echoed a little too loudly in the silence.
“It looks good on you,” he said.
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
He shrugged, just a tiny gesture.
“What else do you want me to say? That it touches me to see you in it? That I like the idea of you carrying my scent?”
The silence settled again, even heavier than before. You felt your cheeks grow hot despite yourself. Your fingers gripped the fabric on your thighs tighter. The shirt still smelled like him. It was silly, and yet it was exactly what you’d been looking for when you took it from the back of the chair that morning.
“You left it there on purpose,” you say in a lower voice.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally turned around, his blue eyes were clouded over, as they always were when he was trying not to give anything away.
“Maybe. ”
You stood up. The shirt slid down over your bare thighs. You were wearing only shorts underneath. Your bare feet touched the cold floor. You took three steps toward him. Not enough to touch him. Just enough for him to sense your presence.
“You’re hiding your hands,” you remarked.
Bucky looked down at his own palms as if he were seeing them for the first time. There was a fresh cut at the base of his left thumb, already half-healed. He clenched his fist.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your wounds, except when you have no choice. ”
He didn’t answer. He just watched you put on his shirt—the way the crumpled collar rested against your collarbone, the way you kept tugging at the sleeves that were too long. The cliché was there, silent, between the two of you: that sharing of clothes that said everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
The warehouse door creaked.
Steve walked in, shaking the water off his coat. He still wore that calm, weary expression he’d had for years. His eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. He saw the shirt. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Am I here at a bad time?” he asked simply.
Bucky shook his head.
“No. What’s going on?”
Steve walked over to the table. He set down a thick envelope.
“The guys from Red Hook talked. They saw some photos. Of the two of you. Not very recent, but recent enough that they’re making the rounds.”
You felt your stomach knot up. Your left hand instinctively gripped your right wrist, where Bucky’s sleeve was slipping.
“Photos of what?”
Steve looked you straight in the eye.
“Of the two of you. Together. Not fighting. Just… living.” He turned to Bucky. “Someone’s starting to connect the dots. And that someone has friends who don’t like connected dots.”
Bucky remained silent for a long moment. You saw his jaw clench. His right hand the one with the cut rested on the edge of the table, his fingers white.
“Who has the photos?” he asked at last.
“Isabella Davis intercepted them before they reached the person you’re thinking of. She’ll be here in five minutes. She wanted to give them to you in person. ”
You felt a chill run up your spine. Isabella Davis. Always in the know. Always with a smile that was too wide and eyes that saw too far. You tugged at Bucky’s shirt again, as if the fabric could protect you from the outside world.
Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It was a brief, brotherly gesture.
“Be careful. Both of you.” He took one last look at the shirt you were wearing, then walked out without saying another word.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
You sat on the edge of the table, next to the envelope Steve had left behind. The shirt rode up a little on your thighs. Bucky didn’t look away this time.
“Are you going to open it?” you asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because as soon as I open it, it’ll become real.”
You let out a shaky sigh.
“It’s already real, Bucky. I’m wearing your shirt. I sleep in your bed half the time. People are starting to notice. You can’t keep hiding everything.”
He stepped closer. Not quickly. As if he were testing every centimeter. He stopped less than a meter away. Close enough for you to see the raindrop still sliding down his neck.
“I’m hiding it because if I don’t, you’ll end up hurt. Or worse.”
“I’m already hurt,” you said softly. “The emptiness scares me more than bullets.”
His eyes darkened. He raised his hand the one with the cut and lightly brushed the collar of his own shirt on your shoulder. Just a light touch. His fingers lingered there, warm through the fabric.
“You’re wearing this as if it were yours,” he murmured.
“It’s mine now. You gave it to me without saying a word.”
A dry sound escaped his throat. Almost a laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“So are you.”
The door creaked again.
Isabella Davis walked in just as she always did: without knocking, without apologizing, with a smile that never reached her eyes. She was wearing a long, soaked black coat, boots that clacked on the concrete, and an envelope thinner than Steve’s tucked between two fingers.
She stopped short when she saw you.
“Well,” she said in a hoarse, amused voice. “The boss’s shirt. Wow. I knew you two were sharing things, but I didn’t think it had become public knowledge.”
Bucky stiffened. You didn’t move. You stayed seated on the table, Bucky’s shirt draped over you, your legs bare, your gaze fixed on Isabella.
She set the envelope down next to you.
“The photos. Not pretty. Someone followed you last week. The parking lot behind the club. You were… close. Not kissing, but close enough to raise questions. And the question is: since when does the Big James Barnes let a woman wear his shirt and sleep in his bed without everyone knowing about it?”
You felt Bucky tense up beside you. His free hand rested on your knee, just above the fabric of your shirt. A possessive, protective, involuntary gesture.
Isabella continued, her voice lower now.
“There’s a note with the photos. Unsigned. Just four words: ‘She won’t save you from who you are.’”
The silence that followed was complete.
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the envelope as if it contained a bomb. His hand on your knee tightened slightly. You placed your own hand over his. Your fingers covered the cut he was trying to hide.
“Who?” Bucky asked.
Isabella shrugged.
“If I knew, I would’ve told you already. But what I do know is that someone’s digging. Someone who knows your past. Not just the mob. The other past. The one you never talk about. And that person has decided that Y/N is the weak link.”
You felt a void open up in your chest. Not the usual void. A colder one. An older one. The kind that told you you were going to lose someone again because you weren’t enough.
Bucky turned his head toward you. His blue eyes were dark, but there was something raw in them. Something real.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a request. A statement.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied.
Isabella looked at them in turn, then smiled that smile of hers that never told the whole truth.
“I’ll leave you two alone. But keep the photos. And keep the shirt. It seems to suit both of you. ”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
All that remained was the rain, the disassembled gun on the table, the envelope, and the two of you.
Bucky didn’t take his hand off your knee. You didn’t take yours off his.
You looked down at the shirt. The collar was wrinkled where he’d touched it. You could still smell him on you. Sharing his clothes had always been just a way of saying: I’m here, even when I can’t say it.
“You’re still hiding some wounds,” you whispered without looking at him.
“I’m trying not to inflict any more on you.”
“You can’t hide everything, Bucky. Not from me. Not when I’m wearing your shirt and the world is starting to notice.”
He remained silent for a long moment. Then he took another step toward you. Close enough that his forehead almost brushed yours. His free hand rose and pinched the collar of the shirt between two fingers.
“It’s yours now,” he said very softly. “Like everything I can offer you without destroying you.”
You closed your eyes. The emptiness was still there, but it seemed a little less vast. Because the shirt smelled like him. Because his hand was resting on your knee. Because, for once, he wasn’t walking away.
The rain kept falling.
Later that evening, the rain hadn’t let up. It was now drumming against the narrow windows of a small apartment above a disused garage, somewhere between Red Hook and the waterfront. The place felt cramped, almost stifling: a single main room, a double bed against the back wall, a tiny table, two chairs, and a kitchenette where the lightbulb above the sink flickered every thirty seconds. The air smelled musty, of cold coffee and the damp leather of the jackets drying on the backs of the chairs.
You were still wearing Bucky’s black shirt. You’d thrown his leather jacket on top because the heat was only working halfway. The leather felt heavy on your shoulders. It smelled of rain, smoke, and him. You were sitting in one of the chairs, your feet propped up on the lower bar, swirling a cup of tea between your palms. The tea was too hot. You weren’t really drinking it.
Bucky was standing at the sink. He had taken off his sweater. He was now wearing only a black tank top that revealed the taut lines of his shoulders and his left arm—the one that had been made of metal for far too long. He was rinsing two plates with slow, almost mechanical movements. The water was running. The metal of his left arm clinked softly against the dishes as he moved.
You’d been watching him in silence for several minutes. The silence wasn’t the same as before. It was denser, more charged. Something had shifted since the warehouse. Since the photos. Since Isabella’s words.
You set the cup down. The sound of the ceramic against the table was faint.
“Do you remember what you told me the first night I slept here?” you asked in a calm, almost innocent voice.
You weren’t trying to provoke him. It was just a thought that had come to you, gently, as you watched the rain on the window.
“You told me that rainy nights like this reminded you of Brooklyn before everything went haywire. Before the missions. Before… everything.”
Bucky stopped rinsing the plate.
Water continued to run from the faucet. He stood motionless. His back was stiff, his neck muscles tense. You saw his fingers clench around the edge of the sink. The metal scraped against the stainless steel.
He didn’t answer right away.
You waited. One second. Two. Five.
Then you saw his shoulders start to tremble. Not much. Just a shiver that ran through his whole body, as if an electric current had passed beneath his skin. He let go of the plate. It fell into the sink with a thud. The water kept running.
Bucky raised his right hand to his forehead. His fingers pressed hard against his temple, as if he were trying to hold back something that was slipping away. His breathing changed: shorter, more ragged. He lowered his head, eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth creaked.
You stood up slowly. The leather jacket slipped a little off your shoulders but stayed in place.
“Bucky?”
He didn’t answer you. He was breathing too fast now. You saw the muscles in his back tense beneath his tank top. His left hand, the one with the metal, had clenched the edge of the sink with such force that the knuckles on his right hand turned white. The metal creaked. You could hear the sound of his joints tightening.
He mumbled something. You didn’t understand right away.
“…I don’t… I don’t remember…”
Your chest tightened violently.
You walked around the table in two strides. You stopped right behind him, close enough to feel the heat rising from his skin.
“Bucky. Look at me. ”
He didn’t move. His right hand was now trembling against his forehead. You saw a vein throbbing in his neck, too fast.
“I don’t remember what I told you,” he repeated in a hoarse, broken voice. “I don’t remember. How long ago was that? A week? Two? I… damn it, I don’t know anymore.”
You placed your hands on his shoulder blades. Gently at first. Then more firmly when you sensed he was about to pull away.
“It doesn’t matter. Listen to me.”
“Yes, it does.” His voice rose a notch. Not out of anger. Out of raw panic. “If I start forgetting what I tell you… if I start forgetting the things we share… I’ll end up forgetting you. And then I’ll hurt you without even realizing it. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
You felt the emptiness opening up in your chest, but you pushed it away. Not now. Not with him drowning.
You slid your hands down his arms to his wrists. You gently pulled them so he would let go of the sink. He resisted for a second, then gave in. You turned him toward you. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his gaze lost somewhere between the past and the present.
You cupped his face in your palms. Your thumbs pressed against his cheekbones.
“Look at me,” you said more firmly. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m here. I’m wearing your shirt. I’m wearing your jacket. You gave it to me this morning. Do you remember that? You put it on my shoulders, saying I was shivering. Do you remember how you turned up the collar so I wouldn’t catch a cold?”
He blinked. Once. Twice. His breathing was still too rapid, but he was trying to look at you.
“I… I remember that,” he whispered.
“Good. So you remember me. You remember us. The rest doesn’t matter. The details, the exact words none of that matters. What matters is that you’re here. That I’m here. That I won’t let you go. ”
You wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close to you. He resisted for another second, then his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You felt his whole body tremble. His arms closed around your waist with desperate strength. The metal in his left arm pressed against your back through your jacket. You felt the pressure. You didn’t move.
“You won’t forget me,” you whispered in his ear. “Because I won’t let you forget me. I’ll remind you every day if I have to. I’ll shout it at you if I have to. Do you hear me?”
He nodded against your shoulder. A tiny movement. You felt his warm breath through the fabric of your shirt.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in a broken voice.
“You won’t. Not as long as you let me bring you back when you drift too far away in your mind. ”
You stayed like that for a long time. Standing in the middle of the small kitchen, the rain pounding against the window, the water still running from the faucet, him trembling in your arms, you holding his head against your shoulder as if you could physically prevent his memories from fading away.
Then the door opened.
Wanda walked in without knocking. She was wearing a soaked dark red coat, her hair tied back hastily, her face grave. She stopped short when she saw you. Her gaze shifted from Bucky to you, then back to Bucky. She saw the way he was clinging to you. She saw the way you were holding him.
She didn’t say a word.
“We have six hours,” she said bluntly. Her voice was calm but urgent. “The guys with the photos moved up the deadline. They want an answer before dawn. If we don’t give them what they’re asking for, they’ll release everything. Not just the photos. They also have files on you, Bucky. Old ones. Very old ones. The ones you thought you’d made disappear.”
Bucky slowly sat up. He didn’t quite let go of you. One of his hands remained on your hip, over your jacket. You felt his fingers tighten against the leather.
“What do they want?” he asked.
His voice had returned?low and controlled. But you could still feel the tremor in his arm.
Wanda walked over to the table. She set down a cell phone. The screen was lit up, displaying a blurry photo: a man in a suit, half in shadow, talking to someone off-camera.
“They want you to come alone. Tomorrow morning at four o’clock. A warehouse near the docks. They say they have a proposal. But we both know it’s not a proposal. It’s a trap. And they’re using Y/N as leverage.”
You felt Bucky tense up against you. His hand on your hip tightened.
Wanda continued,
“Lucas Garcia is downstairs. He’s watching the street. He said there were two suspicious cars circling the area for the past hour. We’re being watched. We can’t stay here long. ”
You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the phone. His face had gone stone-cold again, but you could see the storm in his eyes. The fear of being forgotten was still there, just beneath the surface. You slipped your hand into his,the flesh-and-blood hand, and squeezed it tightly.
“We’re not going anywhere without thinking it through,” you told Wanda. “Not like this. Not by running away.”
Wanda nodded.
“I know. That’s why I came to warn you. But time is running out. Really running out.”
She took one last look at the way Bucky was holding you, then walked out without saying another word. The door closed softly behind her.
Silence returned.
Bucky looked down at you. His hand was still on your hip. His other hand the metal one hung at his side, his fingers slightly spread.
“You should have left a long time ago,” he said very quietly.
You shook your head. You grabbed the collar of his own shirt that you were wearing and gently pulled him toward you.
“I’m wearing your shirt, Bucky. I’m wearing your jacket. You let me in. You can’t send me away now. ”
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something had changed. The panic was still there, but it was contained. He looked at you as if he were trying to etch every detail of your face into his memory.
“If I ever forget you…” he began.
You placed a finger on his lips.
“You won’t forget me. Because I won’t let you. And because even if one day you no longer remember my name, you’ll remember this.”
You took his metal hand and placed it on your heart, over your jacket and shirt. He felt it beating. Strong. Steady. Alive.
“You’ll remember this,” you repeated. “And that will be enough.”
Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he tilted his head and rested his forehead against yours. His breathing was still a little uneven, but he was calmer.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Downstairs, Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette under an awning, his eyes fixed on the two cars that were still circling at the end of the street. He didn’t come upstairs. He didn’t say a word. He stood there, a solitary figure in the night, silently reminding you that you weren’t really alone. That the outside world hadn’t disappeared.
In the small room, Bucky squeezed your hand tighter.
Time was running out.
But for now, he had you.
And you had him in return.
The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained low and heavy. They’d had to change their hideout during the night. Wanda had insisted. Lucas Garcia had driven them here, to this old glassblowing studio by the canal, a place no one really went to anymore except for a few fringe artists and people who needed to stay out of sight. The place smelled of warm sand, burnt metal, and something sweet coming from the still-warm furnaces.
The back door was blocked. Not completely locked, but the studio’s security system an old contraption cobbled together by the previous owner had been triggered by a power outage during the night. They were stuck inside until someone came from outside or the backup generator kicked back in. For now, they were alone. Stuck. Together.
You were sitting on a barstool near one of the workbenches. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt, but you’d taken off the jacket. It was warm in the studio because the ovens were still holding some heat. The shirt was open at your collarbone. You could still smell him on you.
Bucky was on the other side of the workbench, about one meter fifty away. Not far enough away to be comfortable. Not close enough to be easy. He’d found an old canvas work shirt in a closet and slipped it on over his tank top. The sleeves were rolled up. You could see the tendons in his forearms when he moved.
He was fiddling with a piece of colored glass without really looking at it. You were looking at him.
“You seem tense,” you finally said.
Bucky shrugged without looking up.
“We’re stuck in a glass studio with a door that won’t open. Do you find that relaxing?”
“I find it… interesting.”
You rested your elbows on the workbench. Your shirt slipped a little off your shoulder.
“We have to stay close. Do you hate it as much as you say you do?”
He finally looked up. There was a defensive glint in his blue eyes.
“I don’t hate it. I’m just trying not to make things harder for you than they already are.”
You smile a little. A wry smile, not quite gentle.
“You know, for someone who spends all their time protecting me, you also spend a lot of time pushing me away. It’s exhausting to watch.”
Bucky set down the piece of glass. He leaned on the workbench, both hands flat against it. The distance between you was still the same, but the atmosphere had changed.
“I’m not pushing you away,” he said. His voice was lower now. “I’m protecting you. It’s not the same thing. ”
“It’s exactly the same thing when you do it by keeping me at a distance.” You tilted your head. “Do you think that if we stay too close for too long, I’ll see how broken you are?”
He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the workbench.
“Maybe,” he finally admitted.
The word came out as if he’d had to force it out.
“Maybe I don’t want you to see just how much worse it is than you imagine.”
You felt something tighten in your chest. Not the emptiness. Not yet. Just a strange, almost painful warmth.
“I already see a lot, Bucky. I’ve been wearing your shirt since yesterday. I held you while you were shaking. I know you’re hiding injuries. I know you’re afraid of forgetting. I know you think you’re going to hurt me.”
He clenched his jaw.
“And you’re still here.”
“I’m still here. ”
The silence that followed was different. More intimate. More dangerous.
Bucky slowly walked around the workbench. He stopped less than a meter away from you. You could feel the heat rising from his body. You could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d never dared to ask about.
“You should be afraid of me,” he said. Not a threat. A statement of fact.
You got up from the stool. The shirt fell back onto your thighs. You took a step toward him.
“I’m afraid,” you admitted.
Your voice was soft but clear.
“But not of you. I’m afraid of the emptiness you leave behind when you walk away. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel when you let me wear your shirt and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped.
“It means everything,” he murmured. “That’s why it’s dangerous. ”
You were so close now that you could feel his breath on your cheek. The heat of the studio, the smell of hot glass, the distant sound of cars outside… everything seemed far away. There was nothing left but him, you, and this forced closeness that made every confession both easier and more terrifying at the same time.
You raised your hand and lightly brushed the hem of his new work shirt, right at chest level.
“You’re still hiding something. I can tell.”
He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Nothing ever goes right with you.”
Before he could answer, there was a noise outside. A scream. Then the sound of a door slamming violently. Someone calling for help.
Sophia Miller.
She had arrived earlier that morning with groceries, just as Wanda had asked. A woman in her forties, anxious, with eyes that were always a little too big, and hands that trembled when she was stressed. She sometimes handled small errands for the hideouts. She was reliable, but fragile.
The scream turned into a howl.
Bucky reacted before you even realized what was happening.
He grabbed you around the waist and pinned you against the nearest wall, his body forming a complete barrier between you and the studio’s front door. His left arm the metal one rose to shield your head. His chest pressed against yours. You could feel every tense muscle, every short breath.
The door flew open.
Sophia came running in, her face covered in blood, a gash on her forehead. Behind her, two men in plain clothes were trying to catch up with her. Not cops. Guys sent by the people who had the photos.
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, shielding you with his whole body, his metal arm stretched out in front of him like a shield. You could feel his heart beating against your chest. You could also feel something wet against your side blood. Not yours. His.
“Stay behind me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Sophia stumbled and fell to her knees. The two men stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Bucky. They knew his reputation. They took a step back.
“We just want the girl,” one of them said. “Not you. No trouble.”
Bucky snorted. A cold, dangerous sound.
“Don’t you touch her. Don’t even look at her.”
The two men exchanged a glance. They knew they were no match for him. Not here. They took another step back, then ran out.
The door closed.
Silence fell, broken only by Sophia’s muffled sobs on the floor.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He stayed pressed against you, his body still shielding you, his breathing still rapid. You felt the warmth of his blood seeping through his shirt and staining yours the shirt he was wearing over yours.
You placed a hand on his side. He flinched.
“You’re hurt,” you said.
Not a question.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always hide your injuries unless you have no choice.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Let me see.”
He hesitated. Then he stepped back just enough for you to slip your hand under his shirt. Your fingers found the wound a gash near his ribs, not very deep but bleeding. He’d probably gotten it while protecting you, or maybe earlier, and he’d ignored it.
You felt a sense of emptiness wash over you. Not because he was hurt. Because he’d tried to protect you again without letting you see. Because the forced closeness had just reminded you how much you needed him to let you in completely.
“You’re bleeding on me,” you whispered.
Your voice was low, almost broken.
“And you were going to act like it was nothing. Again.”
Bucky looked down at you. There was guilt in his gaze, but also something rawer. Fear. Not of you. Of what this closeness was doing to him.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late.”
You pressed a little harder on the wound. He winced, but he didn’t pull away.
“You protect me. You hide things from me. You let me wear your shirt. And then you’re surprised that I’m afraid of the void you leave behind when you refuse to let me help you. ”
Sophia was still sobbing on the floor, but you weren’t looking at her anymore. The outside world had vanished. All that remained was that sticky heat between the two of you, the blood mingling, the stained shirt, that body pressed against yours that still refused to open up completely.
Bucky raised his hand his flesh-and-blood hand and brushed your cheek. His thumb traced a line beneath your eye.
“I don’t know how else to do this,” he admitted. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know how to let you in without being afraid of destroying you.”
You rested your forehead against his. The heat of the studio, the smell of blood and glass, the beat of his heart against yours.
“So we’ll learn together,” you say. “Because I’m not going to just stand here and watch you bleed in silence. Not this time. ”
He closed his eyes. His breath mingled with yours.
Outside, the two men were gone. Sophia Miller was still crying. The door was still blocked.
But inside, something had shifted.
Their closeness was no longer just forced.
It had become necessary.
The following night, the glass studio was bathed in semi-darkness. The furnaces had finally cooled down. Only an old oil lamp sitting on the workbench cast a warm, flickering light on the walls. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass hanging here and there danced like eyes that observed without judging.
You were exhausted. Both of you. Bucky’s body was still warm against yours, but there was that heaviness in his limbs that comes after too much adrenaline. Your head rested on his shoulder. His work shirt stained with dried blood was unbuttoned. You’d cleaned and bandaged his wound earlier with what you’d found in the studio’s first-aid kit. Now your hand rested just above the bandage, as if you needed to check that it was still there.
Bucky wasn’t sleeping. Neither were you.
You were unable to pull away. Even when your bodies were crying out for rest, even when your minds were heavy, something kept you glued to each other. Bucky’s metal arm was wrapped around your waist. Your legs were intertwined with his. The shirt you were still wearing his had ridden up over your hips.
The silence lasted a long time. Not the heavy silence of before. A gentler, more worn-out silence. A silence that waited.
You were the one who broke the silence first.
“You once told me you loved quiet spaces,” you murmured against his neck.
Your voice was low, hoarse with fatigue.
“Whispered conversations at dawn. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”
Bucky exhaled slowly. You felt his breath in your hair.
“Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. “That’s what we’re doing.”
You waited. You knew there was more. You could feel it in the way his fingers traced slow circles on your hip, right at the edge of your shirt.
“What else are you hiding?” you asked softly. “Not your wounds. I’ve seen them. Not your fear of forgetting. I know that. Something else. A taste. Something you don’t show anyone.”
He remained silent for a long moment. His hand stopped moving on your hip. You felt his heart beating a little faster against your chest.
“I like… creating fragile things,” he said at last.
His voice was so soft that you had to lean in closer to hear him.
“Things that can break if you’re not careful. Glass. Precision mechanisms. Things that require you to be gentle.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light from the oil lamp cast dancing shadows across his face.
“You? Creating fragile things? After everything you’ve broken?”
A small, sad smile tugged at his lips.
“That’s why I love it. Because I spend my life breaking things. And sometimes… I need to remind myself that I can do the opposite, too. That my hands can still make something beautiful if I control them well enough.”
You pressed your palm against his bare chest, right above his heart.
“Is that why you were looking at the glass earlier as if it were alive?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I’ve spent years destroying things. Cities. People. Lives. And now… I look at a piece of glass and tell myself that if I breathe too hard, it might crack. And that calms me down. It makes me feel like I can still choose not to break everything.”
You remained silent for a moment, letting his words settle between you. Your hand slowly moved up to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line of his stubble.
“You’ve never told me that,” you whispered.
“I’m telling you now. Because you’re here. Because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave even when I’m bleeding on you. Because…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because for once, I don’t want this to be just another night where we protect ourselves. I want this to be a night where I give you something real.”
You felt your throat tighten. You moved even closer, your forehead against his.
“Then give me more,” you whispered. “Tell me something else. Something no one else knows.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was even lower, almost a secret whispered directly into your mouth.
“I love the silence just before dawn. Not the silence of the night. The silence of that moment when everyone is still asleep and the world hasn’t woken up yet. I love being awake at that moment. Because it’s the only time I feel… not guilty for existing. When I can just breathe without the past screaming at me. ”
You felt tears welling up, but you didn’t let them fall. You kept them inside, like a secret you shared with him.
“I want to be there the next time you’re awake at dawn,” you said. “Not because you’re afraid. Not because we’re hiding. Just… because.”
He opened his eyes. They shone brightly in the dim light.
“You will be,” he promised. “If you still want me after all this. ”
You were about to answer when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the workbench. An incoming call. The name that appeared on the screen: Loki.
Bucky grunted softly but answered anyway. He put it on speakerphone. Loki Laufeyson’s voice filled the studio, calm, slightly amused, with that accent that always dragged out the vowels a little too long.
“Barnes. I hope I’m not interrupting a… private moment. But I have news that can’t wait. The people who have your photos aren’t acting alone. They’re working with someone who knows your past very well. Not just the soldier. Not just the killer. Someone who knows what you did even before you had that metal arm.”
Bucky stiffened against you. You could feel his muscles tense.
“Who?” he asked.
Loki laughed softly.
“Someone with a name you don’t like to hear. Someone who thinks you’ve owed him a debt for a very long time. I’ll let you guess. But if you want my advice and I know you don’t...don’t go to that meeting tomorrow morning. It’s a trap. And not the kind of trap you walk away from alive.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His free hand gripped your hip a little tighter.
“Why are you helping us, Loki?” he asked at last.
“Because I’m bored,” Loki replied casually. “And because watching big James Barnes try to protect someone instead of destroying everything… it’s entertaining. And maybe a little touching. Don’t get used to it.”
The call cut off.
Silence returned. Heavier this time.
You traced your fingertips across Bucky’s chest.
“We’re not going to that meeting,” you said. “Not like this. Not alone.”
“We don’t have a choice,” he murmured. “They have the photos. They have files on me. If we don’t go, they’ll release everything. And then… ”
“Then we’ll find another way. With Wanda. With Loki, if he’s willing to play along. But we’re not running headlong into a trap.”
Bucky turned his head and pressed a slow, weary kiss to your temple.
“You make me weak, you know that? ”
“No,” you replied. “I make you human. That’s different.”
You stayed like that, exhausted, pressed against each other, your whispers still hanging in the air, when the studio door flew open.
Elijah Anderson burst in. Tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes wide with anxiety, his face pale. He was wearing a coat that was too big for him, and he was breathing too heavily.
“They’re out there,” he said in a trembling voice. “The guys from the photos. They’ve found the place. Lucas is trying to hold them off downstairs, but they’re coming up. You have to get out of here. Now.”
The moment snapped to a halt.
Bucky sprang to his feet, his body shifting from exhaustion to alertness in a split second. He pulled you up with him, his arm still around your waist.
“How many?” he asked.
“Three. Maybe four. They’re armed.” Elijah was glancing frantically around him. “Sophia left an hour ago. She said she’d be back with help, but… I don’t know if she’ll come back. ”
You felt the emptiness reopen in your chest. Not as strongly as before. But it was there. Because the truce was over. Because the night of whispered confidences was already over.
Bucky looked at you. His blue eyes were dark but calm.
“We’re going out the back,” he said. “And this time, you’re staying right by my side. No arguments.”
You nodded. You knew this wasn’t the time to argue.
As you prepared to flee, the oil lamp flickered one last time on the workbench. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass danced one last time across your faces.
The night of confidences was over.
Dawn was approaching.
And with it, danger.
Two days later, the Tailor Shop had swallowed them whole.
It was a small, unassuming sewing workshop on the ground floor of an old building, with a display window full of tailor-made suits and a back room filled with fabrics hanging like stage curtains. The place smelled of clean fabric, warm thread, and a faint scent of vetiver wafting from the old dress forms. They had taken refuge there after fleeing the glass studio. Wanda had connections. No one came asking questions here. Not as long as the curtains stayed drawn and the backlight remained off.
But the noose was tightening.
The photos were now making the rounds. Not everywhere yet. Just enough for people to start talking. Enough for Bucky Barnes’s name to be whispered alongside yours in the same sentences. Enough for the past to resurface like an old scar you thought had healed.
You were standing in front of a large oval mirror in the back room, trying on a gray wool jacket that the tailor had left there. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt underneath, but you’d slipped the jacket on over it. It was too big for you. The shoulders hung loose. You were tugging at the sleeves without really thinking about it.
Bucky was sitting on a cutting table, his legs dangling, a disassembled gun in front of him. He was cleaning it for the third time that morning. His eyes kept darting from the door to you, then back to the door.
The silence between you hadn’t been the same since the night of the confessions. It was sharper. More charged. Because something had changed. Because the word “ex” had been spoken aloud two days earlier by someone who should never have known it. And now it hung between you like a blade.
The door to the back room opened.
Amelia Wilson walked in without knocking. Thirty-six years old, tall, sarcastic to the core, her arms laden with fabric, which she tossed onto a chair. She sometimes worked for the same people as Wanda. She had a mouth that always spoke the truth too soon and too loudly.
She looked at both of you. Her gaze lingered on the jacket you were wearing, then on Bucky’s shirt peeking out from underneath, then on the way Bucky was looking at you as if the world could come crashing down at any moment.
“So it’s true,” she said dryly. “The two of you. Again. I thought it had been over for a long time.” ”
You turned around slowly. The jacket slipped a little off your shoulders.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” you asked.
Your voice was already sharper than you would have liked.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed.
“I mean, everyone knows you were together before. Before Barnes decided his life was too dangerous for a normal girlfriend. Before he dumped you without an explanation. Before he disappeared for six months and you had to pick up the pieces on your own.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
You felt the air grow thin in your lungs. The psychological suffocation came on suddenly, as if the fabric hanging around you were tightening around your throat. You looked at Bucky. He had stopped cleaning the gun. His hands were frozen on the table. His face was set in stone, but you could see the storm in his eyes.
“Amelia,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Shut your mouth.”
She didn’t shut up. She even smiled that bitter smile she saved for moments when she wanted to hurt someone.
“Why? Because it’s awkward to talk about the past when you’re reenacting the exact same scene?” She turned to you. “You know what he did last time, don’t you? He loved you. He touched you. He said things to you. And then one day he decided you deserved better and left without giving you a choice. He treated you like an ex before you even had time to realize you’d become one. ”
You felt your hands trembling. You clenched them on the lapels of your jacket. The wool felt rough beneath your fingers.
“You don’t know anything about what happened between us,” you said.“Nothing at all. ”
“I know what everyone knows,” Amelia replied. “That Bucky Barnes can’t hold on to what he loves. That he’d rather break everything than risk hurting someone. And look at you now. You’re still wearing his shirt. You’re letting him protect you. You’re making exactly the same mistakes all over again.”
A void opened up inside you. Vast. Cold. The suffocation was total. You were struggling to breathe. Amelia’s words pierced your old scars like needles.
Bucky stood up abruptly. The table shifted slightly under his weight. He crossed the two meters separating him from you in three strides. He stood behind you, his body pressed against your back, his left arm wrapped possessively and firmly around your waist. His hand rested on your hip and pulled you against him. You felt his warmth. You also felt the tension in every muscle.
He lowered his head and brought his mouth close to your ear. His voice was low, but loud enough for Amelia to hear.
“She’s not an ex,” he said.
Every word was clear, sharp.
“She’s never been an ex. Because I never really let her go. Because even when I thought I was doing the right thing by walking away, she was still there. In my head. In my heart. In everything I did to try to stop thinking about her. ”
You felt your legs give way. You leaned against him without realizing it. His arm tightened around you.
Amelia looked at them. Her smile had faded a little.
“That’s romantic,” she said sarcastically. “Really. But that doesn’t change the fact that the guys with the photos know all this. They know you’re her weak spot. They know they can get to her through you. And they’re going to do it.”
Bucky looked up. His gaze on Amelia was icy.
“Then they’ll have to get past me first. And I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
He looked down at you again. His hand on your hip slowly traced its way up your side, possessively, but his fingers were gentle as they brushed your jaw to turn your head toward him.
“Look at me,” he whispered.“You’re not an ex. You never were. You’re…”
He searched for the word.
“You’re the only thing I’ve never been able to let go of completely. And I’m not going to make the mistake of pushing you away again. Not this time.” ”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Something rawer. More alive.
Amelia watched them for another moment, then shrugged.
“Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when the noose really tightens. Because it’s tightening. And fast.”
She walked out without waiting for a reply.
The door closed.
Silence fell again.
Bucky didn’t let go of you. His arm remained around your waist. His hand slowly caressed your hip through your jacket. You could feel his breath in your hair.
“Is it true?” you asked in a low voice. “Everything she said? That you left without an explanation? That you treated me like an ex before I even understood?”
Bucky turned your head toward him. His blue eyes were dark, but there was a raw vulnerability in them.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “And it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. Because I thought I was protecting you. And all I did was break you.”
You placed your hand on his, resting on your hip.
“Then don’t do it again,” you said.
Your voice was sharp, but your fingers were gentle on his.
“Because this time, if you leave, I won’t let you come back.”
He rested his forehead against yours. The wool jacket crinkled between you.
“I won’t leave anymore,” he promised. “Not as long as you’re wearing my shirt. Not as long as you let me hold you like this.”
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in the tailor’s back room, among the fabrics hanging like silent witnesses, something old and broken was beginning to mend itself.
Immediately after the confrontation with Amelia, Bucky said almost nothing.
He took you by the hand not gently, but not roughly either, just with that possessive urgency that left no room for doubt, and led you through the back of the store to a small, secluded room at the far end. It was a former fitting room that had been converted into a storage area. The walls were covered with fabrics that hung like skins. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The door closed behind you with a metallic click. The outside world vanished.
It was just the two of you.
The vise, the photos, Amelia, the past exploding, the fear of the void, the fear of forgetting… it was all still there, but compressed into this tiny room where the air was hot and heavy with the scent of fabric and Bucky’s leather.
You turned back to him. Your breath was short. The wool jacket was still draped over your shoulders, over his shirt.
“Bucky…”
He didn’t let you finish.
He took a step. Then another. Until your back pressed against the cold wall. His hands rested on either side of your head. He looked at you as if he were finally seeing something he’d spent months refusing to see.
“I treated you like an ex,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And that was a lie. Because you never stopped being mine. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I disappeared. Even when I told you you deserved better. ”
You felt tears welling up. Not the kind you hold back. The kind that come when the masks truly come off.
“You broke me,” you said. “And I let you because I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted.”
He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your mouth.
“It was what I thought I had to do to protect you. And all I did was leave you with that emptiness you hate so much. ”
You rested your hands on his chest. You could feel his heart beating too fast.
“So stop protecting me like that,” you whispered. “Stop making decisions for me. And let me in. Really let me in.”
Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped. The last barriers. The last lies he was still telling himself.
“I don’t know how to go on without you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “And I’m too afraid of hurting you to keep you. But I can’t push you away anymore. Not after seeing you wear my shirt for days. Not after holding you while I was shaking. Not after seeing you face to face with Amelia and wanting to claim you in front of everyone.”
You ran your fingers through his hair. You gently tugged on it so he’d look at you.
“So claim me,” you say. “Here. Now. No more masks. No more ‘I’m protecting you by keeping you at a distance.’ Just you. And me. And everything we’ve broken and are trying to fix. ”
Bucky’s ragged breath brushed against your neck as his fingers closed around your hips with unexpected gentleness. He pulled you against him, closing the remaining distance in one fluid motion that sent a shiver through Y/N. His lips captured yours, no longer with hesitation, but with the raw urgency of someone who’s waited too long. Y/N’s back met the flat surface of the wall, her hands instinctively finding their way into Bucky’s dark hair to anchor his touch. He intensified the pressure, guiding your body against his with your silhouettes perfectly aligned. The textures of your clothes faded away under the friction of your synchronized movements, each gesture becoming a direct response to the broken whispers you exchanged. Bucky planted his feet firmly, lifting Y/N slightly to steady your embrace as your breaths merged completely in the dim light of the room.
An intense heat spread beneath your skin, instantly erasing the fear of the void that had paralyzed you just moments earlier. In Bucky’s mind, the usual chaos of his fragmented memories faded away, giving way to the absolute clarity of your presence. The scent of leather and light rain emanating from him enveloped your senses, creating a bubble of inviolable intimacy where the rest of the world had no hold. Every point of physical contact resonated like an electric shock, filling the cruel void of touch that had haunted him for months. You felt the erratic beating of his heart against your own chest, living proof of his vulnerability shared only with you. A dizzying sense of completeness washed over you, transforming this physical embrace into a silent pact of survival. The rough texture of his hands contrasted with the softness of your own skin, awakening a sensory receptivity pushed to its peak, where every shiver became a confession.
He lifted you higher against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist without you even thinking about it. The wool jacket slipped off your shoulders and fell to the floor. His button-down, the one you were still wearing, was now open; his fingers had undone it with an urgency that contrasted with the tenderness of his kisses on your neck.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered against your skin. “Tell me I’m not dreaming that you’re here, that you’re letting me touch you like this, that you won’t disappear when I close my eyes.”
You cupped his face in your hands and forced him to look at you.
“It’s real,” you said. Your voice was broken but firm. “I’m here. I’m still wearing your shirt. And I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not as long as you’re looking at me like that.”
He growled softly a sound that came from deep within his chest and captured your mouth once more. This time the kiss was deeper, more desperate. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them, lifting them higher. You could feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants, pressed against you. Every movement of your hips sent waves of heat racing up your spine.
You slid a hand between you and undid the buckle of his belt. He helped you, impatient, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he said. The words came out between kisses. “Even when I was pushing you away. Even when I was telling you it was over. Even when I was lying to myself, saying you were better off without me. You were always there. In my head. In my body. In everything I refused to feel. ”
You unzipped his jacket. He did the same with yours. The clothes became obstacles that we pushed aside hastily, without grace, with that urgency that comes when you’ve waited too long.
When he entered you, it was in a single fluid, deep motion, and you both let out a broken sound. He paused for a moment, his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me. ”
You obeyed. You breathed together, in sync, while the outside world the stranglehold, the photos, the past, the fear,finally faded away.
He began to move. Slowly at first. Then deeper, more urgently. Each thrust of his hips was a confession. Each moan you let escape was a response. His hands on your hips were possessive, but his lips on your neck were gentle. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Don’t leave me,” he said at one point. His voice was hoarse. “Even if I get difficult. Even if I tremble. Even if I forget things. Don’t leave me.”
You wrapped your legs around him tighter.
“I’m not leaving you,” you replied. “I’m bringing you back. Always. That’s how it works now.”
The pace quickened. The partition vibrated slightly behind your back. The fabric hanging around you moved in time with your bodies. The bare lightbulb cast shifting shadows on your sweaty skin.
When you came, it was with his name on your lips and his fingers intertwined with yours against the wall. He followed a few seconds later, his body tense as a bow, his face buried in your neck, a low, broken sound escaping from his chest.
You stayed like that for a long time afterward. He was still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breathing slowing down in unison. The sweat was cooling on your skin. The shirt you were still wearing lay open and crumpled between you. His pants were slumped down on his hips. Your legs were still wrapped around him.
Bucky slowly lifted his head. His eyes were dark, shining, and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.
“The masks have come off,” he said softly.
You stroked his cheek with the backs of your fingers.
“Yes,” you replied. “And we’re still here.”
He pulled out of you gently. He set you back on your feet but didn’t step away. He held you close, his arms around your waist, his face buried in your hair.
Outside, the noose continued to tighten.
But in that small, secluded room, amid the fabrics hanging like protective curtains, you had finally let go of everything that separated you.
The exes had become lovers once more.
The masks were gone.
And for the first time in a very long time, the emptiness didn’t feel quite so vast.
A few hours later, the tailor shop was silent.
The bare lightbulb in the small, secluded room had been turned off. You’d come out of the fitting room that had been turned into a storage area, but you hadn’t gone far. Bucky had guided you to an old leather couch at the back of the shop, between rolls of fabric and headless mannequins. You were lying there now, half-dressed, your bodies still bearing the marks of each other.
Your head rested on his chest. His shirt the one you’d been wearing for days was pulled up over your thighs. His pants were pulled up, but his belt remained undone. His metal arm was draped beneath the nape of your neck. His flesh hand traced slow circles on your bare shoulder, right at the edge of the fabric.
The pace had slowed. Artificially. As if the outside world had decided to grant you a few hours of respite before everything exploded.
You could feel his heart beating against your cheek. Steady now. Calmer. You could also smell the scent of both of you on his skin sweat, sex, leather, and that metallic note that never left him.
“You’re still trembling a little,” he murmured against your hair.
You smiled faintly.
“It’s you who makes me tremble. Not fear.”
He let out a small, joyless laugh.
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say that without it sounding like an accusation.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light filtering in from the main window was gray, almost blue. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but it was coming.
“Because this time,” you say softly, “I’m trembling because I can feel you. Not because I’m losing you.”
Bucky was silent for a long moment. His fingers continued to trace circles on your shoulder. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper that echoed in the silence of the store.
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not really. Not for… a long time. Steve, yes. A little. Wanda, when she’s not playing her games. But you…”
He paused. You waited. You could feel that the words were heavy for him.
“You, I trust you like no one else,” he finally continued. “Not just because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave. Not just because you held me when I was shaking. I trust you because you see everything. The worst of it. The chaos in my head. The way I can break everything without meaning to. And you stay anyway. You don’t look at me like a monster that needs fixing. You look at me like someone who can still choose.”
You placed your hand on his chest, right above his heart.
“Because you can,” you said. “And because I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be there when you’re ready.”
He turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to your temple.
“You’re the only one I trust completely,” he whispered. “The only one I can tell this to without fearing it will be used against me. The only one I can give everything I usually hide. Even my weaknesses. Even my fear of forgetting. Even the fact that I loved you before and lost you because of my own fault. ”
You felt your throat tighten. You snuggled closer to him. The renewed connection was there, palpable, in every whispered word, in every silence that was no longer empty.
The door to the back room opened softly.
Lucas Garcia slipped in silently. He was still wearing his dark coat, his eyes tired, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He stopped a few meters from the couch, keeping his distance, but his gaze was serious.
“The messenger has arrived,” he said simply. His voice was low, almost a whisper as well. “He has news. Not good news. But precise.”
Behind him, a smaller figure appeared. A witness. A man in his fifties, his hands in his pockets, his face marked by years of silence and observation. He didn’t say anything right away. He merely nodded toward Bucky, a silent sign of respect.
Lucas continued:
“They’ve moved up the meeting. Not at dawn. In three hours. They want you to come alone, Bucky. With the photos and the files. They say that if you don’t come, everything will be released before noon. Not just about you. About her, too.”
He glanced briefly at you, then turned his attention back to Bucky.
The silent witness spoke for the first time. His voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t use it often.
“I’ve seen the files,” he said. “They have everything. Your past. The missions. The names. And they have proof that you tried to protect Y/N by distancing yourself from her months ago. They’re going to use that to break you. To make you choose between your freedom and her.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. You could feel Bucky tense slightly beneath you. You placed your hand on his chest, a calm, grounded gesture.
Bucky looked at Lucas, then at the witness, then lowered his gaze back to you.
“I’m not going alone,” he said. His voice was clear. “And I’m not choosing between my freedom and her. Because she is my freedom now. The only one I want.”
Lucas nodded, as if he’d expected it.
“So let’s come up with a plan. Wanda will be here in an hour. Loki said he could jam their communications if they try to broadcast anything. But you both need to be ready. Both of you. ”
The witness said nothing more. He nodded again, then stepped back into the shadows, as if he’d already said everything he needed to say.
Lucas watched them for a moment longer,you in Bucky’s shirt, him with his arm around your waist,then he walked out without another word.
The door closed.
You were left alone.
The pace was still slow. Artificially calm. As if these few hours were a poisoned gift before the storm really broke.
Bucky pulled you closer to him. His hand slid through your hair.
“Did you hear me?” he whispered. “I trust only you. Completely. Totally. Even if everything blows up in three hours. Even if I have to risk everything. I choose you. Not safety. Not running away. You. ”
You lifted your head and pressed a slow kiss to his jaw.
“Then let’s go together,” you said. “And let’s get this over with. Not by hiding. Not by pushing each other away. Together.”
He closed his eyes. You could feel his breath against your skin.
Time had slipped away.
A few hours later, dawn had broken, gray and cold, and everything had shifted to a place that no longer really belonged to any single universe. The Tailor Shop was behind you. So was the glass studio. What remained was an old warehouse by the water a place that still smelled of metal and rain, as if Mob!Bucky had never really gone away. The three realities had overlapped in that final confrontation.
Wanda was there, wearing a dark red coat, her arms crossed, her face serious but calm. Steve stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving Bucky. Loki was leaning against a pillar, a smirk on his face that promised nothing good and yet everything at once. Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette near the door, his gaze watchful. Elijah Anderson was further away, looking anxious, his hands trembling slightly. Amelia Wilson was there too, sarcastic to the end, but silent for once. Sophia Miller had left,she’d done all she could.
And right in the middle, there were the two of you.
Bucky and you.
You were still wearing his shirt. It was wrinkled, stained, and open at your collarbone. He’d slipped a jacket over his tank top. His metal arm was visible. He wasn’t hiding it anymore.
The men with the photos and files were standing across from you. Three figures. Faces no one really recognized. They’d brought a laptop. The screen displayed the photos. The files. Everything.
The tallest of the three spoke first.
“You came alone, Barnes. As agreed.”
Bucky didn’t move. His hand was on your hip. Not possessive this time. Just there.
“She stays,” he said. His voice was clear. “And whatever you have on her, destroy it. Now.”
The man sneered.
“You’re in no position to negotiate.”
Wanda took a step forward.
“Yes, I am,” she said simply. “Because what you have isn’t just in your hands anymore. Loki has already started scrambling the channels. And what you think you have as evidence… isn’t as clean as you think it is.”
Loki smiled even wider.
“Files have a funny way of changing when you tinker with them using the right tools. And I have some very good tools.”
The tension rose. The three men exchanged glances. One of them placed his hand on a gun at his belt.
Bucky didn’t flinch.
You’re the one who spoke.
“You want to break him,” you said. Your voice was calm but sharp. “You want him to choose between his freedom and me. But you don’t understand. There’s no choice left to make. Because I’m already everything he’s chosen. And he’s everything I’ve chosen. Even with the photos. Even with the files. Even with everything you can release.”
The tallest of the three narrowed his eyes.
“You sound like someone who has nothing to lose. ”
“I have everything to lose,” you replied. “And that’s why I’m here. Not to negotiate. To finish this.”
Bucky held you a little tighter against him. He didn’t say anything. But you could sense what he wasn’t saying: his complete trust in you. His decision to stop pushing you away. His choice to keep you, even if it made him vulnerable.
The silence lingered.
Then the smallest of the three, the one who had barely spoken, pulled a USB drive out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground.
“Take it,” he said. “That’s all. The originals. The copies. Everything we had. We have nothing left.” ”
Wanda walked over, picked up the drive, and slipped it into her pocket.
“What about the photos that are already circulating?” Steve asked.
The man shrugged.
“You can’t control everything. But whatever concrete evidence we had… it’s gone. For now.”
They retreated. It wasn’t a complete defeat. Just a strategic retreat. They knew the game had changed. That Bucky wasn’t alone anymore. That the girl he’d tried to protect had become his strength.
Once they were gone, silence fell over the warehouse.Wanda approached the two of you. She placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“You made the right choice,” she said softly. “By not coming alone. By not hiding her.”
Steve nodded.
“We’ll clean up the rest. The photos lying around. The rumors. It’ll take time. But we’ll do it. ”
Loki approached as well, a smirk on his face.
“That was almost entertaining, Barnes. Almost. Don’t do that too often. I hate being bored.”
He vanished into the shadows without waiting for a reply.
Lucas Garcia stubbed out his cigarette.
“I’m staying outside. Just in case.”
Elijah Anderson and Amelia Wilson walked away together, whispering to each other. Sophia had already left. The silent witness was gone.
All that remained were Wanda, Steve, and the two of you.Wanda looked at the shirt you were wearing.
“It looks good on you,” she said with a small smile. “Keep it.”
Then she and Steve left too, leaving you alone in the empty warehouse.
The wind blew in through the broken windows. The rain had started again, light and almost silent.Bucky turned toward you. He cupped your face in his hands the flesh hand and the metal hand, both gentle.
“Is it over?” you asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not completely. There will always be photos lying around. People who know. Threats. But…”
He paused. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.
“But we’re not hiding anymore. We’re not pushing each other away anymore. We’re not pretending you’re an ex anymore. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no one can take that away from us.”
You placed your hands on his wrists.
“Even if you forget things?”
“Even if I forget. Because you’ll be there to remind me. Because I trust you with that. Completely.”
You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Just from an emotion too big to keep inside.
“I love you,” you said. The words came out simple, raw, unvarnished.
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were shining.
“I love you too,” he said. “For a long time. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I told you you deserved better. I already loved you. And I still love you. And I’ll love you tomorrow, even if I don’t remember your name. Because my body will remember. Because my skin will remember. Because that shirt on you… it will always remind me.”
You snuggled up against him. He held you close, his metal arm and his flesh-and-blood arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair.
The rain was falling harder now.
And in that bittersweet mix the victory that wasn’t complete, the threat that hadn’t been completely dispelled, but the love that was finally unmasked you stood there.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +7.9k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
August settled over New York with that oppressive, humid heaviness that made every movement feel slower, the air thick and clinging to the skin.
The streets lay as if asleep, weighed down by the heat, and by five o’clock in the afternoon, the Bushwick workshop felt like a balmy greenhouse where the fabrics soaked up the humidity and the scent of warm wood lingered everywhere. Y/N had got into the habit of rising early: half past six, seven at the latest, she would climb the three flights of stairs in the cool morning silence, hot coffee in hand, folded fabrics tucked under her arm. Those early hours were hers alone, the slanting light streaming through the large windows, skimming the shelves, lending the fabrics an almost living softness.
Nadia managed external communications from her small office next door. She only came in three days a week, but her touch was evident in every detail: clear briefings in the morning, short and precise messages, decisions made before anyone even had to ask. That morning, an email had arrived from Tokyo. Hana, who had been running Shizen for six years, had read Clara and Jana’s articles. She wanted to know if Thomas existed in materials that aligned with her own vision of sustainability. Nadia had replied with photos and a detailed description of the fabrics: raw linen from Williamsburg, bamboo silk from Lyon, natural horn buttons from Lisbon, and above all those perfect internal seams, invisible from the outside but so important.
Y/N read Hana’s reply around seven o’clock, sitting alone in the still-quiet workshop, her coffee set down beside her. Hana wanted three pieces to show to her clients. Y/N took a moment to let the weight of the request sink in, then replied herself, directly, with words that came from the heart. She spoke of what Thomas was really looking for: clothes made for those who looked beyond the surface.She sent the message and picked up her needle again, letting her hands find their familiar rhythm on the fabric. Around eight o’clock, the door opened with that soft sound she now recognised instantly. Bucky came in, two coffees in hand. He’d simply sent a message from the car:
I’m popping round if you’re up for it.
She’d replied yes without hesitation. He set the coffees on the table, came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders, letting them linger there for a long time, warm and firm, gently massaging away the tension he could already feel beneath his palms. Y/N closed her eyes for a second, letting that familiar warmth run down her back. He leaned in, planted a slow kiss on the nape of her neck, then a gentler one just below her ear, his warm breath against her skin.
“There’s something about you this morning,” she murmured, turning slightly towards him, her hand resting on his.
He nodded, staying close, his body brushing against hers. He finally sat down on the wide sill of the middle window. She joined him at once, settling right up against him, her thigh pressed against his. He slipped an arm around her waist, drew her even closer, and planted a lingering kiss on her temple, then on her forehead, as he always did when words were slow to come. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her top, slowly caressing the small of her back with a tender, possessive gesture.
“The bad days are coming back a little,” he said at last, his voice low and calm.
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder, slipped a hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She remained silent for a moment, letting the touch speak for her. He tightened his arm around her, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on her hip.
“Since when?” she asked softly.
“This week. Not like before… but they’re there. I’m not sleeping as well.”
She lifted her face towards him. He was already looking at her, with that gaze that always lingered a second too long, filled with the gentle intensity he reserved solely for her. He caressed her cheek, brushed her jaw, then kissed her slowly, a quiet, deep kiss in which their breaths mingled for a long time. When she pulled away, she remained close, forehead to forehead, her hand still resting on his bare skin beneath his shirt.
“You could have waited to tell me,” she whispered against his lips.
“No. I protect you better by telling you the truth than by hiding it.”
She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, more gently, just a tender touch that stirred a warm glow deep within her chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close. They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the windowsill, with the August heat streaming in through the open windows and Brooklyn going about its quiet business outside.They drank their coffee pressed close together, his fingers idly playing with hers. Later, when she picked up her needle again, he stayed in the workshop, present without disturbing her. From time to time, he would get up, bring her some cold water, tidy away a scrap of fabric lying about, or place a warm hand on her back as he passed. When he sensed she was starting to feel cold despite the warmth, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word, then kissed her on the temple, murmuring that she was working too hard.
They spoke little, but the silence was full: the way he always stood a little close to her, his lingering gaze, that gentle possessiveness that made her feel deeply cherished. When she turned towards him later that morning, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, simply holding her, for a long time, whilst the light changed in the studio.
“Next week, we could go to Staten Island,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“To see my parents?”
She nodded, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel his warmth.
“George will probably be showing Mila something in the garage. She’s got questions.”
He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth – a longer, deeper kiss – before holding her a little tighter.
“He’ll have the answers. And I’ll need you there.”
She felt her heart tighten with tenderness. They stayed like that for a moment, entwined in the rising August heat, before he had to leave. He let her get on with her work, but not without one last kiss on the nape of her neck and a message ten minutes later:
“Have something to eat at lunchtime, I know you’ll forget. I love you.”
Y/N smiled, her heart warm, and carried on sewing with that lingering sensation of his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, that attentive presence that made everything feel softer.
The August heat continued to weigh heavily on the city over the following days, making the air even more stifling and the evenings seem to drag on. On Wednesday evening, Y/N sent a quick message to Rebecca from the underground: she’d pop round if she was there. The reply came almost immediately, simple and direct. When she pushed open the door to Rebecca’s flat, the familiar scent of plants and fresh coffee greeted her. Rebecca was waiting for her, two cups already set out on the small kitchen table. She gave her a brief hug, that frank, no-nonsense gesture that had become their way. They sat facing each other. Rebecca took a sip, looked at her for a moment in silence, then spoke without beating about the bush.
“Bucky told you about his bad days.”
Y/N nodded, her fingers clenched around her still-warm cup.
“Yeah. Tuesday morning, at the workshop. He turned up with coffees and told me almost straight away. ”
Rebecca gently set down her cup, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“He told you himself. That’s a huge step.”
Y/N felt a lump forming in her chest. She thought back to Bucky sitting on the windowsill, his hands lingering on her, that slow kiss on her neck just before he spoke.
“He said it wasn’t like it used to be. Less dark. But that it was still there.”
Rebecca looked at her for a long time, with that quiet frankness that was so characteristic of her.
“Before, he dealt with it all on his own until it became too much. He barely slept, forgot to eat, cancelled everything. He’d disappear to places where no one could follow him.”
Y/N listened without interrupting, picturing the Bucky of the past, the one she’d never known. Rebecca continued, her voice soft but firm:
“What brought him back to earth were the practical things. My father showing him an engine in the garage. My mother bringing him coffee without asking. Me sending him clinical cases because he liked problems that had solutions.”
Y/N thought of her own father in the workshop, of those internal seams he was checking one last time, of the way Bucky now came and sat beside her without speaking, just being there. Rebecca placed a light hand on hers for a moment.
“What you’re doing is good. Staying in the studio in the mornings. The sketchbooks. Staten Island next week. Concrete, practical things—that’s what works for him.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“What if the bad days last longer?”
Rebecca shook her head gently.
“Then you call me. He’ll see his therapist more often. We’ll manage it together. But that’s not the scenario here. It’s just something that comes back sometimes. The important thing is not to let it take hold.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the distant noise of the street. Rebecca continued, more quietly:
“He’ll tell you. He knows now. Do you trust him?”
Y/N replied without hesitation:
“Yes.”
“Then trust this too.”
They finished their coffees in the little kitchen full of plants. Y/N set off again on the Underground, those words still echoing softly in her mind. In the vibrating carriage, she took out her phone.
I went to see Rebecca.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a message to say you were there. How did it go?
Fine. She’s straightforward.
Always.
She told me some important things.
What were they?
Y/N hesitated for a second, then typed slowly.
That practical things work out for you. And that putting my name on the map is important. More than I thought.
The silence was longer this time. Then the phone vibrated.
Becca never exaggerates.
No, sweetheart. She never exaggerates❤️.
Y/N put her phone away and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the movement of the tube lull her. She thought of the child on the platform in Bucky’s notebook, of his name written on a worn page, of all those perfect inner seams made even when no one was looking.
The following Saturday, they set off for Staten Island. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of her jeans. Every now and then he would squeeze gently, as if to remind himself that she was there. She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.
“Better than the nights before. Thanks to you.”
He brought his hand to her lips and pressed a lingering kiss there without taking his eyes off the road. Y/N felt that familiar warmth rising in her chest. She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then on his neck, just below his ear, where she knew he liked it.
“Have you eaten this morning?” she murmured against his skin.
“Yes. I even took the time. Because I knew you were going to ask me.”
He smiled and slid his hand higher up her thigh, possessive yet tender. They stayed like that for a moment, silent, only the sound of the road and their mingled breaths. They arrived at ten o’clock. The blue door opened before they’d even rung the bell. Winnifred gave them all a long, warm hug. Mila headed straight for the garage with her notebook, barely saying a word.
“She’s getting straight to the point today,” remarked Bucky with a chuckle.
“As always,” replied Y/N.
Bucky stopped in the hallway and looked around the house.
Alpine came out of the kitchen and rubbed against his legs. He crouched down immediately, ran a hand over the cat’s back and stroked him long and slowly. Y/N watched him, touched. He looked up at her and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her close, standing in the hallway, his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. And you?”
“Better now that you’re pressed up against me.”
He kissed her forehead, then another, slower kiss on her lips. Winnifred smiled from the kitchen without saying a word. Y/N went and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. The August heat caressed her arms. She took out her phone.
I'm in my parents' garden. Bucky's with his mum.
Lea replied quickly.
I know.
Bucky sent me a message from the car this morning. Is Mila in the garage yet?
Yes. She's already on the second question.
She'll have finished the twelfth before noon.
Y/N put her phone down and listened to the sounds coming from the garage: Mila’s clear voice, and George’s lower, calmer one. Bucky joined her a few minutes later. He sat right next to her on the bench, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his chest. His hand slipped under her shirt, gently stroking her back.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Come here.”
He opened his jacket and wrapped her up in it with him, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on her head, his fingers tracing slow circles on her skin.
“My father is going to answer his twelfth question,” he murmured.
“I know. And you, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine. Less heavy. Because you’re here.”
He turned her face towards him and kissed her gently, a slow, deep kiss that lasted a long time. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Me too, my love.”
At midday, they ate at the large table. Winnifred had cooked too much, as always. Mila had her notebook closed beside her plate. George was at the end of the table, Bucky next to Y/N, his hand resting on her thigh beneath the table, stroking her gently. George looked at Mila.
“You asked eleven questions this morning.”
“I have a twelfth one,” replied Mila.
“I know. You’ve looked at the notebook twice but you haven’t asked it.”
Mila nodded.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment. When people had eaten. The difficult questions are best asked afterwards.”
Winnifred smiled gently. Bucky squeezed Y/N’s thigh under the table. Mila took a breath.
“Question twelve. Do you have bad days?”
Silence fell over the table, not heavy, just respectful. George put down his cup.
“Yes.”
“How do you cope?” asked Mila.
“I go into the garage. I work with my hands. Practical things help.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook. George continued:
“Why are you asking that question?”
“Because Bucky has bad days sometimes and I wanted to know how his family cope with it, so I can understand what I can do.”
Another silence. George looked at Bucky, then at Mila.
“What you’re doing here is already something.”
“What?”
“Asking the right question at the right time. Trying to understand rather than fix things. That’s better than fixing them.”
Mila took another note.
“Why?”
“Because some things don’t need fixing. They need to be understood and left as they are.”
Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered softly in her ear:
“He told me that in the garage five years ago.”
Y/N turned her head slightly and kissed him on the jaw.
“And now he’s telling Mila.”
Bucky squeezed her hand under the table.
“Yes.”
Y/N slipped her fingers between his and squeezed them tightly. They stayed like that throughout the meal, hands clasped, knees pressed against one another. That afternoon, George showed them the engine running. Mila was focused, her notebook open. Bucky and Y/N stayed a little way back in the driveway. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My father thinks of Mila between visits,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“He thinks of very few people like that.”
Y/N turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, tenderly, her hands on his chest.
“That’s good.”
“It’s really good.”
He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, and they stayed like that for a long time, entwined
Léa returned from her work placement one Friday evening in late August. The flat smelled of fresh coffee and the simple dishes Y/N had laid out on the table. Mila was in her room, the door open, a notebook in her hand, present without being intrusive. When the front door opened at half past seven, Léa came in with her suitcase and her bag. She made the same gesture to put her things down, but something had changed in the way she occupied the space: she was more composed, more confident without being ostentatious. Mila came out of her room straight away.
“You’ve changed,” she said, watching her.
Léa set down her suitcase.
“How so?”
“The way you walk into rooms. You walk in like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.”
Léa smiled slightly.
“It’s Amira.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook.
“What has she taught you?”
“To walk into rooms knowing why I’m there.”
Y/N watched them both in the hallway. She discreetly took out her phone.
Léa’s back.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know.
She sent me a message from the taxi. She says the work placement went well in the truest sense of the word.
In the truest sense of the word.
That’s what she said. How is she?
Mila says she walks into rooms like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.
It’s Amira.
At dinner, Léa spoke about the internship in small, precise details. She recounted the complex cases from the third week, the intellectual property lawyer who had praised her questions. Mila listened attentively.
“Did Nathan say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“That’s what Amira said too.”
Mila nodded.
“And what did you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Just ‘thank you’.”
“Yes.”
Mila smiled.
“That’s the right answer.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Amira told me something on the last day. She said that NYU will give me the tools, but what I’ve learnt this summer is how to hold them.”
”Y/N looked up.”
“How do you hold the tools?”
“The difference between knowing a tool exists and knowing which hand to put it in depending on the situation.”
Mila chimed in straight away.
“It’s like pencils. I learnt the different thicknesses first. Then I learnt which one to use depending on what I’m drawing.”
Léa looked at her little sister.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Y/N slipped her foot under the table and gently stroked Bucky’s ankle; he’d come straight from work. He responded by placing his hand on her thigh, squeezing it tenderly. Their eyes met for a moment, filled with that silent warmth. The next morning, Y/N arrived at the workshop at seven o’clock. Nadia was already there, having been on the job since July, with two coffees on the large table.
“Margot has confirmed September. She’s arriving on the fifteenth.”
“Right.”
“She wants to see the workshop and the pieces in production, not the finished ones.”
Y/N nodded.
“She wants to see how we work.”
Nadia smiled slightly.
“Yes. She says the way things are done says more than the result.”
Y/N thought of her father turning each garment over one last time. She picked up her needle. Later that morning, Nadia placed a sheet of paper on the table: a new article, by Diane Chen.
Y/N read it slowly, feeling something stir within her. When Bucky dropped by at the end of the day, he found her still hunched over the table. He approached silently, draped his jacket over her shoulders because she’d shivered slightly, then slipped his arms around her waist from behind. He kissed her neck, lingeringly, before whispering:
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“A bit.”
He turned her gently, pulled her close and kissed her properly, a slow, deep kiss, his hands caressing her back beneath the fabric. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I’ve brought you something to eat. I know you’ve forgotten.”
Y/N smiled against his mouth.
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job.”
He kissed her again, more gently, then stayed close by whilst she tidied up, his hand still on her back, possessive and tender at the same time.
Margot Lemaire arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, 15 September. She had asked to see Brooklyn first, not just the studio, as if she wanted to get a feel for the surroundings before forming an opinion of the place itself. Nadia had organised everything: a simple stroll through the neighbourhood, without a guide, just walking. Y/N was waiting for her outside the building at ten o’clock. Margot was younger than she had imagined, in her forties, with short, confidently grey hair, and that calm presence of someone who took exactly what she needed. They climbed the three flights of stairs. Margot entered the studio and did what everyone else did: she looked closely, slowly, in silence. She ran her hand along the shelves, organised by fabric weight, from heaviest to lightest.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
She took the raw Williamsburg linen between her fingers, crumpled it gently, then let it spring back into shape.
“Did you find this one on your own?”
“Yes. For the trousers and part of the coat.”
“The colour can’t be replicated with dye.”
Margot laid the fabric back down carefully, almost reverently. She walked over to the large solid-wood table and ran her fingers over the old marks in the wood.
“A dressmaker used to work here. Marcus. He made stage costumes for Off-Broadway theatres. Mila looked up his name.”
Margot nodded, a small smile on her lips.
“ ‘Spaces have memories.”
She walked over to the wall displaying the sketches for the second collection, pausing at length over the jacket with the slit at the wrist.
“The second collection.”
“Yes. Not finished yet. Just directions. What we choose to show when we’re ready.”
Margot jotted something down in her notebook. Then she asked to see a piece that was currently in progress. Y/N took out the merino wool coat for Chicago and turned it inside out on the table. Margot took it in her hands, turned each sleeve inside out, and examined the inner seams in silence for several long seconds.
“Your father was a tailor.”
“Yes. He used to turn every garment inside out before handing it back. To check one last time.”
Margot looked up.
“My grandfather made shoes in Lyon. He used to check the inner seams of the lining. He said the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.”
Y/N felt a gentle emotion welling up in her throat.
“That’s exactly it.”
Margot laid the coat down carefully.
“Fond has been around for eight years because I’m looking for designers who’ve learnt that. Not at school. Through a way of working passed down through the generations. Thomas is what I’ve been looking for for three years.”
She took out her notebook.
“Three pieces to start with. The signature dress, the coat, and a jacket. If it goes well, we’ll talk about the second collection. Take as long as you need. I’d rather wait for something that’s just right.”
Nadia, sitting in the corner, discreetly took notes. Margot looked at her for a moment.
“Your assistant. ,Nadia. She keeps my schedule clear so I can sew.”
After the visit, they went for lunch at the little café on the corner. Sitting by the window, with the bustling Bushwick street behind the glass, the conversation flowed naturally. Margot spoke of ‘what we keep’, her shop’s slogan since day one. Y/N told her about George , who had checked the inner seams twice on the evening of the presentation.
“It’s the biggest compliment he gives: ‘It’s well made.’ Two words.” Margot smiled. “My grandfather used to say exactly the same thing.”
Y/N felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She read Bucky’s message under the table.
Are you holding up okay?
I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
She replied straight away.
It’s going well. She really gets it!
He replied within seconds.
I know. I’m proud of you.
See you tonight, I’ll bring you some food. I know you’ll forget.
When Margot left, Y/N went back up to the workshop alone. She sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the worn wood, and breathed slowly. She thought of Marcus, of her father, of Margot’s grandfather, of Hana’s father. All those hands that had done things right. She picked up her phone.
Margot said yes. Three pieces for Fond Paris.
Bucky replied straight away.
I know. Nadia sent me a message when she left the workshop.
How are you feeling?
His grandfather used to make shoes in Lyon and would check the inner seams of the lining. He used to say that the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s Thomas.
Yes, sweetheart. It’s Thomas.
Your father would have liked Margot.
Yes. I think they would have understood each other without many words. People who’ve learnt the same things always understand each other.
Y/N put down her phone, turned off the light and walked down the three flights of stairs in the dark Bushwick stairwell. She could still feel the warmth of Bucky’s hands on her, even though he wasn’t there.
Lea started classes at NYU on a Monday in September. The night before, she had packed her bag using the precise method she’d worked out for herself: nothing extra, everything in its place. She slipped Muybridge’s book in last, like an anchor. Mila watched her from the doorway, a notebook in her hand, without saying a word.
“Do you have something to say?”
Lea asked without turning around.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m watching.”
Lea closed her bag and turned around. Mila was there, calm.
“I’ll be back tonight,” said Lea. “Every night.”
“I know.”
A silence settled in. Mila paused.
“That’s not why I’m watching. “
“Then why?”
“I wanted to see how you put the important things away last.”
Lea looked at her bag, the book visible on top. She smiled softly.
“You saw.”
“Yes. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You said thanks right away.”
Lea laughed softly.
“I’m learning. ”
On Monday evening, Lea got home at 6:30 p.m.
Y/N was in the kitchen, and Mila was sitting at the table with her pencils. Bucky was already there, settled on the couch with the second notebook. He came over often on Monday evenings now, like a gentle routine that had fallen into place naturally. Léa set down her bag and sat down. Mila looked up.
“How did it go?”
“Good. The first day is mostly introductions. The real classes start on Thursday.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Mila asked.
“A few people. There’s Priya, who did an internship with a federal judge this summer. And Sam, from Portland, who worked for two years before coming here.”
Mila jotted something down.
“They have experience.”
“Yeah. But not the same kind as Amira. She taught me how to handle the tools. NYU will teach me how to choose the right ones.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“That’s a good sequence.”
Bucky, from the couch, spoke without looking up from the notebook, his voice calm:
“Priya and Sam. Do you have their numbers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lea looked at him for a moment. Bucky kept turning the pages, but you could tell he was really listening.
“Thanks,” said Lea.
“For what?”
“For saying ‘good.’”
“It makes sense.”
“No. It’s thoughtful.”
Mila chimed in from her notebook:
“She used the words.”
Lea sighed with a smile.
“I hear you, Mila.”
“I was just noting it down.”
Y/N slid her foot under the table and stroked Bucky’s leg. He immediately placed his hand on her thigh, squeezed it tenderly, then moved a little higher, possessive and gentle. Their eyes met. He gave her a small smile that said it all. The following week, on a Tuesday evening, Bucky came to the studio unannounced. When Y/N pushed open the door, he was already there, sitting on the ledge of the middle window.
She sensed right away that something was wrong.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, setting down her bag.
“An hour. Nadia gave me the key. She told me you’d need someone tonight.”
Y/N moved closer. She sat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his. He immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, her face buried in his hair.
“How are you?” she whispered.
“Not good tonight.”
She slid her hands under his shirt, stroking his back slowly, feeling the tense muscles.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday. But tonight it’s worse. Images. Not nightmares… images during the day. Things I’ve experienced that come back without warning.”
Y/N lifted her head and kissed him gently, lingeringly, until he relaxed a little against her. He returned her kiss, deep and almost urgent, his hands clasping her waist.
“Have you talked to your therapist about it?” she asked against his lips.
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s in two days.”
He nodded. She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, then rested her forehead against his.
She picked up her needle again. Bucky stayed on the windowsill, right next to her. Every now and then he would get up, come up behind her, place his hands on her shoulders, massage her gently, and kiss the back of her neck. At one point he whispered,
“There’s one that’s been coming back for days. A hallway. The light… the way the floor echoed underfoot.”
Y/N set down her needle, turned around in her chair, and pulled him between her legs. She held him tight against her, his face against her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not tonight. Thursday with her. But I wanted to tell you it was there.”
She stroked his back under his shirt.
“I know. “Thanks for telling me.”
He knelt in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, intensely, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, his hands on her thighs.
“It’s easier to say it now.”
“Than before?”
“Yes. Before, I kept it all inside. Now it’s still hard… but I can talk about it.”
Y/N kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, gently.
“You know I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“Not to fix things.”
“I know.”
“To understand.”
He rested his head on her lap for a moment. She ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long time, in the silence of the studio, with only the distant sound of the street and their breathing. On Thursday, after her session, Bucky sent her a message.
It went well. She said that being able to talk about it before the session is progress.
Y/N replied right away, sitting at the big table.
Talk to me?
Yes.
Before, I’d come with everything bottled up inside. Now I arrive with things already named.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The hallway… she thinks we can work on that.
I wanted to tell you. I know.
Thank you. It makes sense.
It’s thoughtful.
Both can be true.
She smiled, her heart warm, and already imagined his hands on her tonight, his body against hers, the way he held her as if she were his anchor.
October had arrived, bringing with it that typical New York autumn light that makes everything seem sharper. The buildings looked more defined, the trees in the parks were ablaze with colour, and the light had shifted, becoming softer and more oblique. One Wednesday morning, Y/N finished the sixth order. The merino wool coat for the client in Chicago was ready. She laid it on the large table, turned it over one last time, and checked every inner seam with her fingertips, slowly, just as her father used to do. Everything was perfect. She took a photo of the seams and sent it to Nadia.
The sixth one is ready.
Nadia replied almost immediately.
I’ll get in touch with the client today about the delivery.
Y/N walks over to the middle window and glances down into the courtyard. Someone is hanging out the washing. The bike is still there. Everyday life in Bushwick carries on, undisturbed. Her phone vibrates.
The sixth coat is finished.
Bucky replies almost instantly.
I know. Nadia sent me a photo of the seams. How are you?
Fine. Really fine.
You’ve got that look on your face.
How can you tell I’ve got a certain look on my face from a text?
I know the way you say ‘really well’. When it’s just okay, you say ‘fine’. When it’s better than that, you say ‘really well’.
Y/N smiles, touched that he knows her so well, so deeply. She types:
This morning, it’s more than fine.
Why?
Because six coats are finished with impeccable stitching, Fond Paris, Shizen Tokyo, Rose & Root Portland, Margot arriving soon, Léa at NYU, Mila turning eleven… and you, my love, who’s feeling better.
Yes. It’s more than fine.
The following Friday, the newspapers were talking about Thomas in a different light. Sophie Park had published an article in a mainstream magazine: ‘Alpine and Thomas: when love runs the business’. Y/N read it on the tube at eight o’clock in the morning. The words stung her for a moment, like a sudden chill. She put her mobile away and looked at the people around her.
At the office, at midday, Camila popped in.
“Sophie Park?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“Yes. Straight away. Not to her, but to what she wrote.”
Camila sat down.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Y/N thought aloud.
“That I found the Williamsburg linen all by myself. That I learnt the inside seams from my father, long before I met Bucky. That Thomas’s philosophy was in my notebooks months before Alpine. And that Amira drew up a contract that protects Thomas, not the other way round.”
Camila nodded.
“And what about the relationship?”
“The relationship doesn’t explain the stitches. Both exist at the same time. Neither replaces the other.”
“That’s right.”
That evening, when Bucky arrived at the studio, he found her still bent over the table. He set a bag of food down on the corner, approached from behind and wrapped his arms around her.He kissed her neck, lingering there, then her shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to eat,” he murmured against her skin.
“A little.”
He turned her round, held her close, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. He kissed her gently, then more deeply, until she relaxed completely in his arms.
“I’ve got you what you like. And then we’ll go home, and I’ll run you a bath.”
Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You think of everything.”
“I think of you. All the time.”
He kissed her again, tenderly and intensely at the same time, his hands sliding over her hips
Mila found out Y/N’s answer that Friday evening. Nadia had gone to the trouble of printing out the page so that Mila could touch it, feel it between her fingers. Mila stood rooted to the spot in the hallway, the sheet held out in front of her, her eyes fixed on it.
“The last sentence,” she said in a calm voice.
“Yes,” replied Y/N from the kitchen.
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Park was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You replied straight away.”
Mila carefully folded the sheet of paper, first in half, then into quarters, and went to put it away in her special drawer, the one where she keeps the things that really matter. Y/N heard her open and close the drawer very gently. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
“She’s put it in the drawer,” remarked Léa.
”Yes”.
”That’s good”.
Léa took a sip.
“Amira sent me the article on Monday morning with just one note: ‘This is why we’ve been documenting everything from the start.’”
Y/N smiled.
“She’d planned it all.”
Léa nodded.
“That’s why we’re thanking her for the Muybridge notebooks.”
That weekend, Bucky arrived at the studio with a small, plain cardboard box. He set it down on the large table without saying a word, then approached Y/N from behind, wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Open it,” he whispered in her ear before kissing her neck.
Inside were spools of thread, a shade between white and beige, slightly warm, almost iridescent in the light.
“It’s a blend of silk and linen,” he explained softly. “A supplier in Kyoto. Hana recommended it to me. She says this thread ages well, that the stitching becomes more interesting over time. Like a patina.”
Y/N picked up a spool and twirled it between her fingers. Bucky stayed pressed against her back, his hands on her waist, stroking her gently.
“For the inner seams of the second collection,” she said.
“That’s what Hana thought. If the second collection shows what we choose to reveal, then these seams that improve with wear… that’s the foundation.”
He kissed her on the temple, then slipped a hand under her top to stroke her stomach very gently.
“Hana also told me that the three pieces would have their own presentation in Tokyo in November. A small gathering. Twenty people who’ll really be looking.”
Y/N turned in his arms and looked at him.
“I’ll be there.”
“I know. I’ve already told her you’d be coming. It was obvious.”
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her hands on his chest. He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.
“Mila’s going to want to come,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know. She’s already sent me three questions for Hana this morning.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Nadia invited her straight away. She says that Thomas without Mila wouldn’t be complete.”
Y/N smiled, her heart full.
“Nadia really does understand.”
The following Tuesday, Bucky had a bad day. He wasn’t at the workshop as planned. Around seven o’clock, he messaged:
I’m staying in tonight. Not a good day.
Y/N put down her needle.
I’m coming over.
You don’t need to.
I know. I’m coming anyway.
On the tube to Dumbo, she sent a message to Mila.
I’m at Bucky’s tonight. Lea’s at home.
Mila replied quickly.
I know. Tell him Robert’s doing well.
When she arrived, he opened the door with that heavier look on his face. She went in without a word, took off her coat and went straight into the kitchen to make tea. She knew every cupboard by heart now. She brought two cups and sat right next to him on the sofa.
“The corridor came back this morning,” he murmured.
She set her cup down, slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight.
“Did you ring your therapist?”
“Yes. On Thursday. She says it’s normal during times of change.”
Y/N stroked his back beneath his shirt, slowly, for a long time. He lifted his head, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with that gentle, almost desperate intensity, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead to forehead.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
They stayed entwined on the sofa, his hands on her, possessive and tender, until the evening wore on and the weight seemed a little lighter.
On the Thursday after session, he messaged:
It went well. She says that being able to talk about it beforehand is already progress.
Y/N replied from the studio.
Talking to me?
Yes.
Before, I kept everything to myself. Now I come in with things I can put into words.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The corridor… we can work on that.
November had arrived, a bitterly cold month, and this time, our destination was Tokyo. We set off on a Wednesday: Y/N, Bucky, Mila with her notebook full of questions she’d prepared especially for Hana, and Léa, who’d managed to secure four days off from NYU. On the plane, as soon as the lights went out, Bucky gently slipped his hand into Y/N’s. He brought it to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then held it close to him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand without ever stopping, like a soothing little ritual.
“Are you tired?” he whispered close to her ear.
“A bit, but too excited to sleep,” she replied.
So he drew her even closer, put an arm around her shoulders, and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, then another on her cheek, before finding her lips in the darkness of the cabin. It was a long, tender kiss, like a secret shared only between the two of them. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“Get some sleep; I’m here, I’ll keep watch.”
In Tokyo, Hana was waiting for them at the airport. She was petite, precise in her movements, with a calmness that commanded respect. She greeted everyone, then looked at Mila with a gentle smile.
“I’m told you have some questions?”
“Seventeen, to be precise,” replied Mila, her eyes sparkling.
“Perfect. Let’s start in the car, then,” said Hana, opening the door.
And throughout the journey, Mila reeled off her questions one by one, like a thread she was patiently unwinding.
Bucky kept his hand on Y/N’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Every now and then he would lean in to kiss her temple or whisper something in her ear, just for her. Shizen was small, bright and carefully organised. When Y/N saw her three pieces on display, she felt a lump in her throat. Bucky stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
“You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then held her closer to him. The presentation took place on Friday evening. Only twenty-two people, but they were really watching. Y/N stayed close to the wall. Bucky came over to her, slipped his hand round her back, under her jumper, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Fine. A bit nervous.”
“You’re perfect.”
He kissed her on the temple, then on the lips, a gentle but deep kiss, before staying pressed against her, his hand still on her back. Mila was talking to Kenji, a furniture designer who specialised in hidden joints. Bucky watched the scene and smiled. “She’s found her equal.” Y/N turned towards him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, one hand in her hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Of all this.”
He kissed her again, more lingeringly, as if they were alone in the shop. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
On the last morning, Y/N went back to Shizen’s place on her own. As she left, she sent a photo of the coins to Bucky.
They returned to New York on a Sunday morning, still reeling from jet lag and the dull November light that bathed Brooklyn. Mila fell asleep in the taxi, her head resting against the window, her notebook clutched to her chest. Léa, meanwhile, kept her eyes open, serene, watching the city go by. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers gently stroking the fabric of her trousers.
“You look tired,” he murmured, giving her a tender look.
“A bit. So do you. ”
He gently squeezed her thigh, then slid his hand towards her waist, caressing her with that constant attention that came so naturally to him.
“Have something to eat tonight. I know you barely touched the tray on the plane.”
Y/N placed her hand on his and squeezed it.
“All right. ”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it for a long time, without taking his eyes off the road.When they arrived at the flat, Mila woke up, went upstairs and rushed straight into her bedroom. Y/N heard her open the drawer where she kept her important things and carefully put her notes from Tokyo away.
A few minutes later, Mila came back out.
“I’ve put the notes from Tokyo in the drawer.”
“Right,” replied Y/N softly.
Mila paused for a moment.
“I’ve also got a question for George, now that I’m back.”
Y/N smiled.
“About the dovetail joints?”
“No. About something Kenji said. I want to check with George if it’s true in two different contexts. He said that the strongest joints improve with use. The wood tightens over time and becomes stronger.”
Y/N nodded, touched by her precision.
“That’s a good question. Send it to him tonight. ”
Mila looked satisfied and went back to her room. Léa came out of the bathroom, her face refreshed.
“Has Mila already sent a message to George?”
“Yes,” replied Y/N. “About joints getting better with use.”
Léa smiled.
“She’ll have a reply tomorrow morning at six forty.”
Bucky, who had just come up behind Y/N, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Lea’s going to Priya’s tonight,” he murmured against her skin. “We’ve got the flat to ourselves for a while.”
Y/N leaned into him, feeling his warm hands on her stomach.
“Perfect. ”
That evening, Bucky stayed. Mila was already asleep, exhausted from the journey. In the quiet living room, they were alone with their teas. Bucky pulled Y/N onto the sofa and sat her between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding under her jumper to gently stroke her stomach, the other running through her hair.
“The second collection… what are you thinking for the presentation?” he asked softly, his lips against her ear.
“Not Bushwick this time. Something different. Maybe Shizen.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then moved up to her jawline.
“It’s an important decision. Take your time. ”
Y/N closed her eyes, savouring the warmth of his body against hers.
“Is Robert all right?”
“Nadia watered him while we were away. She said that the plants of someone who lives with Thomas deserve to be watered.”
Y/N smiled and turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was tender, then deeper, their breaths mingling for a long time. When they pulled apart, Bucky held her tighter, a possessive hand on her hip.
“Robert’s had a third leaf since Friday.”
“During Tokyo…”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Things that get better with use… Mila’s right.”
Y/N leaned her head back against him.
“Yes. That goes for everything else too.”
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined in the silence of the living room, his hands caressing her skin beneath her jumper, his warm breath on her neck.
summary : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, just to fill the silence.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +7.9k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
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oneshots | series | all writing
August settled over New York with that oppressive, humid heaviness that made every movement feel slower, the air thick and clinging to the skin.
The streets lay as if asleep, weighed down by the heat, and by five o’clock in the afternoon, the Bushwick workshop felt like a balmy greenhouse where the fabrics soaked up the humidity and the scent of warm wood lingered everywhere. Y/N had got into the habit of rising early: half past six, seven at the latest, she would climb the three flights of stairs in the cool morning silence, hot coffee in hand, folded fabrics tucked under her arm. Those early hours were hers alone, the slanting light streaming through the large windows, skimming the shelves, lending the fabrics an almost living softness.
Nadia managed external communications from her small office next door. She only came in three days a week, but her touch was evident in every detail: clear briefings in the morning, short and precise messages, decisions made before anyone even had to ask. That morning, an email had arrived from Tokyo. Hana, who had been running Shizen for six years, had read Clara and Jana’s articles. She wanted to know if Thomas existed in materials that aligned with her own vision of sustainability. Nadia had replied with photos and a detailed description of the fabrics: raw linen from Williamsburg, bamboo silk from Lyon, natural horn buttons from Lisbon, and above all those perfect internal seams, invisible from the outside but so important.
Y/N read Hana’s reply around seven o’clock, sitting alone in the still-quiet workshop, her coffee set down beside her. Hana wanted three pieces to show to her clients. Y/N took a moment to let the weight of the request sink in, then replied herself, directly, with words that came from the heart. She spoke of what Thomas was really looking for: clothes made for those who looked beyond the surface.She sent the message and picked up her needle again, letting her hands find their familiar rhythm on the fabric. Around eight o’clock, the door opened with that soft sound she now recognised instantly. Bucky came in, two coffees in hand. He’d simply sent a message from the car:
I’m popping round if you’re up for it.
She’d replied yes without hesitation. He set the coffees on the table, came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders, letting them linger there for a long time, warm and firm, gently massaging away the tension he could already feel beneath his palms. Y/N closed her eyes for a second, letting that familiar warmth run down her back. He leaned in, planted a slow kiss on the nape of her neck, then a gentler one just below her ear, his warm breath against her skin.
“There’s something about you this morning,” she murmured, turning slightly towards him, her hand resting on his.
He nodded, staying close, his body brushing against hers. He finally sat down on the wide sill of the middle window. She joined him at once, settling right up against him, her thigh pressed against his. He slipped an arm around her waist, drew her even closer, and planted a lingering kiss on her temple, then on her forehead, as he always did when words were slow to come. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her top, slowly caressing the small of her back with a tender, possessive gesture.
“The bad days are coming back a little,” he said at last, his voice low and calm.
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder, slipped a hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She remained silent for a moment, letting the touch speak for her. He tightened his arm around her, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on her hip.
“Since when?” she asked softly.
“This week. Not like before… but they’re there. I’m not sleeping as well.”
She lifted her face towards him. He was already looking at her, with that gaze that always lingered a second too long, filled with the gentle intensity he reserved solely for her. He caressed her cheek, brushed her jaw, then kissed her slowly, a quiet, deep kiss in which their breaths mingled for a long time. When she pulled away, she remained close, forehead to forehead, her hand still resting on his bare skin beneath his shirt.
“You could have waited to tell me,” she whispered against his lips.
“No. I protect you better by telling you the truth than by hiding it.”
She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, more gently, just a tender touch that stirred a warm glow deep within her chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close. They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the windowsill, with the August heat streaming in through the open windows and Brooklyn going about its quiet business outside.They drank their coffee pressed close together, his fingers idly playing with hers. Later, when she picked up her needle again, he stayed in the workshop, present without disturbing her. From time to time, he would get up, bring her some cold water, tidy away a scrap of fabric lying about, or place a warm hand on her back as he passed. When he sensed she was starting to feel cold despite the warmth, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word, then kissed her on the temple, murmuring that she was working too hard.
They spoke little, but the silence was full: the way he always stood a little close to her, his lingering gaze, that gentle possessiveness that made her feel deeply cherished. When she turned towards him later that morning, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, simply holding her, for a long time, whilst the light changed in the studio.
“Next week, we could go to Staten Island,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“To see my parents?”
She nodded, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel his warmth.
“George will probably be showing Mila something in the garage. She’s got questions.”
He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth – a longer, deeper kiss – before holding her a little tighter.
“He’ll have the answers. And I’ll need you there.”
She felt her heart tighten with tenderness. They stayed like that for a moment, entwined in the rising August heat, before he had to leave. He let her get on with her work, but not without one last kiss on the nape of her neck and a message ten minutes later:
“Have something to eat at lunchtime, I know you’ll forget. I love you.”
Y/N smiled, her heart warm, and carried on sewing with that lingering sensation of his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, that attentive presence that made everything feel softer.
The August heat continued to weigh heavily on the city over the following days, making the air even more stifling and the evenings seem to drag on. On Wednesday evening, Y/N sent a quick message to Rebecca from the underground: she’d pop round if she was there. The reply came almost immediately, simple and direct. When she pushed open the door to Rebecca’s flat, the familiar scent of plants and fresh coffee greeted her. Rebecca was waiting for her, two cups already set out on the small kitchen table. She gave her a brief hug, that frank, no-nonsense gesture that had become their way. They sat facing each other. Rebecca took a sip, looked at her for a moment in silence, then spoke without beating about the bush.
“Bucky told you about his bad days.”
Y/N nodded, her fingers clenched around her still-warm cup.
“Yeah. Tuesday morning, at the workshop. He turned up with coffees and told me almost straight away. ”
Rebecca gently set down her cup, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“He told you himself. That’s a huge step.”
Y/N felt a lump forming in her chest. She thought back to Bucky sitting on the windowsill, his hands lingering on her, that slow kiss on her neck just before he spoke.
“He said it wasn’t like it used to be. Less dark. But that it was still there.”
Rebecca looked at her for a long time, with that quiet frankness that was so characteristic of her.
“Before, he dealt with it all on his own until it became too much. He barely slept, forgot to eat, cancelled everything. He’d disappear to places where no one could follow him.”
Y/N listened without interrupting, picturing the Bucky of the past, the one she’d never known. Rebecca continued, her voice soft but firm:
“What brought him back to earth were the practical things. My father showing him an engine in the garage. My mother bringing him coffee without asking. Me sending him clinical cases because he liked problems that had solutions.”
Y/N thought of her own father in the workshop, of those internal seams he was checking one last time, of the way Bucky now came and sat beside her without speaking, just being there. Rebecca placed a light hand on hers for a moment.
“What you’re doing is good. Staying in the studio in the mornings. The sketchbooks. Staten Island next week. Concrete, practical things—that’s what works for him.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“What if the bad days last longer?”
Rebecca shook her head gently.
“Then you call me. He’ll see his therapist more often. We’ll manage it together. But that’s not the scenario here. It’s just something that comes back sometimes. The important thing is not to let it take hold.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the distant noise of the street. Rebecca continued, more quietly:
“He’ll tell you. He knows now. Do you trust him?”
Y/N replied without hesitation:
“Yes.”
“Then trust this too.”
They finished their coffees in the little kitchen full of plants. Y/N set off again on the Underground, those words still echoing softly in her mind. In the vibrating carriage, she took out her phone.
I went to see Rebecca.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a message to say you were there. How did it go?
Fine. She’s straightforward.
Always.
She told me some important things.
What were they?
Y/N hesitated for a second, then typed slowly.
That practical things work out for you. And that putting my name on the map is important. More than I thought.
The silence was longer this time. Then the phone vibrated.
Becca never exaggerates.
No, sweetheart. She never exaggerates❤️.
Y/N put her phone away and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the movement of the tube lull her. She thought of the child on the platform in Bucky’s notebook, of his name written on a worn page, of all those perfect inner seams made even when no one was looking.
The following Saturday, they set off for Staten Island. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of her jeans. Every now and then he would squeeze gently, as if to remind himself that she was there. She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.
“Better than the nights before. Thanks to you.”
He brought his hand to her lips and pressed a lingering kiss there without taking his eyes off the road. Y/N felt that familiar warmth rising in her chest. She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then on his neck, just below his ear, where she knew he liked it.
“Have you eaten this morning?” she murmured against his skin.
“Yes. I even took the time. Because I knew you were going to ask me.”
He smiled and slid his hand higher up her thigh, possessive yet tender. They stayed like that for a moment, silent, only the sound of the road and their mingled breaths. They arrived at ten o’clock. The blue door opened before they’d even rung the bell. Winnifred gave them all a long, warm hug. Mila headed straight for the garage with her notebook, barely saying a word.
“She’s getting straight to the point today,” remarked Bucky with a chuckle.
“As always,” replied Y/N.
Bucky stopped in the hallway and looked around the house.
Alpine came out of the kitchen and rubbed against his legs. He crouched down immediately, ran a hand over the cat’s back and stroked him long and slowly. Y/N watched him, touched. He looked up at her and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her close, standing in the hallway, his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. And you?”
“Better now that you’re pressed up against me.”
He kissed her forehead, then another, slower kiss on her lips. Winnifred smiled from the kitchen without saying a word. Y/N went and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. The August heat caressed her arms. She took out her phone.
I'm in my parents' garden. Bucky's with his mum.
Lea replied quickly.
I know.
Bucky sent me a message from the car this morning. Is Mila in the garage yet?
Yes. She's already on the second question.
She'll have finished the twelfth before noon.
Y/N put her phone down and listened to the sounds coming from the garage: Mila’s clear voice, and George’s lower, calmer one. Bucky joined her a few minutes later. He sat right next to her on the bench, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his chest. His hand slipped under her shirt, gently stroking her back.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Come here.”
He opened his jacket and wrapped her up in it with him, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on her head, his fingers tracing slow circles on her skin.
“My father is going to answer his twelfth question,” he murmured.
“I know. And you, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine. Less heavy. Because you’re here.”
He turned her face towards him and kissed her gently, a slow, deep kiss that lasted a long time. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Me too, my love.”
At midday, they ate at the large table. Winnifred had cooked too much, as always. Mila had her notebook closed beside her plate. George was at the end of the table, Bucky next to Y/N, his hand resting on her thigh beneath the table, stroking her gently. George looked at Mila.
“You asked eleven questions this morning.”
“I have a twelfth one,” replied Mila.
“I know. You’ve looked at the notebook twice but you haven’t asked it.”
Mila nodded.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment. When people had eaten. The difficult questions are best asked afterwards.”
Winnifred smiled gently. Bucky squeezed Y/N’s thigh under the table. Mila took a breath.
“Question twelve. Do you have bad days?”
Silence fell over the table, not heavy, just respectful. George put down his cup.
“Yes.”
“How do you cope?” asked Mila.
“I go into the garage. I work with my hands. Practical things help.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook. George continued:
“Why are you asking that question?”
“Because Bucky has bad days sometimes and I wanted to know how his family cope with it, so I can understand what I can do.”
Another silence. George looked at Bucky, then at Mila.
“What you’re doing here is already something.”
“What?”
“Asking the right question at the right time. Trying to understand rather than fix things. That’s better than fixing them.”
Mila took another note.
“Why?”
“Because some things don’t need fixing. They need to be understood and left as they are.”
Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered softly in her ear:
“He told me that in the garage five years ago.”
Y/N turned her head slightly and kissed him on the jaw.
“And now he’s telling Mila.”
Bucky squeezed her hand under the table.
“Yes.”
Y/N slipped her fingers between his and squeezed them tightly. They stayed like that throughout the meal, hands clasped, knees pressed against one another. That afternoon, George showed them the engine running. Mila was focused, her notebook open. Bucky and Y/N stayed a little way back in the driveway. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My father thinks of Mila between visits,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“He thinks of very few people like that.”
Y/N turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, tenderly, her hands on his chest.
“That’s good.”
“It’s really good.”
He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, and they stayed like that for a long time, entwined
Léa returned from her work placement one Friday evening in late August. The flat smelled of fresh coffee and the simple dishes Y/N had laid out on the table. Mila was in her room, the door open, a notebook in her hand, present without being intrusive. When the front door opened at half past seven, Léa came in with her suitcase and her bag. She made the same gesture to put her things down, but something had changed in the way she occupied the space: she was more composed, more confident without being ostentatious. Mila came out of her room straight away.
“You’ve changed,” she said, watching her.
Léa set down her suitcase.
“How so?”
“The way you walk into rooms. You walk in like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.”
Léa smiled slightly.
“It’s Amira.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook.
“What has she taught you?”
“To walk into rooms knowing why I’m there.”
Y/N watched them both in the hallway. She discreetly took out her phone.
Léa’s back.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know.
She sent me a message from the taxi. She says the work placement went well in the truest sense of the word.
In the truest sense of the word.
That’s what she said. How is she?
Mila says she walks into rooms like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.
It’s Amira.
At dinner, Léa spoke about the internship in small, precise details. She recounted the complex cases from the third week, the intellectual property lawyer who had praised her questions. Mila listened attentively.
“Did Nathan say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“That’s what Amira said too.”
Mila nodded.
“And what did you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Just ‘thank you’.”
“Yes.”
Mila smiled.
“That’s the right answer.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Amira told me something on the last day. She said that NYU will give me the tools, but what I’ve learnt this summer is how to hold them.”
”Y/N looked up.”
“How do you hold the tools?”
“The difference between knowing a tool exists and knowing which hand to put it in depending on the situation.”
Mila chimed in straight away.
“It’s like pencils. I learnt the different thicknesses first. Then I learnt which one to use depending on what I’m drawing.”
Léa looked at her little sister.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Y/N slipped her foot under the table and gently stroked Bucky’s ankle; he’d come straight from work. He responded by placing his hand on her thigh, squeezing it tenderly. Their eyes met for a moment, filled with that silent warmth. The next morning, Y/N arrived at the workshop at seven o’clock. Nadia was already there, having been on the job since July, with two coffees on the large table.
“Margot has confirmed September. She’s arriving on the fifteenth.”
“Right.”
“She wants to see the workshop and the pieces in production, not the finished ones.”
Y/N nodded.
“She wants to see how we work.”
Nadia smiled slightly.
“Yes. She says the way things are done says more than the result.”
Y/N thought of her father turning each garment over one last time. She picked up her needle. Later that morning, Nadia placed a sheet of paper on the table: a new article, by Diane Chen.
Y/N read it slowly, feeling something stir within her. When Bucky dropped by at the end of the day, he found her still hunched over the table. He approached silently, draped his jacket over her shoulders because she’d shivered slightly, then slipped his arms around her waist from behind. He kissed her neck, lingeringly, before whispering:
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“A bit.”
He turned her gently, pulled her close and kissed her properly, a slow, deep kiss, his hands caressing her back beneath the fabric. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I’ve brought you something to eat. I know you’ve forgotten.”
Y/N smiled against his mouth.
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job.”
He kissed her again, more gently, then stayed close by whilst she tidied up, his hand still on her back, possessive and tender at the same time.
Margot Lemaire arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, 15 September. She had asked to see Brooklyn first, not just the studio, as if she wanted to get a feel for the surroundings before forming an opinion of the place itself. Nadia had organised everything: a simple stroll through the neighbourhood, without a guide, just walking. Y/N was waiting for her outside the building at ten o’clock. Margot was younger than she had imagined, in her forties, with short, confidently grey hair, and that calm presence of someone who took exactly what she needed. They climbed the three flights of stairs. Margot entered the studio and did what everyone else did: she looked closely, slowly, in silence. She ran her hand along the shelves, organised by fabric weight, from heaviest to lightest.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
She took the raw Williamsburg linen between her fingers, crumpled it gently, then let it spring back into shape.
“Did you find this one on your own?”
“Yes. For the trousers and part of the coat.”
“The colour can’t be replicated with dye.”
Margot laid the fabric back down carefully, almost reverently. She walked over to the large solid-wood table and ran her fingers over the old marks in the wood.
“A dressmaker used to work here. Marcus. He made stage costumes for Off-Broadway theatres. Mila looked up his name.”
Margot nodded, a small smile on her lips.
“ ‘Spaces have memories.”
She walked over to the wall displaying the sketches for the second collection, pausing at length over the jacket with the slit at the wrist.
“The second collection.”
“Yes. Not finished yet. Just directions. What we choose to show when we’re ready.”
Margot jotted something down in her notebook. Then she asked to see a piece that was currently in progress. Y/N took out the merino wool coat for Chicago and turned it inside out on the table. Margot took it in her hands, turned each sleeve inside out, and examined the inner seams in silence for several long seconds.
“Your father was a tailor.”
“Yes. He used to turn every garment inside out before handing it back. To check one last time.”
Margot looked up.
“My grandfather made shoes in Lyon. He used to check the inner seams of the lining. He said the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.”
Y/N felt a gentle emotion welling up in her throat.
“That’s exactly it.”
Margot laid the coat down carefully.
“Fond has been around for eight years because I’m looking for designers who’ve learnt that. Not at school. Through a way of working passed down through the generations. Thomas is what I’ve been looking for for three years.”
She took out her notebook.
“Three pieces to start with. The signature dress, the coat, and a jacket. If it goes well, we’ll talk about the second collection. Take as long as you need. I’d rather wait for something that’s just right.”
Nadia, sitting in the corner, discreetly took notes. Margot looked at her for a moment.
“Your assistant. ,Nadia. She keeps my schedule clear so I can sew.”
After the visit, they went for lunch at the little café on the corner. Sitting by the window, with the bustling Bushwick street behind the glass, the conversation flowed naturally. Margot spoke of ‘what we keep’, her shop’s slogan since day one. Y/N told her about George , who had checked the inner seams twice on the evening of the presentation.
“It’s the biggest compliment he gives: ‘It’s well made.’ Two words.” Margot smiled. “My grandfather used to say exactly the same thing.”
Y/N felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She read Bucky’s message under the table.
Are you holding up okay?
I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
She replied straight away.
It’s going well. She really gets it!
He replied within seconds.
I know. I’m proud of you.
See you tonight, I’ll bring you some food. I know you’ll forget.
When Margot left, Y/N went back up to the workshop alone. She sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the worn wood, and breathed slowly. She thought of Marcus, of her father, of Margot’s grandfather, of Hana’s father. All those hands that had done things right. She picked up her phone.
Margot said yes. Three pieces for Fond Paris.
Bucky replied straight away.
I know. Nadia sent me a message when she left the workshop.
How are you feeling?
His grandfather used to make shoes in Lyon and would check the inner seams of the lining. He used to say that the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s Thomas.
Yes, sweetheart. It’s Thomas.
Your father would have liked Margot.
Yes. I think they would have understood each other without many words. People who’ve learnt the same things always understand each other.
Y/N put down her phone, turned off the light and walked down the three flights of stairs in the dark Bushwick stairwell. She could still feel the warmth of Bucky’s hands on her, even though he wasn’t there.
Lea started classes at NYU on a Monday in September. The night before, she had packed her bag using the precise method she’d worked out for herself: nothing extra, everything in its place. She slipped Muybridge’s book in last, like an anchor. Mila watched her from the doorway, a notebook in her hand, without saying a word.
“Do you have something to say?”
Lea asked without turning around.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m watching.”
Lea closed her bag and turned around. Mila was there, calm.
“I’ll be back tonight,” said Lea. “Every night.”
“I know.”
A silence settled in. Mila paused.
“That’s not why I’m watching. “
“Then why?”
“I wanted to see how you put the important things away last.”
Lea looked at her bag, the book visible on top. She smiled softly.
“You saw.”
“Yes. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You said thanks right away.”
Lea laughed softly.
“I’m learning. ”
On Monday evening, Lea got home at 6:30 p.m.
Y/N was in the kitchen, and Mila was sitting at the table with her pencils. Bucky was already there, settled on the couch with the second notebook. He came over often on Monday evenings now, like a gentle routine that had fallen into place naturally. Léa set down her bag and sat down. Mila looked up.
“How did it go?”
“Good. The first day is mostly introductions. The real classes start on Thursday.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Mila asked.
“A few people. There’s Priya, who did an internship with a federal judge this summer. And Sam, from Portland, who worked for two years before coming here.”
Mila jotted something down.
“They have experience.”
“Yeah. But not the same kind as Amira. She taught me how to handle the tools. NYU will teach me how to choose the right ones.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“That’s a good sequence.”
Bucky, from the couch, spoke without looking up from the notebook, his voice calm:
“Priya and Sam. Do you have their numbers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lea looked at him for a moment. Bucky kept turning the pages, but you could tell he was really listening.
“Thanks,” said Lea.
“For what?”
“For saying ‘good.’”
“It makes sense.”
“No. It’s thoughtful.”
Mila chimed in from her notebook:
“She used the words.”
Lea sighed with a smile.
“I hear you, Mila.”
“I was just noting it down.”
Y/N slid her foot under the table and stroked Bucky’s leg. He immediately placed his hand on her thigh, squeezed it tenderly, then moved a little higher, possessive and gentle. Their eyes met. He gave her a small smile that said it all. The following week, on a Tuesday evening, Bucky came to the studio unannounced. When Y/N pushed open the door, he was already there, sitting on the ledge of the middle window.
She sensed right away that something was wrong.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, setting down her bag.
“An hour. Nadia gave me the key. She told me you’d need someone tonight.”
Y/N moved closer. She sat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his. He immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, her face buried in his hair.
“How are you?” she whispered.
“Not good tonight.”
She slid her hands under his shirt, stroking his back slowly, feeling the tense muscles.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday. But tonight it’s worse. Images. Not nightmares… images during the day. Things I’ve experienced that come back without warning.”
Y/N lifted her head and kissed him gently, lingeringly, until he relaxed a little against her. He returned her kiss, deep and almost urgent, his hands clasping her waist.
“Have you talked to your therapist about it?” she asked against his lips.
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s in two days.”
He nodded. She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, then rested her forehead against his.
She picked up her needle again. Bucky stayed on the windowsill, right next to her. Every now and then he would get up, come up behind her, place his hands on her shoulders, massage her gently, and kiss the back of her neck. At one point he whispered,
“There’s one that’s been coming back for days. A hallway. The light… the way the floor echoed underfoot.”
Y/N set down her needle, turned around in her chair, and pulled him between her legs. She held him tight against her, his face against her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not tonight. Thursday with her. But I wanted to tell you it was there.”
She stroked his back under his shirt.
“I know. “Thanks for telling me.”
He knelt in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, intensely, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, his hands on her thighs.
“It’s easier to say it now.”
“Than before?”
“Yes. Before, I kept it all inside. Now it’s still hard… but I can talk about it.”
Y/N kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, gently.
“You know I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“Not to fix things.”
“I know.”
“To understand.”
He rested his head on her lap for a moment. She ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long time, in the silence of the studio, with only the distant sound of the street and their breathing. On Thursday, after her session, Bucky sent her a message.
It went well. She said that being able to talk about it before the session is progress.
Y/N replied right away, sitting at the big table.
Talk to me?
Yes.
Before, I’d come with everything bottled up inside. Now I arrive with things already named.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The hallway… she thinks we can work on that.
I wanted to tell you. I know.
Thank you. It makes sense.
It’s thoughtful.
Both can be true.
She smiled, her heart warm, and already imagined his hands on her tonight, his body against hers, the way he held her as if she were his anchor.
October had arrived, bringing with it that typical New York autumn light that makes everything seem sharper. The buildings looked more defined, the trees in the parks were ablaze with colour, and the light had shifted, becoming softer and more oblique. One Wednesday morning, Y/N finished the sixth order. The merino wool coat for the client in Chicago was ready. She laid it on the large table, turned it over one last time, and checked every inner seam with her fingertips, slowly, just as her father used to do. Everything was perfect. She took a photo of the seams and sent it to Nadia.
The sixth one is ready.
Nadia replied almost immediately.
I’ll get in touch with the client today about the delivery.
Y/N walks over to the middle window and glances down into the courtyard. Someone is hanging out the washing. The bike is still there. Everyday life in Bushwick carries on, undisturbed. Her phone vibrates.
The sixth coat is finished.
Bucky replies almost instantly.
I know. Nadia sent me a photo of the seams. How are you?
Fine. Really fine.
You’ve got that look on your face.
How can you tell I’ve got a certain look on my face from a text?
I know the way you say ‘really well’. When it’s just okay, you say ‘fine’. When it’s better than that, you say ‘really well’.
Y/N smiles, touched that he knows her so well, so deeply. She types:
This morning, it’s more than fine.
Why?
Because six coats are finished with impeccable stitching, Fond Paris, Shizen Tokyo, Rose & Root Portland, Margot arriving soon, Léa at NYU, Mila turning eleven… and you, my love, who’s feeling better.
Yes. It’s more than fine.
The following Friday, the newspapers were talking about Thomas in a different light. Sophie Park had published an article in a mainstream magazine: ‘Alpine and Thomas: when love runs the business’. Y/N read it on the tube at eight o’clock in the morning. The words stung her for a moment, like a sudden chill. She put her mobile away and looked at the people around her.
At the office, at midday, Camila popped in.
“Sophie Park?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“Yes. Straight away. Not to her, but to what she wrote.”
Camila sat down.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Y/N thought aloud.
“That I found the Williamsburg linen all by myself. That I learnt the inside seams from my father, long before I met Bucky. That Thomas’s philosophy was in my notebooks months before Alpine. And that Amira drew up a contract that protects Thomas, not the other way round.”
Camila nodded.
“And what about the relationship?”
“The relationship doesn’t explain the stitches. Both exist at the same time. Neither replaces the other.”
“That’s right.”
That evening, when Bucky arrived at the studio, he found her still bent over the table. He set a bag of food down on the corner, approached from behind and wrapped his arms around her.He kissed her neck, lingering there, then her shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to eat,” he murmured against her skin.
“A little.”
He turned her round, held her close, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. He kissed her gently, then more deeply, until she relaxed completely in his arms.
“I’ve got you what you like. And then we’ll go home, and I’ll run you a bath.”
Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You think of everything.”
“I think of you. All the time.”
He kissed her again, tenderly and intensely at the same time, his hands sliding over her hips
Mila found out Y/N’s answer that Friday evening. Nadia had gone to the trouble of printing out the page so that Mila could touch it, feel it between her fingers. Mila stood rooted to the spot in the hallway, the sheet held out in front of her, her eyes fixed on it.
“The last sentence,” she said in a calm voice.
“Yes,” replied Y/N from the kitchen.
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Park was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You replied straight away.”
Mila carefully folded the sheet of paper, first in half, then into quarters, and went to put it away in her special drawer, the one where she keeps the things that really matter. Y/N heard her open and close the drawer very gently. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
“She’s put it in the drawer,” remarked Léa.
”Yes”.
”That’s good”.
Léa took a sip.
“Amira sent me the article on Monday morning with just one note: ‘This is why we’ve been documenting everything from the start.’”
Y/N smiled.
“She’d planned it all.”
Léa nodded.
“That’s why we’re thanking her for the Muybridge notebooks.”
That weekend, Bucky arrived at the studio with a small, plain cardboard box. He set it down on the large table without saying a word, then approached Y/N from behind, wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Open it,” he whispered in her ear before kissing her neck.
Inside were spools of thread, a shade between white and beige, slightly warm, almost iridescent in the light.
“It’s a blend of silk and linen,” he explained softly. “A supplier in Kyoto. Hana recommended it to me. She says this thread ages well, that the stitching becomes more interesting over time. Like a patina.”
Y/N picked up a spool and twirled it between her fingers. Bucky stayed pressed against her back, his hands on her waist, stroking her gently.
“For the inner seams of the second collection,” she said.
“That’s what Hana thought. If the second collection shows what we choose to reveal, then these seams that improve with wear… that’s the foundation.”
He kissed her on the temple, then slipped a hand under her top to stroke her stomach very gently.
“Hana also told me that the three pieces would have their own presentation in Tokyo in November. A small gathering. Twenty people who’ll really be looking.”
Y/N turned in his arms and looked at him.
“I’ll be there.”
“I know. I’ve already told her you’d be coming. It was obvious.”
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her hands on his chest. He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.
“Mila’s going to want to come,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know. She’s already sent me three questions for Hana this morning.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Nadia invited her straight away. She says that Thomas without Mila wouldn’t be complete.”
Y/N smiled, her heart full.
“Nadia really does understand.”
The following Tuesday, Bucky had a bad day. He wasn’t at the workshop as planned. Around seven o’clock, he messaged:
I’m staying in tonight. Not a good day.
Y/N put down her needle.
I’m coming over.
You don’t need to.
I know. I’m coming anyway.
On the tube to Dumbo, she sent a message to Mila.
I’m at Bucky’s tonight. Lea’s at home.
Mila replied quickly.
I know. Tell him Robert’s doing well.
When she arrived, he opened the door with that heavier look on his face. She went in without a word, took off her coat and went straight into the kitchen to make tea. She knew every cupboard by heart now. She brought two cups and sat right next to him on the sofa.
“The corridor came back this morning,” he murmured.
She set her cup down, slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight.
“Did you ring your therapist?”
“Yes. On Thursday. She says it’s normal during times of change.”
Y/N stroked his back beneath his shirt, slowly, for a long time. He lifted his head, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with that gentle, almost desperate intensity, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead to forehead.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
They stayed entwined on the sofa, his hands on her, possessive and tender, until the evening wore on and the weight seemed a little lighter.
On the Thursday after session, he messaged:
It went well. She says that being able to talk about it beforehand is already progress.
Y/N replied from the studio.
Talking to me?
Yes.
Before, I kept everything to myself. Now I come in with things I can put into words.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The corridor… we can work on that.
November had arrived, a bitterly cold month, and this time, our destination was Tokyo. We set off on a Wednesday: Y/N, Bucky, Mila with her notebook full of questions she’d prepared especially for Hana, and Léa, who’d managed to secure four days off from NYU. On the plane, as soon as the lights went out, Bucky gently slipped his hand into Y/N’s. He brought it to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then held it close to him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand without ever stopping, like a soothing little ritual.
“Are you tired?” he whispered close to her ear.
“A bit, but too excited to sleep,” she replied.
So he drew her even closer, put an arm around her shoulders, and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, then another on her cheek, before finding her lips in the darkness of the cabin. It was a long, tender kiss, like a secret shared only between the two of them. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“Get some sleep; I’m here, I’ll keep watch.”
In Tokyo, Hana was waiting for them at the airport. She was petite, precise in her movements, with a calmness that commanded respect. She greeted everyone, then looked at Mila with a gentle smile.
“I’m told you have some questions?”
“Seventeen, to be precise,” replied Mila, her eyes sparkling.
“Perfect. Let’s start in the car, then,” said Hana, opening the door.
And throughout the journey, Mila reeled off her questions one by one, like a thread she was patiently unwinding.
Bucky kept his hand on Y/N’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Every now and then he would lean in to kiss her temple or whisper something in her ear, just for her. Shizen was small, bright and carefully organised. When Y/N saw her three pieces on display, she felt a lump in her throat. Bucky stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
“You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then held her closer to him. The presentation took place on Friday evening. Only twenty-two people, but they were really watching. Y/N stayed close to the wall. Bucky came over to her, slipped his hand round her back, under her jumper, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Fine. A bit nervous.”
“You’re perfect.”
He kissed her on the temple, then on the lips, a gentle but deep kiss, before staying pressed against her, his hand still on her back. Mila was talking to Kenji, a furniture designer who specialised in hidden joints. Bucky watched the scene and smiled. “She’s found her equal.” Y/N turned towards him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, one hand in her hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Of all this.”
He kissed her again, more lingeringly, as if they were alone in the shop. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
On the last morning, Y/N went back to Shizen’s place on her own. As she left, she sent a photo of the coins to Bucky.
They returned to New York on a Sunday morning, still reeling from jet lag and the dull November light that bathed Brooklyn. Mila fell asleep in the taxi, her head resting against the window, her notebook clutched to her chest. Léa, meanwhile, kept her eyes open, serene, watching the city go by. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers gently stroking the fabric of her trousers.
“You look tired,” he murmured, giving her a tender look.
“A bit. So do you. ”
He gently squeezed her thigh, then slid his hand towards her waist, caressing her with that constant attention that came so naturally to him.
“Have something to eat tonight. I know you barely touched the tray on the plane.”
Y/N placed her hand on his and squeezed it.
“All right. ”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it for a long time, without taking his eyes off the road.When they arrived at the flat, Mila woke up, went upstairs and rushed straight into her bedroom. Y/N heard her open the drawer where she kept her important things and carefully put her notes from Tokyo away.
A few minutes later, Mila came back out.
“I’ve put the notes from Tokyo in the drawer.”
“Right,” replied Y/N softly.
Mila paused for a moment.
“I’ve also got a question for George, now that I’m back.”
Y/N smiled.
“About the dovetail joints?”
“No. About something Kenji said. I want to check with George if it’s true in two different contexts. He said that the strongest joints improve with use. The wood tightens over time and becomes stronger.”
Y/N nodded, touched by her precision.
“That’s a good question. Send it to him tonight. ”
Mila looked satisfied and went back to her room. Léa came out of the bathroom, her face refreshed.
“Has Mila already sent a message to George?”
“Yes,” replied Y/N. “About joints getting better with use.”
Léa smiled.
“She’ll have a reply tomorrow morning at six forty.”
Bucky, who had just come up behind Y/N, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Lea’s going to Priya’s tonight,” he murmured against her skin. “We’ve got the flat to ourselves for a while.”
Y/N leaned into him, feeling his warm hands on her stomach.
“Perfect. ”
That evening, Bucky stayed. Mila was already asleep, exhausted from the journey. In the quiet living room, they were alone with their teas. Bucky pulled Y/N onto the sofa and sat her between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding under her jumper to gently stroke her stomach, the other running through her hair.
“The second collection… what are you thinking for the presentation?” he asked softly, his lips against her ear.
“Not Bushwick this time. Something different. Maybe Shizen.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then moved up to her jawline.
“It’s an important decision. Take your time. ”
Y/N closed her eyes, savouring the warmth of his body against hers.
“Is Robert all right?”
“Nadia watered him while we were away. She said that the plants of someone who lives with Thomas deserve to be watered.”
Y/N smiled and turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was tender, then deeper, their breaths mingling for a long time. When they pulled apart, Bucky held her tighter, a possessive hand on her hip.
“Robert’s had a third leaf since Friday.”
“During Tokyo…”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Things that get better with use… Mila’s right.”
Y/N leaned her head back against him.
“Yes. That goes for everything else too.”
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined in the silence of the living room, his hands caressing her skin beneath her jumper, his warm breath on her neck.
✧ LOOKING FOR A BETA READER ✧
Seeking a Beta Reader for two upcoming Bucky Barnes fics!
Hi everyone!
Just to be clear: this is NOT for my current fic 'Swipe to You'. Swipe to You is already completely finished on my side, and I will just continue to publish the remaining chapters as planned!
This request is for new projects that I am currently writing. They are not yet finished and not yet published, and I’m looking for a Beta Reader to help me along the way.
I am a French author, and writing in English is my way to practice and improve it! I would love some help with proofreading (grammar, spelling, and making the sentences sound more natural). I’m also completely open to your thoughts, advice, and constructive feedback on the plot and characters as I write.
FANDOM/CHARACTER. Marvel / Bucky Barnes
FIC 1 (~20 CHAPTERS). A post-Endgame story filled with heavy angst, drama, and secrets from the past resurfacing. It deals with memory loss, identity, and healing.
FIC 2 (~40 CHAPTERS). A lighter, emotional, and comforting story featuring a celebrity dynamic and a lovely slice-of-life romance.
Since I'm still writing them, we can work chapter by chapter at our own pace. If you love Bucky, love a good mix of deep angst and sweet romance, and want to join me on these new journeys, please send me an ask or a DM! I’ll be happy to credit you as my Beta when I start posting.
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +10.8k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send me an ask to be added to my
oneshots | series | all writing
May arrived with longer daylight hours that lingered on Brooklyn’s facades, softening the edges of the buildings and stretching the shadows across the sidewalks.
Y/N was walking alongside Sofia, her mind still filled with the sketches she’d just finished retouching, when her gaze drifted automatically toward the large window of the restaurant across from Alpine. Bucky was there, sitting by the window, talking to a woman with dark hair. Documents were spread out between them. Nothing spectacular. Just a business meeting. Sofia continued on her way without a word. Y/N did the same. But something had settled inside her, light, almost imperceptible, like a seam pulling slightly on the fabric. She didn’t say anything to Bucky that evening. Not because she was trying to hide anything, but because she didn’t yet know if that feeling deserved a name.
Dans l’atelier de Bushwick, elle monta les trois étages, le sac lourd sur l’épaule. La lumière du soir filtrait à travers les trois fenêtres, teintant les tissus d’une lueur dorée. L’odeur du lin brut et de la laine mérinos l’accueillit, rassurante. Elle posa ses affaires sur la grande table en bois massif, passa la main sur le grain usé du plateau, et pensa à son père qui, lui aussi, caressait toujours le bois avant de commencer à couper. Ce geste simple la reliait à lui, à ces soirées où il travaillait tard dans leur petit appartement, vérifiant une dernière fois les coutures intérieures à la lumière d’une lampe basse.Elle travailla jusqu’à vingt heures. Le temps passa lentement, rythmé par le bruit régulier de l’aiguille et le murmure lointain de la rue en bas.
When she finally got home, the apartment smelled of the tea Mila had made. The little girl was sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, the stationary horse taking shape with that almost solemn precision she’d come to possess. She looked up when Y/N walked in.
“Something’s wrong.”
Y/N set down her bag.I’m tired.
“It’s not just tiredness.”
Mila looked at her with that calmness that saw too much. Y/N hesitated, then shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Okay.”
Mila went back to her drawing, accepting the incomplete answer without closing the door. Léa walked past in the hallway, cast a silent glance, then disappeared into her room. Y/N retreated to her own room, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up her phone.
That faint sensation was still there, lingering. Have a good evening, my love. The reply came almost immediately.
Have a good evening, sweetheart. Are you back from the studio?
Yes. How was your day?
Fine.
Had a meeting with the communications team at Altitude Partners at lunchtime. Long but useful.
Y/N stared at the screen for a moment, then simply typed: Okay. She put down her phone and looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. She thought about how Bucky had told her one night in the car that it had been over for three years and that it was really over, and how she had believed that completely because it was true. What she felt now was different, more vague, the realization that she truly cared about him and that truly caring about someone made things vulnerable. She fell asleep. The next morning, Bucky was waiting for her at the bottom of the building at eight o’clock. Not in the car. Standing in the street, two coffees from the corner bakery in his hands. The May light was long and soft on his face. He had that calm, almost tender expression, the one he wore when he sensed she needed something without her asking for it.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, taking the coffee.
“I know.”
They walked toward the subway.
The cold didn’t really feel cold anymore. Brooklyn was coming to life around them.
“Nora Vidal,” he said softly. “She’s been working at Altitude for two years. She’s professional, competent, and that’s all.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“I’m telling you anyway.”
“Bucky.”
“Yes.”
“I trust you.”
“I know. And that’s why I’m telling you—because you deserve to know that’s really all there is to it.”
Y/N sipped her coffee as she walked. The words lingered with her for a long time, spoken with that quiet candour he’d picked up. He slipped his jacket over her shoulders when he felt her shiver slightly, even before she said so.
“It’s over, she said.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was a split second of something I wanted to name.”
“It’s good that you named it.”
“I could have kept it to myself.”
“Yes. You were right not to.”
They reached the underground. He was going the other way. She took her coffee and looked at him. He placed his hand on her back, a gentle, possessive gesture, then kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you for coming this morning.”
“It made sense.”
“My love.”
“Yes.”
“It was thoughtful.”
“Both can be true.”
“I know.”
She kissed him on the subway stairs, a simple, sincere kiss, then went down to the platform. That evening, Bucky dropped by for dinner unannounced. A message at six o’clock:
I’m popping round tonight.
He arrived with ingredients for pancakes and a bottle of wine.
“You’ve got wine,” Mila remarked as he came in.
“For Lea.”
“Lea said that wine with pancakes is underrated.”
“I know.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“You listen.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She began preparing her cooking supplies with the seriousness of a sous-chef. Léa came in, spotted the bottle and looked at Bucky.
“You said it was underrated,” she said.
“I said that three weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“You waited for the right moment.”
“No. I’ve been waiting for an evening that deserved some wine.”
Léa looked at Y/N. Y/N looked at Bucky. He was already taking out the ingredients with the calmness of a man who did things without making a fuss. Léa went to fetch some glasses. They ate the pancakes with wine. Mila took a tiny sip “for comparison’s sake”. Bucky gently reminded her that she’d have to wait until she turned twenty-one. Mila calculated aloud that it would be in eleven years. Léa rolled her eyes but drank her glass with a small smile. Y/N watched them around the table: Mila with her precise calculations, Léa with her internship notes, Bucky pouring the wine with that natural attentiveness. These people in her kitchen on a May evening. These people were hers.
Sofia approved the first finished pieces one Friday morning in Alpine’s creative space. Y/N arrived at nine o’clock with the four pieces in separate cloth bags and placed them on the large table. Sofia took them out one by one. She examined them methodically, in silence, with that total concentration she reserved for things that deserved to be truly looked at. Camila was there too, standing against the wall with her coffee, present without taking up any space. Sofia finished with the signature dress. She held it up to the light, looked at the visible stitching at the neckline, turned the sleeves inside out, checked the hem. She placed the dress on the mannequin and stepped back.
“It’s ready.”
Just a couple of words. But coming from Sofia, it meant a whole lot.
“Yes,” she simply replied.
Y/N looked at the four pieces lying on the table, and the one on the mannequin. There they were, very real. Not just sketches on a sheet of paper, nor wobbly prototypes. No, this time, it was the real deal. Finished garments, neatly made, inside and out. It made the whole thing feel a bit unreal.
Sophia continued:
“The presentation’s in June. I’ve booked the venue in Bushwick for the sixth.”
“6 June?”
“Yes. It’s a Friday. You know full well that people go out on Friday nights.”
“And you booked it without even asking my opinion?”
Sofia took a sip of coffee, taking her time.
“I would have asked you if you’d said no. But I knew you’d say yes.”
Y/N let out a sigh.
“Right… fine.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips:
“There you go.”
“I spoke to two journalists from the specialist press,” Camila continued. “Not the mainstream media, no — people who take the time to observe, to really understand what they’re seeing.”
She looked at her, a little surprised.
“You really did contact the press?”
“Yes. And both said they wanted to come.”
She thought back to the way Camila went about things, always gently, with that quiet efficiency that made her unique.
“Thank you.”
“It made sense,” replied Camila.
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“Stop saying that.”
Camila gave a wry smile.
“That’s what Bucky usually says.”
“I know. It’s contagious.”
“Yeah… actually, it’s not so bad.”
Sofia took out her phone and snapped a photo of the four items. She had a folder, a real one, on her phone. It was called ‘real things’. Y/N knew this because she’d caught a glimpse of her screen one day.
“You’re putting the photos in the ‘real things’ folder, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“How long has that folder been there?”
“Since I started in fashion. To remind me why I’m doing all this.”
Y/N thought about that. A folder of real things, in an industry that produced so few of them. A small collection of truth, tucked away in her phone.
“Is Thomas in there?”
“Thomas’s been in there since the very first sketch.”
Y/N didn’t reply. But she didn’t need to. The silence said it all.
That evening, Y/N went back to the studio alone. She switched on the light, and her gaze fell on the four pieces hanging on the back wall. They had come back from Alpine’s creative space, packed away in their canvas bags, and she had put them back exactly where they had been before. As if they’d never left.But something had changed. Sofia had said, ‘It’s ready,’ and now it really was ready, not just in the studio, but out in the world, for 6 June, for the journalists, for the people who would be coming. She sat on the sill of the middle window, Bucky’s spot, and looked at the four pieces.
The evening light streamed in through the windows, soft on the fabrics. Her phone vibrated.
Sofia sent me a photo of the four rooms this morning. They’re lovely, sweetheart. Really lovely.
Sofia sent you a photo?
She’s sending them to everyone, apparently. Camila told me the same thing. And my mum.
Y/N paused.
Your mum.
Yes. Sofia has her number . She sent her a photo and my mum replied with three dress emojis. Three dress emojis. Mila taught her the themed emojis. The dress has been her go-to emoji ever since Mila showed her.
She read the message and immediately thought of Winnifred , the one with the Thomas emoji and the photos of Sofia.
Your mum’s coming on 6 June. She asked this morning. I said yes.
And your dad?
He asked if the coat would be there. I’m bringing the coat. I’ll tell him. He’ll nod once.
Y/N put her phone down and stayed on the windowsill for a while longer, with the four pieces hanging on the wall and 6 June drawing nearer. And Winnifred Barnes with her three dress emojis. Those people watching her. Her people.
On Saturday, Mila showed Y/N the drawing she was working on. Not the final version, just the first few hours’ work on the final sheet. She brought it into the kitchen carefully, as if it were fragile, and laid it flat on the table. The horse was there. Not finished yet, just the first few lines, but already something more assertive, a line that knew where it was going.
“It’s not bad,” said Y/N.
“Yeah, I know. But something’s not quite right.”
“What is it?”
“The horse’s left eye. It needs to be looking out of the frame, but at the same time, it should have that kind of calm, composed look of a relaxed animal. The problem is, if I turn it too far off-screen, it looks on its guard, almost stressed. And if I make it too calm, well, it just stares into space, as if it couldn’t care less.”
Y/N looked at the eye in question. Mila had hit the nail on the head: it really was the trickiest balance to get right.
“Send the photo to Bucky,” said Y/N.
“I sent it to his dad first.”
“Obviously.”
Mila chuckled softly.
“He replied within twenty minutes, can you believe it? He told me that the horse’s eye, when it’s in passive surveillance mode — he calls it ‘diffuse attention’ — has a tiny bit of the white visible on the outer side. Not all of the white, mind you, just a hint.”
“Diffuse attention,” Y/N repeated.
“Yeah. The horse watches without looking directly, basically. A bit like someone listening to a conversation without appearing to, you know what I mean?”
Y/N remained silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in. Diffuse attention, that way of picking up on the essentials without ever staring directly at things. It reminded her of Thomas, his inner seams, those invisible threads that hold everything together even when you can’t see them.
“It’s exactly the same as Thomas,” she finally said.
“I know, that’s why it’s the right drawing.”
Léa came into the kitchen with her notes.
“George told me about diffuse attention.”
“You read my message.”
“You’d left your phone on the hall table.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to read it.”
“I wasn’t reading it, I was just looking at it.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Y/N drank her coffee, thinking that Léa and Mila would be having this sort of discussion for years to come, and that it was one of the truest things in her life.Her phone vibrated. George Barnes.
Eye in diffuse attention — slightly visible white on the outer edge. Mila will find the right balance. She has an eye for it.
Thanks. She’ll find it.
I know. Tell her the drawing’s going to be fine. She can trust me on that.
Y/N went into Mila’s room.
“George says the drawing’s going to be fine and that you can trust him.”
Mila picked up her thinnest pencil.
“I know. he really does watch.”
She started working on the left eye. Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Mila with her fine pencil and the horse watching something outside the frame.
On Tuesday evening, the workshop was quiet. Mila was staying at George and Winnifred’s, and Léa was at a friend’s house. Y/N had been working on the finishing touches for eighteen hours, hand-sewing the hems on the signature dress and the buttonholes on the coat, which she wanted to be perfect. The evening light bathed the space in a warm glow, the scent of fabric filled the air, and the distant sounds of Brooklyn drifted in through the half-open windows. At eight o’clock, her phone vibrated.
I’m at the bottom of the building.
Are you in the studio?
Yes.
I’m coming up.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, that steady, precise rhythm she now recognised. He came in with two coffees, paused in the doorway and looked around the studio: the dim light, the four pieces on the wall, Y/N at the table finishing her work, Mila’s drawing on the left-hand wall.
“You worked late, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I wanted to finish those buttonholes tonight.”
“Are they done?”
“Yes.”
She gently set down her needle. He entered the room, placed a coffee next to her, then walked over to the wall where the clothes were hanging. He looked at them one by one, not just out of the corner of his eye, but really, with sincere attention. He stopped in front of the signature dress.
“The stitching is visible there.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve altered it.”
Y/N looked down at the dress.
“Just a millimetre to the right. I felt there was something slightly off, without being able to put my finger on it.”
“Now it’s perfect.”
“Yes.”
He turned towards her. She was still sitting at the table, with her coffee and her finishing touches, and there was something in her expression that wasn't fatigue, but something more open. He walked over to her. She stood up. He kissed her; not a quick peck, but something longer, his hand running through her hair, hers resting on his back. When she pulled away slightly, she whispered:
“The workshop’s all ours tonight.”
“Yeah.”
They stood there for quite a while, bathed in the soft, subdued light. Bucky held her close, his hands lingering on her shoulders, as if he wanted to etch the moment into his memory. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual. Then he simply pressed his lips to her forehead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The air around them was thick, but not heavy: a gentle, warm tension that needed no words.
“You look well tonight,” he murmured.
“I am well.”
“Not just well.”
“No. Not just well.”
Not just fine. They spoke shortly afterwards. He sat on the windowsill in the middle, his usual spot, and she stayed close to him. He brought her a coffee before she’d even reached out, and tidied away the things she’d left lying on the table. They looked around the rooms in silence, then out at Brooklyn in the May night.
“In three weeks’ time, on 6 June,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Are you a bit scared?”
“No. Just the right amount of nervousness. The kind you feel before things that really matter.”
“The buttonholes are done.”
“I know.”
“And the visible seams… they fall exactly where they should.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re ready.”
“I’ve actually been ready for a while. The presentation is just the moment when everyone discovers what’s already been there in the shadows. The final result, basically.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
He put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder and thought about the things made for the people who wear them, not for the people who look at them. The music from a flat above continued, a distant trumpet. She closed her eyes and listened, committing tonight’s melody to memory: Bucky’s breathing, the sounds of Brooklyn, all of it together in the studio with Thomas around them. Her phone vibrated. She smiled in the dark. Mila.
Good evening.
I have a question about diffuse attention. Does it apply to humans as well?
Bucky felt his phone vibrate too. He picked up his own and read:
“She’s asking if diffuse attention applies to humans.”
“She’s going to ask your father that question tomorrow morning. ”
“He’ll reply at 6.40 am.”
Y/N replied to Mila.
Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Goodnight.
Yeah. Goodnight.
Is Bucky there?
Yes.
Good.
Bucky’s mum said goodnight too 😺.
Y/N showed the message to Bucky. He read it.
“My mum sends her goodnights via Mila now. With the cat emoji.”
“She’s adopted the cat emoji for her evening messages ever since Mila told her it was the workshop emoji.”
“The workshop emoji.”
Mila had created a system of themed emojis for the different spaces. Y/N put down her phone and thought of Winnifred Barnes sending goodnight messages with the workshop cat emoji via Mila from Staten Island. It was one of the truest and most beautiful things in her life right now. She whispered,
“I love you, my love.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
The trumpet continued for a few more minutes, then stopped. Brooklyn carried on.
Two weeks before 6 June, Léa made an announcement at dinner. Without any preamble, she put down her fork and simply said that Amira had offered her the chance to extend her work placement until the end of August. There was a moment’s silence around the table. Mila looked up from her plate.
“That’s three weeks longer than planned.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll agree?”
“Yes.”
“Good”.
Mila picked up her fork again as if everything had been settled. Y/N looked at her sister. Léa was looking at her with the calmness of someone who’d already made up their mind and was waiting for the others to take note. Y/N felt a gentle warmth in her chest.
“When did Amira suggest this to you?”
“This morning. She said I’ve seen enough to understand the structure but not enough to see how the structure holds up against reality. She wants me to look at complex cases.”
“Complex cases.”
“Not in the sense of difficult. In the sense that reality doesn’t always match the principles.”
Y/N thought about seeing what’s really there rather than what one expects to see. Muybridge, diffuse attention, and now complex cases. Léa was building something systematically, brick by brick.
“You’ll be here for the 6th of June.”
“Yes. The internship starts on the 1st of July.”
“And NYU in September.”
“Yes. Amira said the two were compatible. She checked the calendars.”
Mila said from her plate:
“Amira checked the calendars for Léa.”
Bucky gave a slight, wry smile.
“She does that for people who are really worth putting on a calendar, you know.”
Mila nodded in that way you do when you’ve just taken in a piece of information and mentally filed Amira Hassan away in a very specific slot in your personal classification system.Léa took a sip of water.
“There’s something else.”
Y/N waited, saying nothing.
“Amira’s going to introduce me to a lawyer who specialises in intellectual property. She thinks it’s useful to understand how all this works, especially for someone like me who’s going to be moving between both worlds.”
“Psychology and copyright,” Y/N summarised.
“Yeah. She says creators need lawyers who get how people work, not just how the law applies.”
Y/N thought back to Thomas. To the clauses Amira had drafted. The clean exit clause. The right of first refusal. The amendment to the confidentiality clause. Protections tailor-made by someone who could read minds.
She murmured, almost to herself:
“It’s fair.”
“I know,” said Léa.
Bucky leaned in slightly towards Y/N and said in a low voice:
“Amira is building something with you.”
Lea replied calmly:
“Yes. I realised that this week.”
Mila just blurted it out like that, without even looking up from her plate:
“Honestly, it’s so much cooler when people build things with you, rather than just for you.”
For a moment, everyone around the table stared at her. But she, unfazed, carried on eating her pasta, as if she’d just stated the obvious, something mundane, almost insignificant.Léa smiled slightly.
“Yeah. That’s the real difference.”
“She always makes comments like that, you know,” Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered.
Y/N replied immediately, without drawing attention to herself:
“I know.”
“I can hear you, guys,” said Mila, still without looking up.
“We know,” Bucky said with a wry smile.
The next morning, Y/N arrived at the Alpine office around eight o’clock and immediately spotted Lindsey in the corridor, an iPad in her hand. She had that look… you know, the one someone has when they’re about to drop a bombshell.
“The journalist from that independent sustainable fashion magazine wants to meet you, before the presentation on 6 June.”
“She says that the conditions under which the clothes are made are a subject she covers systematically. She wants to see the place to understand how things really work.”
Y/N began to think about his Bushwick workshop. The shelves filled with rolls of fabric, the large solid-wood table covered in small marks and nicks, the sketches pinned all over the walls… and then Mila’s drawing, hanging on the other side. All of this made up her somewhat raw world, not at all ready to be displayed like a shop window.
“When does she want to come?”
“Next week, if that’s OK with you.”
“Alright.”
Lindsey smiled and said:
“Camila warned me you’d say yes.”
Y/N gave her a slight smile.
“Camila says that to everyone, you know.”
“Yes, but that’s because she’s always right.”
Lindsey headed back down the corridor. Y/N went to her desk and picked up her phone.
Lindsey told me about the journalist. She wants to see the workshop.
I know. Camila told me last night. Are you going to agree?
I’ve already said yes. I know. It seems like everyone knows about this before I do.
Everyone? Mila doesn’t know yet.
She’ll find out in ten minutes.
No doubt. She’s got her sources.
Y/N put her phone down with a smile and started her day.The journalist’s name was Clara Osei. She arrived at the studio one Thursday afternoon, with a notebook but no camera. Y/N noticed her straight away: the sort of person who comes to observe and listen first before showing anything. She looked around the workshop like everyone else: the shelves, the fabrics, the large table, the sketches at the back of the wall. Then she stopped in front of Mila’s drawing, hanging on the left.
“It’s a horse, see?”
“Yeah, I can see. My little sister drew it for her school presentation.”
Clara looks up:
“How old is she again?”
“Ten. Well, eleven in three weeks, to be precise.”
Clara looks back at the drawing, studying it for a moment.
“Look at its eye.”
“Yeah, it looks a bit distant, as if it’s looking somewhere else. It’s watching something outside the frame, but without focusing on anything in particular.”
“A bit like the inner seams, don’t you think?”
Y/N pauses, as if the words have just clicked.
“Yes. Definitely. Exactly like the inner seams.”
Clara jots something down in her notebook, the pencil moving swiftly.
“At ten, she’s already grasped the concept of the collection.”
“Actually, she’d understood it even before I explained it to her. It’s just her way of seeing things.”
Clara closes her notebook, stands up and walks over to the shelves. She runs her fingers over the raw Williamsburg linen, takes a moment to smell the bamboo silk, and examines the spools of thread one by one.
“You found these fabrics, didn’t you?”
“The Williamsburg linen, yes, that was me. The bamboo silk, on the other hand, was Sofia. She has a contact over there in Lyon.”
“But for Williamsburg, you went there on your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why on your own?”
Y/N paused for a moment to think. Not to give an easy answer, but the real one.
“Because I’d been looking for raw linen for months. And there are some things you only find when you look for them yourself. No one else would have recognised that exact shade.”
Clara jotted down a few more words.
“Your father was a tailor. ”
“Yes.”
“The collection is called Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“He was the one who taught you to take care with the inside seams.”
“He taught me that quality isn’t measured by price. It lies in the care you put into every detail.”
And that the inner seams are the signature of someone who respects their work.Clara closed her notebook.
“I’m going to be frank with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re working with James Barnes, the CEO of Alpine. There’s a partnership. People are bound to say that’s what made Thomas possible.”
Y/N looked her straight in the eye.
“The partnership with Alpine made it possible to distribute the collection. But the perfect inner seams… I would have made them in my bedroom, all on my own. It’s not about money or resources, it’s about knowing what you’re really after.”
“And what are we after here, then?” asked Clara.
“Do things properly, even when no one’s watching,” replied Y/N.“Because the people who wear these clothes can feel it. They can tell the difference, even if they can’t put it into words.”
Clara opened her notebook again, the one with the slightly worn cover, and began writing non-stop. Y/N waited, staring into space. Then Clara looked up and said:
“The presentation is on 6 June. I’ll be there.”
“I know,” replied Y/N, her voice soft.
“Before that, I’m going to write a few words about Thomas. So people arrive knowing a bit of what to expect.”
“All right.”
“One more thing. Your sister’s drawing… it’ll be on display on 6 June, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she’ll be coming too?”
“Yes,” murmured Y/N.
Clara nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good”.
She paused in the doorway, turning back one last time.
“Your father, you know… he would have really loved this workshop”.
Y/N looked down for a moment, then replied:
“Yes”.
“I’ll say that on the day,” added Clara. “So that everyone knows.”
She pushed open the door and left. Y/N was left alone in the studio, suspended in that strange kind of silence where the words from earlier still seemed to hang in the air, like ghosts. She picked up her phone, almost without thinking.
The journalist had come; she’d seen everything, noted it all down. Apparently, she’s going to churn out her article before the presentation.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a text on her way out to tell me the studio was real. That it all really existed.She also said that your sister, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept of the collection. That it was the most accurate thing anyone had said to her all week.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before typing her reply:
Mila’s going to be eleven in three weeks, my love.
Mila finished the drawing one Sunday morning. Y/N knew because Mila came out of her room at eleven o’clock with the sheet of paper in her hands—not rushing, not excited, but with that calm air of someone who had just finished something important and was still carrying it with her. She laid the sheet flat on the kitchen table. The horse was there, in a resting position with that diffuse focus George had described: the left eye with the white of it slightly visible on the outer side, the ears slightly back toward the right, one front leg extended a centimeter, the weight slightly on the left hind leg. Something outside the frame that you couldn’t see but knew was there. Y/N looked at the drawing for a long time.
“It’s done.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s really good.”
“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say it, you know.” ”
Lea walked in from the hallway. She looked at the drawing on the table. For a few seconds, she said nothing—that’s typical of her; she takes her time before speaking, carefully observing what she sees.
“The eye.”
“The unfocused gaze.”
“Exactly. ”
“It’s the most beautiful drawing you’ve ever done.”
“I know. It was the hardest.”
“The best things are often the hardest.”
“Not always.”
“Often.”
Mila thought for a moment.
“Often. Okay.”
Y/N grabbed her phone and took a photo of the drawing, from a good angle, perfectly framed, with the morning light from the kitchen falling just right. She sent it to Bucky, Sofia, Camila, and George. George was the first to reply, eight minutes later.
The eye is perfect. That little white spot on the outer edge, without overdoing it. That’s the hardest thing to get right, and she nailed it. Tell her it’s great work.
Y/N read the message to Mila.
“I know,” she said. “But it feels good that he noticed.”
Sofia replied after twelve minutes.
The drawing’s going in the hall. Next to the signature dress.
Camila, fifteen minutes later:
Yes. Next to the dress.
Bucky was the last to reply, twenty-two minutes later, which meant he’d really taken the time to look before writing.
It’s the horse watching over something we can’t see. Like Thomas. Mila’s found something important there.
Y/N showed the message to Mila.
“He really looked at it.”
“Yeah, just like George.”
“It must run in the family.”
“Yeah.”
Mila picked up the drawing with the utmost care, as if it might shatter between her fingers. She took it to her room and laid it flat on her desk. I heard her open her drawer, surely to arrange the pencils in the order she likes,that little ritual she keeps to wrap up a task, to say goodbye to what she’s just finished.
Three days before June 6, Clara Osei published her article. I read it on the subway, around seven in the morning, my phone glued to my hand. A long piece, four pages, with photos of the studio taken that famous Thursday afternoon. You could see the large solid-wood table, the shelves filled with fabrics, and Mila’s drawing hanging on the left wall.Clara had written about invisible seams, about Thomas Sr., about that Williamsburg linen found by chance, about Mila, who, at ten years old, had already grasped the concept behind the entire collection. She talked about what it means to do things right, even when no one is watching. And she didn’t mention Bucky once. Not once.Y/N read the article twice on the subway. At first, she didn’t send the link to anyone—she kept it to herself for a few minutes, that little habit we sometimes have of wanting to savor something before sharing it. The penultimate paragraph. Y/N opened the article and went to the penultimate paragraph. Clara had written that some clothes were made for the people who wore them and not for the people who looked at them, and that this was the difference between a garment you kept for ten years and one you wore twice. And that it was rare to find a designer who had learned this distinction before starting to design.
On June 6, in the early evening, New York was bathed in that warm, lingering June light, as if the sun were reluctant to set. In Bushwick, the venue was just two blocks from the studio. Y/N arrived at 5 p.m. with four pieces in cloth bags. Sofia was already there,she’d had the keys since the day before and had spent the morning getting everything ready with Camila. The venue, an industrial space with large windows and light-colored hardwood floors, had been transformed without going overboard. White racks lined one wall to display the pieces. A table held wine and a few simple items. And in the center, on a large white wall, hung Mila’s drawing, framed simply. Upon seeing it, Y/N froze.
“Camila found this frame this morning,” said Sofia. “A very simple frame, made of natural wood. It goes perfectly with the raw linen.”
Y/N glanced at the motionless horse, its gaze somewhat lost in space, hanging there in its rough wooden frame on the white wall. It was perfect, truly perfect. The kind of thing that just fits without needing any explanation.
“Mila doesn’t know yet that the drawing is framed,” Sofia added.
“She’ll see it tonight.”
From across the room, Camila chimed in:
“I ordered the frame on Monday, as soon as I saw the photo of the finished drawing. I couldn’t leave it unframed. ”
“Thank you,” replied Y/N.
“It made sense, didn’t it?”
Y/N looked at her without saying a word.
Camila stared at her. For a moment, they just stood there, and Y/N realized how much their “that makes sense” had become their secret language—that direct, no-nonsense way of speaking that was so typical of Camila.She took the four pieces out of their covers and hung them on the white racks. The merino wool jacket. The raw linen pants from Williamsburg. The signature dress, with its visible stitching. And the coat with natural horn buttons, model four from Lisbon. The four pieces bathed in the June light.Sofia watched them, standing in the middle of the room.
“There you go.”
“Yes,” said Camila.
People started arriving around 7 p.m.
First came the two journalists: Clara Osei, notebook in hand, and Jana, a photographer for a magazine featuring designer portraits, carrying a discreet camera. Next were the buyers Camila had contacted,three women and one man, who examined the clothes with that professional gaze—not cold, just precise. Then Amira Hassan, composed as always, Lindsey frozen for two minutes in front of the signature dress without moving, and two people from the Alpine creative collective, invited by Sofia. And the Barneses. Winnifred arrived with George and Rebecca. She, with that gaze that took everything in, hugging people before even taking off her coat. He, in an impeccable suit, occupied the space with a spare, clean presence. Rebecca, her eyes suddenly taking everything in. Winnifred saw Y/N and crossed the room straight away. She hugged her—a real hug, both arms, warmth.
“Your father would be proud,” she murmurs.
“Yes, he would,” Y/N replies.
Winnifred walks away toward the racks, with the air of a woman who really wants to see. George approaches Y/N. He examines the four garments hanging there, without moving from where he stands. His gaze settles on the coat.
“The buttons.”
“Natural horn. Supplier in Lisbon. Over time, they’ll take on a golden hue.”
George nods, just once, a brief nod. He steps closer to the coat and turns up the left sleeve. Y/N waits. He examines the inner seams for a few moments. Then he turns up the right sleeve. He looks again.
“That's good work.”
“Thank you very much.”
He nods again, then joins Winnifred near the other pieces.
Rebecca walked over to Y/N. She glanced at the coat still hanging on the hanger.
“He’s going to wear it until it falls apart.”
“That’s why it’s well-made,” Y/N replied.
“Yeah.”
Rebecca looked at her, her gaze direct.
“You did a good job.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m not just saying that to be polite.”
“I know.”
Rebecca nodded and went to get some wine.
Mila arrived with Léa at 7:20 p.m. As she entered, she stopped short in front of the framed drawing on the white wall. For a few seconds, she said nothing. Léa whispered:
“Camila found the frame.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say.”
“No.”
A silence fell between them. Léa gently placed her hand on Mila’s shoulder, a simple gesture that was rare for her. Mila finally said:
“The frame is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“It goes well with the raw linen.”
“I know.”
“Camila made a good choice.”
She stepped closer to the drawing and examined it closely. The left eye with a bit of white showing, the ears pulled back, the front end adjusted by two millimeters. Those precise little details she’d spent months thinking about. Camila stepped forward.
“Is the frame okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“A good drawing deserves a frame; it makes sense.”
“Yes. That’s fair and thoughtful.”
Camila looked at her. There was something in her expression—that slight look of someone who’s just heard an unexpected phrase and appreciates it.
“Yes. It’s both.”
Bucky arrived at 7:30 p.m. He entered the room and paused in the doorway, as he always did at first: looking around before entering. He scanned the four pieces on the stands, Mila’s framed drawing, the people in the room, Y/N in the middle of it all. Then he stepped inside. He walked straight toward her. Not toward the artwork, not toward her parents. Toward her.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Really fine.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“The way you’re here. You’re at home.”
Y/N looked around at the space around her, the rooms, the people, Mila’s drawing, George, who was pointing something out on the jacket to Winnifred with the calm manner of a man explaining the seams to his wife.
“Yes. I’m home.”
He took her hand in the space between them, that natural touch. She left it there. Jana, the portrait magazine journalist, approached with her discreet camera.
“Can I take a few photos?”
“Yes.”
Jana took photos, not poses, real moments. George looking at the coat’s inner seams. Mila in front of her framed drawing. Sofia and Camila talking near the racks. Y/N and Bucky with their hands intertwined.
“The photo with Bucky,” Y/N told Jana. “The collection is Thomas’s. Not the partnership.”
“I know. I read Clara’s article.”
She took another photo, Y/N alone in front of the four pieces.
“There. That’s the one that counts.”
At one point during the evening, Y/N found herself alone in a corner of the space with Clara Osei.
“How are you feeling tonight?”
“The right way. Like I do before important things.”
“The presentation is already done. The pieces are here, and people are really looking at them.”
“Yes.”
“Your little sister. The sketch.”
“Yes.”
“She’s been looking at the models with a notebook for a while now.”
Y/N turned around. Mila was indeed standing near the racks, notebook and red pen in hand, jotting something down while observing the iconic dress. George was standing next to her, looking too.
“She’s taking notes.”
“What?”
“People’s reactions to the pieces. She’s probably developed a system.”
Clara opened her notebook. She jotted something down.
“I’m going to write a second article after the show. ”
“About Thomas.”
“About how a collection comes to life in the world when it’s done right. Not about the pieces, but about the people surrounding the pieces tonight.”
Y/N scanned the room. George and Mila were chatting near the dress, Léa was talking with Amira in a corner, Rebecca and Winnifred were standing in front of the drawing, Bucky was listening intently to a buyer, and Sofia and Camila were watching the people looking at the clothes. All these people gathered around the designs tonight. All these people, her people.
“Okay, fine,” she said.
The party ended at ten o’clock. The guests left one by one: the buyers with their business cards, the journalists with their notebooks, the Alpine team. Amira shook Y/N’s hand as she left:
“The exit clause is clean. Thomas is truly yours now.”
Lindsey called out as she walked by:
“The pieces are well made.”
It was the nicest compliment Lindsey could have given. That left only Y/N, Bucky, Lea, Mila, George, Winnifred, Rebecca, Sofia, and Camila. George walked over to Y/N, the coat in his hand.
“I can take it tonight.”
“Yes. It’s for you.”
” “How much?”
“It’s the first Thomas coat. It’s yours.”
George looked at her with that frank, serene gaze that was so characteristic of him.
“I’ll pay for the second one. ”
“Okay.”
He nodded and draped the coat over his arm with the care of someone holding something that deserves to be handled with delicacy. Winnifred hugged Y/N one last time before leaving, a real hug, with both arms, and whispered,
“Your father did a good job through you.”
Y/N didn’t say a word. There was no need. The Barnes had left. Sofia and Camila took the pieces down one by one, putting them back into their cloth bags with the kind of care you reserve for things that really matter. Sofia said:
“We’ll do the second collection again whenever you want.”
Camila added:
“The slit at the wrist.”
And they walked out. Léa and Mila were waiting in a corner. Mila had closed her notebook; she was done with the documentation. Y/N scanned the room: almost empty, Mila’s drawing still hanging on the wall in its rough-hewn wooden frame, the racks empty, the table cleared.Bucky said:
“Shall we go?”
“Yes.”
Mila grabbed her notebook and her bag. She took one last look at the drawing on the wall.
“It’s staying there for tonight.”
“We’ll leave him there until tomorrow morning. Sofia will come pick him up.”
“Perfect. He’ll have a peaceful night.”
They stepped out onto the street in Bushwick, into the June heat. Y/N, Bucky, Lea, and Mila with her notebook. Even at 10 p.m., the June light lingered, as if the sun refused to set.
“I noted the reactions of twenty-three people to the four pieces tonight,” Mila said as they walked down the street.
“Twenty-three. ”
“Nineteen looked at the dress first. Three started with the coat. One with the jacket. And zero with the pants.”
“Zero for the pants.”
“We’ll have to rethink the layout for the next presentation.”
“That’s a good point. ”
“George turned the coat’s sleeves up twice. Once when he saw it on the coat rack, and another time after Y/N told him to pick it up.”
“He wanted to check a second time,” Bucky said.
“Yeah. Just to be sure.”
The day after June 6th, Y/N woke up late. The June sunlight streamed gently through the window, casting a warm, golden glow on the hardwood floor. No alarm clock, no subway, no obligations at Alpine. She’d taken the day off, and everyone had accepted it without question. It was past ten o’clock when she opened her eyes. In the kitchen, she could already hear Mila bustling about, that distinct sound of someone organizing things methodically. She got up and went into the kitchen. Mila was at the table, notebook open, the previous day’s notes spread out before her, a cup of coffee already waiting for her.
“You made coffee,” said Y/N as she sat down.
“I knew you’d get up around this time. I guessed it.”
Y/N took the warm cup in her hands. The heat spread through her palms, giving her a pleasant sensation.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m analyzing the reactions to the presentation. I’ve had the data since last night, and I want to organize it before it loses its context.”
“The twenty-three people.”
“Twenty-four. I’d forgotten about Jana, who stared at the jacket for seven minutes without moving.”
Y/N took a sip and smiled inwardly. Mila had timed how long twenty-four people had spent looking at Thomas’s designs, and she was organizing that data into a professional report. The little one was growing up so fast. Her phone vibrated on the table.
Did you sleep well?
Yes. Mila timed Jana, who stood in front of the jacket for seven minutes.
I know. She sent me her preliminary analysis at seven this morning.
At seven.
Yes. With an executive summary on the first page.
Y/N put down the phone and looked at Mila.
“You sent her an executive summary?”
“I had important data. It couldn’t wait.”
Y/N didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say that would have been more fitting than silence. Léa came in at 10:30 with her internship notes. She sat down at the table and turned her phone toward Y/N.
“Jana's article was published this morning.”
Y/N read the article. It wasn’t long, just four photos and some text. The photo of her alone in front of the four pieces. The one of George rolling up the sleeve of his coat. The one of Mila in front of her framed drawing. And a photo she hadn’t seen before: her and Bucky, hands clasped, watching people look at the pieces.
“Jana wrote about you,” said Y/N, looking up at Lea.
“I know. I read it.”
“And?”
“She got it right.”
Léa went back to her notes. Mila continued her analysis. Y/N finished her coffee in the kitchen, bathed in June sunlight, with Thomas now featured in two articles and in the hands of twenty-four people who had actually looked at them. That afternoon, she went to the studio. Not to work, just to be there. She climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and stepped into the silence. The racks were back, the pieces tucked into their cloth bags on the shelves. The back wall still bore the sketches. On the left wall, the hook was empty. Sofia had taken down Mila’s drawing that morning. Y/N sat on the ledge of the middle window, Bucky’s usual spot, and looked at the empty hook. The June light streamed in through the three windows, soft and warm on the worn hardwood floor. She thought of the drawing now hanging in Mila’s room, next to the index cards from her drawing sessions, as a way of keeping in sight where they had come from.
Her phone vibrated.
Sofia gave me back the drawing this morning. It’s in my room now. I made a spot for it.
Where?
On the wall next to my desk. Next to the index cards for the drawing program, sessions one through eight. That way I can see where I left off.
Y/N took a photo of the empty hook and sent it to Bucky.
The drawing is in Mila’s room now. The hook is empty. That means we need something else for the second collection.
She put down the phone and looked around the workshop: the full shelves, the large solid-wood table with its old marks, the three windows, the empty hook on the left. These things were waiting for what was to come. The orders arrived the following week. Seven in total. Y/N read them in the workshop one Tuesday evening, sitting at the large table. A woman had been searching for years for a garment that would truly last. A man wanted the coat for his father. She reread that email three times. Her father would have liked to know that his legacy lived on in these requests. She replied to each one personally, without using a template, taking the time to explain the lead times, the fabrics, and the interior seams that would be perfect. It took her two hours.
When she put her phone down, Bucky sent her a message.
Seven orders. One for a coat for someone’s father.
I know. Camila sent me the emails this morning.
You’re going to make that coat.
Yes.
With the same inner seams.
Of course.
Your father would be happy.
She stared for a moment at the seven names in her new notebook. Bucky arrived shortly after with a tray of food he’d ordered without her asking, knowing she often forgot to eat when she was working.
“You answered each one differently,” he said, setting the tray down next to her.
“Yes. It’s for the people who wear them.”
He sat down on the windowsill, his usual spot, and watched her eat. Then he stood up, tidied away what she’d left lying on the table, and brought her a glass of water before she even reached out for it. The following Thursday, Camila knocked on the doorframe of Y/N’s office at Alpine. She placed a sheet of paper on the table.
“Twenty-two stores have contacted Thomas since the articles came out. Five journalists. Three designers who want to collaborate.”
Y/N looked at the paper.
“We need to think about a structure,” Camila continued. “You can’t manage everything on your own from the studio.”
“I’ll hire someone.”
“I have someone in mind. Nadia. She worked with me in Milan. She understands what it’s like to build something small and real.”
“You’ve already thought of someone.”
“I’d anticipated it.” Camila left.
Y/N stayed for a moment, staring at the sheet of paper. Thomas now existed in the world, and the world was responding. That evening, Bucky came to the studio. He brought two coffees and sat on the windowsill.
“Twenty-two stores”, he said.
“Yes.”
“You look like someone who’s making a decision.”
“I’m deciding how Thomas grows. Not fast. Not for everyone. For the right people.”
He nodded, his hand sliding gently onto her shoulder and lingering there.
“Like the inner seams.”
“Yes. Growing up without losing what matters most.”
Nadia Ferro arrived the following Thursday at seven o’clock. She climbed the three flights of stairs without counting the steps and entered the workshop. She looked around without speaking right away, taking in the shelves, the fabrics, the large table.
“The shelves are organized by fabric type,” she said at last.
From heaviest to lightest. That makes sense. She touched the raw Williamsburg linen, then looked at the sketches for the second collection.
“The slit at the wrist. The logical continuation of the inner seams.”
Y/N looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“I read the articles. And Camila explained the philosophy to me.”
Nadia sat down on the ledge of the middle window.
“What you need isn’t someone to talk about Thomas for you. You need someone to protect the time while Thomas takes shape. ”
She calmly explained her role: filtering requests, responding to the right people, letting Y/N create the clothes. Y/N listened, sensing that this woman understood exactly what she wanted to preserve.
“When do you start?” Y/N asked.
“If you say yes, I start Monday.”
“Okay, fine.”
Nadia stood up.
“The studio’s nice. Camila was right.”
She walked out. Y/N found herself alone in the evening light, her eyes fixed on the empty hook hanging on the left wall. Those things that waited for what was to come. Mila turned eleven on a Friday in June. No big party. Just dinner with the right people. Bucky arrived with a slightly lopsided chocolate cake and two books about horses.
“It’s lopsided,” Mila said when she saw the cake.
“Yes. But the layers are even. That’s what matters.”
George had sent a book about machines and horses. Mila read it carefully.
“He looked for it for three weeks,” said Y/N.
“That’s exactly right.”
That evening, in the hallway, Bucky hugged Y/N.
“She’s eleven now.”
“Yes.”
“She’s growing up.”
“Yes. It’s a little scary.”
“That’s normal.”
“You’re on the right track, my love.”
He held her close for a long moment, his hand resting on her back, his lips on her forehead. Those moments belonged to them alone, calm and intense.
July arrived. Lea left to go stay with Amira. The apartment felt different without her, but Mila adapted in her own way. She reorganized her schedule to include more sessions with Bucky. She sent messages to George about steam engines and received replies at 6:40 p.m. One evening, Bucky said something in the workshop.
“I added something this week in town.”
“What?”
“A workshop on the third floor in Bushwick. But this time, I gave the person who works there a name.” Y/N set down her needle. “Her name is Y/N.”
The silence was sweet, full of meaning. She moved closer, sitting down next to him on the windowsill.
“You put my name in your town.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her name?”
“For a long time. I was waiting for the right moment to write it down. ”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He closed the notebook and held her close. The July light filtered through the three windows, warming the hardwood floor. They stayed like that, silent, present for one another, in this studio that so closely resembled what they were building together.
Nadia started the following Monday. She arrived at the studio at nine o’clock with a notebook and her phone, with the calm confidence of someone who had prepared without showing it. Y/N explained everything to her in two hours: the seven current orders, the twenty-two stores, the five journalists, the three staff members, how Thomas operated, and what it meant to make things for the people who wore them. Nadia listened without taking notes for the first hour. During the second, she took notes. At the end, she said,
“One question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Amira Hassan set up the partnership with Alpine.”
“Yes.”
“She’s available to answer any questions I might have about Thomas’s legal structure.”
“I’ll ask her.”
“No. I want to be able to send him questions directly if it’s urgent. With your permission.”
Y/N thought of Léa, who had contacted Amira from her own phone one evening; of Mila, who sent preliminary analyses to Bucky at seven in the morning; of the way people in her life acted directly when necessary.
“Okay. I’ll let her know tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Nadia closed her notebook.
“The seven orders. I’ll contact the clients to keep them updated on the deadlines. You’ll handle the clothing.”
“Yes.”
“As for the stores. I looked at the twenty-two this week. Fifteen aren’t a good fit for Thomas, too commercial, too focused on trends rather than sustainability. Seven are worth a real conversation.”
“Which ones?”
Nadia pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the table. Seven names with short descriptions: independent boutiques in Brooklyn, Portland, Chicago, and Paris. One in Tokyo. Y/N took the sheet and read it.
“The boutique in Paris.”
“Yes. It’s called Fond, and it only sells pieces made to last. Their slogan is ‘what we keep.’”
Y/N looked at the name.
“Fond.”
“What we hold dear.”
She thought about the things made for the people who wear them and how that name expressed the same idea in a different way.
“Contact them first.”
“That’s what I was going to do.”
“I know.”
Nadia picked up her bag.
“The shop in Tokyo too. They have a similar philosophy but for the Japanese market, quality as a cultural value, not as a marketing pitch.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning I’ll send an initial report on the ongoing contacts. Let me know if the format works for you.”
“Okay.”
Nadia left.
Y/N stayed in the studio with the list of the seven stores, the report due tomorrow morning, and Thomas, who was now growing up with someone to protect the time in which he was developing. She picked up her phone.
Nadia has started. She’s contacting Paris and Tokyo first.
Bucky replied.
I know. She sent me a kick-off memo this morning at eight o’clock. She’s just like Lindsey.
How so?
She acts before being asked and says things straight out.
That’s a quality.
Yes, my love. It’s a quality.
Two weeks after Nadia started, the Fond boutique in Paris replied. Y/N read the email in the studio one Thursday evening—not a generic response, but something actually written by a woman named Margot who had been running Fond for eight years. Margot had read the two articles by Clara and Jana. She had looked at the photos of the pieces. She wanted to see Thomas in person before deciding anything and was offering to come to New York in September if Y/N was available. Y/N read the email twice. She forwarded it to Nadia. Nadia replied within fifteen minutes.
I’ll tell her yes for September and ask her for her dates.
It’s the right boutique.
She picked up her phone and called Bucky. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sweetheart.”
“The Fond boutique in Paris. Margot wants to come in September to see Thomas.”
A moment of silence.
“In September.”
“Yes.”
“That was three months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You have time to process the seven orders and prepare a presentation for Margot.”
“Yes.”
“You seem calm. ”
“I am calm. I’m in the studio. I’m always calm here.”
“I know.”
“In the background. What we keep.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Thomas.”
“Yes, my love. It’s Thomas.”
She put down her phone, took out her new notebook, and wrote: Margot — Paris — September. And underneath: what we keep. She looked at those words on the page and thought of her father, who had done things right his whole life without many people knowing it, and of Thomas, who might one day exist in a shop in Paris called what we keep. These things passed down. These things that endure. The following Saturday, Bucky came to the studio with something. No coffee this time. A flat, simply wrapped box, which he set down on the large solid-wood table without explanation. Y/N looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She thought back to her father, to his habit of turning clothes inside out to inspect the seams, a detail no one else noticed. George Barnes had done the same with Thomas’s coat, and it had touched her.
“I want to write back to him.”
“He’s waiting.”
“By letter.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from her new notebook, grabbed a pen, and wrote quickly, just the essentials. She explained that her father had spent his life making perfect seams on the inside, so that those who wore his clothes could feel it without even seeing it. That George had understood that just by touching the coat, and that her father would have liked to know. And that the second coat would be for him whenever he wanted it.She folded the sheet and handed it to Bucky.
“I'll give it to him tonight.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“It makes sense.”
“It’s thoughtful.”
“Both.”
She laughed softly, and so did he. They stayed in the workshop, with George’s letter and the folded reply, Fond Paris en septembre, the seven orders in progress, and Thomas, who continued to take shape, stitch by stitch, from the inside out.Their own little things.
July arrived, and Léa left for Amira’s house. It wasn’t a grand departure. She packed her bag on Sunday evening using her usual method for practical matters: she folded her clothes in the right order and put her notes in a separate folder. Mila watched her from the doorway of her room without saying a word for twenty minutes. Léa said, without turning around:
“You have something to tell me.”
“No.”
“You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”
“I’m just watching.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“In this context, yes.”
Léa closed her suitcase. She turned to Mila.
“Three and a half weeks.”
“Twenty-four days.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done the maths.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I know that too.”
“I just wanted to say it.”
Léa picked up her suitcase and walked over to Mila in the doorway.
“I’ll send you a message every day.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I’ll do it anyway.”
“All right.”
Léa walked past her into the hallway. Y/N was in the kitchen. She could hear the two sisters in the hallway, those voices she now recognised by the way they filled the space. Léa entered the kitchen with her suitcase. She looked at Y/N.
“You’ve got everything.”
“Yes. Amira knows you’re arriving at ten.”
“Yes. She sent me the office code this morning.”
“The office code.”
“To get in before she arrives if I feel like it.”
She said that serious people arrive before everyone else. Y/N thought of Amira, who would answer the phone at seven in the morning and give the office code to her intern so she could arrive before everyone else if she fancied it. She hugged her sister, not for long, as Léa didn’t like long hugs, just long enough to say something without saying it. Léa returned the hug with that sparing, genuine manner.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I know.”
She picked up her suitcase and left. Without Léa, the flat felt different. Not empty, Mila was there and Y/N was there and Bucky often came round. But different in that particular way a space feels when it has lost a specific presence, that way Léa used to exist in the rooms: her notes on the table, her coffee in the kitchen at seven forty-five, her way of speaking directly that gave structure to conversations. Mila adapted in her own way. She rearranged her schedule for the tenth session to include more sessions with Bucky, not to make up for Lea’s absence, just because the timetable now allowed it. She sent a message to George Barnes on the first Tuesday without Lea with three questions about steam engines, and George replied at 6.40 the next day, as always. She said to Y/N one Wednesday morning:
“Lea sent me a message last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said the office is quiet at half past eight and that’s the best time because you can see how things are organised before people start using them.”
“She arrives at half past eight every day.”
“Yes. She says Amira arrives at nine and that the twenty minutes in between are the best.”
Y/N thought of Léa in an empty office at half past eight, looking at how things were organised before people used them, that way of seeing structures before they were activated by people. Muybridge. Diffuse attention. And now this.
“She’s a quick learner.”
“She used to learn quickly. Now she’s learning in the right context.”
Y/N drank her coffee and thought that Mila was ten, eleven for the past two weeks, and that she said things like ‘learning in the right context’ with that calm, matter-of-fact manner. Her phone vibrated. Léa.
Message from the office, 9.03. First case this morning. Amira says I can observe her whilst she works. She says that watching without intervening is the first skill.
Watching without intervening.
Yes. Seeing what’s really there before deciding what to do. That’s Muybridge.
“Léa says that watching without intervening is Muybridge.”
Mila said in her programme:
“Yes, it’s the same. We really look before we draw. Amira really looks before she speaks.”
Y/N put down his phone. He realised that Léa, Mila, Amira, George, Muybridge, the inner seams and diffuse attention were all, in a way, the same thing viewed from different angles. That way of looking at what’s really there before deciding what to do with it.These things that eventually came together.
