Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
← previous fic | main masterlist
The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 10.2k words | modern soulmate au
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soulmate bond/past life memories, multiple lifetimes, memory flashes, discussions of war, brief references to trauma/recovery, love at first sight across lifetimes, wedding night smut, destiny vs choice, happy ending
summary: when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.
authors note: this is very loosely inspired by everything is romantic by charli xcx, and by “loosely” i mean i took several lyrics, made them devastating, and then built an entire soulmate reincarnation love story around them. many many thank you's for this fic! thank you to @/iamthatonefangirl and @/barnesonly for organizing our bwat summer collab; go check out everyone else's work! thank you to my baby, @/pinksplace for giving this idea and listening to me continuously crash out about it🫶 and a very special thank you to @/buckybsdoll for not only beta reading it, but for also encouraging this fic is indeed NOT buns, and i can do hard things. love you all🩷
----------
Saturday mornings belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
That is what Bucky tells himself, anyway—what he has been telling himself for the better part of three years, ever since recovery stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started, slowly, cautiously, feeling like a road. Not an easy road, not a straight one, but a road all the same. Something he can wake up and keep walking.
Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.
It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.
This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.
Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.
By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.
Your fingers brush his.
The world splits open.
One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—
Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.
Bucky gasps.
The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.
The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once.
A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.
White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.
A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.
Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.
A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.
Then all of it is gone.
The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.
Your eyes lock on his.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”
It isn’t a question.
In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.
Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.
HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.
You swallow. “That was not normal.”
“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”
The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.
You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”
Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.
He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.
“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.
He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”
You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”
“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”
Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”
He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”
“You looked reckless.”
“That too.”
You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.
For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.
“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”
“A lot,” he agrees.
You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”
He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”
“Same.”
A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.
“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.
That, strangely, is what steadies him.
Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.
He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”
You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”
So that is how it begins.
Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.
With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.
He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.
He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.
When you part, it is almost noon.
You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.
“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”
Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”
“Tragic.”
He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”
You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”
Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”
He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.
“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”
He watches you walk away.
At the corner, you turn and look back.
The city seems to hold its breath.
Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.
Jesus Christ on a plastic sign
The Vegas lifetime comes back first.
Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.
He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.
“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”
Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.
Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.
“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.
You laugh. “Romantic.”
“Practical.”
“Liar.”
You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.
“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”
He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”
Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.
The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.
Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.
On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.
You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”
“Probably is.”
You kiss him anyway.
In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.
He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.
Got another one. Vegas.
The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.
me too
Then, after a beat:
did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?
Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.
we were committed to the bit
You start texting every day after that.
At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us?
But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.
The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.
You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.
“You know those need another week,” he says.
You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”
“Reckless.”
“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”
He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.
You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.
It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.
Your head turns toward him.
His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.
Winding roads, doing manual drive
In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.
Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.
“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”
You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.
“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”
Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.
You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.
“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”
Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”
Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.
Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.
“Anywhere specific?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”
You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.
The air changes.
He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”
Your breath catches.
Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.
“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”
Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.
The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.
You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.
“That one hurt,” you say quietly.
He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.
“You drove stick,” he says.
“I was bad at it.”
“You were terrible.”
You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.
There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”
“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”
“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”
So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.
“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.
He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”
“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”
Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.
When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”
You nod once. “Me too.”
Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.
Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”
Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”
His mouth curves. “Dating?”
“Scandalous, I know.”
He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”
The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.
You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.
It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.
After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.
“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.
His pulse kicks. “Good.”
“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”
He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”
“You should. Honest branding.”
He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.
It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.
He sets his glass down first.
You do the same.
When he steps closer, you do not move away.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.
Your eyes go soft. “Please.”
He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.
But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.
The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The apartment falls away.
Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains
The room is small and gold with lamplight.
In that life, you have been married for six hours.
Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.
You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.
He has never seen anything more beautiful.
You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.
You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.
“We don’t have to,” he says softly.
Your brows draw together. “I want to.”
“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”
Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.
“I want to be married,” you whisper.
He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”
“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”
He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.
The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.
You are not shy for long.
He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.
“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.
“Tell me what you need.”
You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”
He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.
When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.
“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.
You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”
He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.
“Okay?” he whispers.
You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”
So he does.
Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.
When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.
He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.
Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.
“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.
He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”
You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”
He never forgets them.
When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.
The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.
Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.
“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”
He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.
“You okay?” he asks.
Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”
“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”
Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.
You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”
“Don’t apologize.”
When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”
He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.
He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.
“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.
At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.
“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”
He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get it now.”
Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.
The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.
The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.
In between, you date.
Real dates. Present-tense ones.
You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.
And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.
One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.
When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.
“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words do something strange to the air.
You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”
He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”
But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.
You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.
Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night
The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.
In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.
And still, you build.
By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.
By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.
It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.
But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.
Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.
One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.
“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.
You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.
“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.
You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”
“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”
The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.
You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.
“We are,” you whisper.
He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”
You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”
The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.
You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.
Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.
“That one felt different,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.
It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.
“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”
He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”
You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.
“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.
He looks at you. “Doing what?”
“Building a life.”
The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.
You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”
He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.
By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.
By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.
The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.
The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.
You know before the memory hits what it will be.
The note hangs in the air.
Then London rushes in.
late nights in black silk in east london
The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.
Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.
Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.
The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.
And there you are.
You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.
Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.
Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.
“Careful,” his friend mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”
Bucky barely hears him.
When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.
He is doomed.
Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.
“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.
You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”
You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.
“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.
“Only in London.”
“Convenient.”
You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.
“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.
You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”
So he doesn’t.
He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.
On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.
He sits beside you. The stage creaks.
You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.
For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.
Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.
“I hate war,” you say flatly.
“Yeah.”
“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”
He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”
That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.
When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.
“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.
He believes you.
Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.
Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.
“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.
You blink at him. “Terrifying?”
“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”
Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”
He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.
Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.
Not everything. Not all at once. But more.
About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.
That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.
The last of the big memories comes in November.
By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.
At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.
The glass knocks against his ring finger.
Sunlight slams through him.
Neon orange drinks on the beach
Salt lives in the walls of that house.
Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.
You have children in that life. Three of them.
A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.
The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.
It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.
The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.
The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.
“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”
Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”
You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.
Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.
Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.
“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.
You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”
“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”
Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”
You laugh. “I’m shocked.”
“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.
The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.
It is paradise.
Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.
“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”
You tip your face up. “The beach?”
“This.”
The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.
You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”
Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.
It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.
When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.
You are crying.
So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.
“That one was rude,” you say thickly.
He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”
It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.
A future.
You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”
“What?”
“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”
The market blurs around the edges.
Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.
“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”
You inhale sharply.
He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.
“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”
Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”
“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”
Something breaks open in your face.
Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.
“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.
He blinks. “I did?”
“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”
That night you come home with him.
Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.
The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.
There are no visions this time.
No past lives pouring through the cracks.
Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.
“This is ours,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
You reach for him.
The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.
He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.
His throat goes tight.
On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.
“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.
“I’ve got you.”
You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”
When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.
He moves. You move with him.
Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.
He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.
Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.
You draw lazy circles over his sternum.
“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”
His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”
Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.
He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.
Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.
Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.
“Need a bag today?” he asks.
You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.
Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.
No flash comes.
There is no need.
Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.
The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.
And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.
Maybe you have.
Maybe you will again.
Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.
It is not a dramatic ending.
It is better.
It is a life.
And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.
Summary : You fall for Dex, a faerie hunter. Little did you know, he has already decided you belong to him.
Pairing : Faerie Prince! Benjamin Poindexter x Human Princess! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Faerie au, fantasy au, dark romance, obsessive/possessive behaviour, stalking, shapeshifting, hidden identity, predatory courtship, manipulation by way of fae bargaining and loopholes, attempted assault by another character, murder, blood, explicit sexual content (afab reader with no explicit anatomical description), masturbation, fingering, oral sex, praise/degradation, implied captivity, food, north star! Reader. Reader is described to be a "spinster" and I picture her to be in her mid20-mid30s with the king and queen to be in their 60s, but open to interpretation, of course! (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.3k
Requested by : anon
Notes : The Title is Inspired by the song “Call Me Little Sunshine” by Ghost. Enjoy!
Being a princess was, in practice, spectacularly dull. Storybooks had neglected to mention that.
According to the bards, princesses spent their days dancing through rose gardens, befriending woodland creatures, and waiting elegantly by castle windows until the perfect knight arrived on a white horse.
The reality was considerably less glamorous, because reality included embroidery, war planning lessons, standing perfectly still while yet another seamstress held yet another gown against your shoulders and declared that ivory “brought out your breeding.”
The reality often was being escorted absolutely everywhere because, according to your father, kingdoms had a habit of declaring war over unmarried princesses.
You lived in the tallest tower of the royal palace, and not because you were imprisoned, but because it was traditional.
Your father insisted generations of royal sons and daughters had lived there before their weddings. The tower overlooked the capital, the forests beyond the walls, and, on particularly clear evenings, the silver mist that marked the border of the fae realm.
You were forbidden from going anywhere near it. So, naturally, it was the most interesting thing you could see from your window.
Sometimes, a raven came to sit with you on the sill.
He was a sleek, handsome thing with feathers black enough to reflect blue beneath the sunlight and eyes that seemed far too clever for an ordinary bird. He never startled when you moved too suddenly or tried to touch him. He simply watched you, head tilted, while you complained about your lessons, your father, and the latest dreadful man being considered for your hand.
The raven was your only friend.
You had started leaving scraps of breakfast for him, though he never really ate them. Most days, he seemed content merely to listen. Occasionally, he would tap his beak against the window sill or make a croaking sound at exactly the right moment, as though offering an opinion.
Every morning followed the same rhythm of breakfast before lessons, before war planning, before a walk in the palace gardens with no fewer than six guards pretending they weren’t following you, before fencing, before dinner.
Occasionally, your routine was interrupted by another prospective husband. Sometimes it was a prince, other times it would be a duke or a marquess. Once, it was an unfortunate count who spent twenty uninterrupted minutes explaining taxation while trying to court you.
Your father always watched these meetings with hopeful eyes.“What do you think of Prince Alistair?”
“He called me ‘adequate.’”
“He meant well.”
“He compared me to wheat,” you rolled your eyes.
He could only sigh. “Wheat is valuable.”
“I don’t want to marry a man who thinks my greatest quality is being agriculturally useful.”
Your father sighed, and it was the weary sigh of a king rapidly discovering that raising a stubborn daughter was considerably harder than negotiating peace treaties between entire territories. “You cannot refuse everyone.”
“I haven’t refused everyone,” you corrected, which was technically true.
“You’ve refused twelve.”
You held up a finger with a sly smile. “Twelve so far.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are one day going to become queen.”
“I know.”
“You need a husband.”
“I know,” you slumped to your seat, though the corset was now digging into your spine.
“A suitable one.”
“I know.”
“So what exactly are you waiting for?”
You glanced past him, beyond the castle walls, toward the ancient forest shimmering on the horizon.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I feel like if I marry any of them…” You paused. “I’ll be settling.”
Your father smiled sadly, mistaking your hesitation for youthful nerves. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
You smiled back because it was easier than arguing.
The truth was, you already understood.
You simply wanted more than a political alliance and polite conversation over dinner. You wanted someone who made your heart race.
Someone worthy of becoming the subject of stories.
You looked out and simply wondered, if any human prospect was ever going to be remarkable.
—
You had never escaped six armed guards before, but today, you found out that it was surprisingly easy.
They were watching for assassins, kidnappers, enemy soldiers, perhaps even a dragon if the kingdom had been having a particularly difficult week. They were not watching for their princess to lift her skirts, squeeze through a gap in the palace hedge, and run directly into the trees.
By the time anyone shouted your name, you were already gone.
Why did she even do this? Your father would probably ask, but there was really only one answer: boredom.
You were bored of the same rooms, the same lessons, the same walks through the gardens. You were bored of waking each morning already knowing exactly how the day would end.
The raven had visited your windowsill that morning, but he stayed only long enough to tilt his clever little head at you, and then flew back toward the forest.
You had watched him disappear beyond the palace walls and thought, with a miserable pit in your stomach, if only I could be that free.
Perched beside you in the tower one moment, exploring the forest the next.
So you decided to do something about it and ran.
The forest began as ordinary woodland,
but grew stranger the farther west you went. The trees became older, their roots rising through the earth like sleeping serpents, and silver mist gathered between the trunks even beneath a clear sky.
That mist marked the border: Your kingdom ended on this side, and the fae realm began on the other.
You were not stupid enough to cross it.
You were still catching your breath by a rock when you heard something crying in the undergrowth.
The sound drew you deeper into the woods long before you saw its source.
It was not a cry of pain so much as a weary exhale, the sort a creature made after running farther than its body wished to carry it. The forest seemed reluctant to reveal where it came from, as ancient oaks stood shoulder to shoulder like old kings in round tables, their branches weaving together until only ribbons of sunlight reached the moss below. Blue-white motes drifted lazily through the shade, vanishing whenever you tried to follow them with your eyes
The doe lay only a few paces away, as though she had collapsed the instant she reached the safety of your kingdom. She was a beautiful hind with a pale face and enormous dark eyes that blinked sleepily rather than fearfully. The white arrow with black feathers rested against her flank, though when you looked closer your brow furrowed.
There was no blood or torn flesh.
The arrowhead shimmered with threads of pale gold that flowed over the deer’s body like sunlight through water. Wherever the light touched, the muscles beneath her coat relaxed. Her breathing remained calm.
“Oh.” You crouched beside her. “You aren’t hurt, are you, my love?”
The doe lazily lifted her head and nosed your shoulder before letting it fall again into the grass with contented resignation, determined to finish its nap.
You laughed nervously under your breath. “What have they done to you?”
“The Sleep of Rowan.”
The voice came from somewhere inside the silver mist, beautiful enough that it almost seemed to belong to the forest itself.
You looked up.
He stood where the mist was thickest, and somehow the trees seemed arranged around him rather than the other way around. His leathers were the deep blue of the ocean down by the south border, embroidered so finely with bronze thread that every movement caught the light like autumn leaves stirred by the wind.
A longbow rested loosely in one hand, carved from white wood that glimmered with faint silver runes. His hair was slightly tousled, sometimes dark brown and other times it was slightly golden. He was… Fair Folk.
There was no mistaking it.
He had pointed ears peeking through his hair, a strong jaw softened only by expressive lips that looked almost permanently on the verge of a knowing smile. His amber eyes were startlingly bright, flecked with molten gold, his fingers were glowing blue at the tips.
Then there was the scar, crossing one cheek in a narrow line, and one on top of the eye.
It should not have been there. Whatever had given him that one must have been vicious.
You knew now, that any sensible person would walk in the opposite direction.
Unfortunately, you had never been particularly sensible.
“Sleep of Rowan?” you blinked.
He inclined his head toward the doe. “The arrow contains no iron.” His voice carried no arrogance, only certainty. “It numbs the body before it strikes. By the time the arrow lands, the creature feels only warmth. They grow sleepy.”
The doe punctuated his explanation by yawning.
Your heart immediately melted. “Oh, sweetheart.”
The fae watched you smile at the animal. His expression changed so subtly you almost missed it.
Interest, maybe. Recognition, perhaps.
You looked from the doe to the bow resting in his hand. “You mean to kill her?”
“When the forest gives permission.”
You blinked.
He nodded toward the ancient trees surrounding you, fingertips brushing across the carved wood of his bow.
“We never hunt mothers with young,” he continued. “Never more than the Court requires. Every hide is worn and every antler is carved. Every bone shall be returned to the old groves before the first snowfall.”
He spoke not like a man explaining himself, but someone with rules and guidelines so ingrained into his bones it might as well be prayer.
“We borrow a life,” he said quietly. “We are expected to return honour in its place.”
You looked down at the sleeping doe as she twitched once in her dreams.
“Then…” Your fingers drifted automatically to the white patch between her ears, stroking it with infinite care. “…couldn’t you borrow another?”
The fae regarded you with an expression you couldn’t begin to understand.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve already proved you could catch her.”
His brow lifted.
“You did.” You gestured toward the shimmering arrow. “She’s asleep.”
“She is.”
“So you’ve won.”
A tiny smile threatened the corner of his mouth. “I have.”
You looked back at the doe. “Please let her go.” The words escaped so quietly they were almost carried away by the breeze. “Please.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked only at you, but not at your dress or the small golden circlet resting in your hair, but into your eyes and then to the way your hand never stopped stroking the sleeping animal.
The silence stretched so much you began to wonder whether you had insulted him.
Then, without a word, he reached for the arrow. The runes dimmed beneath his fingers, the arrow dissolving into the afternoon air like scattered pollen.
The doe stirred, blinked twice, and climbed to her feet.
She stood for a moment, swaying gently as though waking from the deepest sleep she’d ever known. Then she nudged her nose against your shoulder in what could only be gratitude before disappearing into the trees with three graceful bounds.
Only then did you turn back. “You just… let her go.”
“Yes.”
“Because I asked?”
He smiled. “You asked kindly.”
“That can’t possibly be enough reason.”
“It appears to have been.”
“I’ve just ruined your hunt,” you managed a nervous laugh, “and you’re not angry?”
His eyes held yours. “No.”
“Why?”
He considered the question far longer than it deserved. “Because I preferred watching you.”
Unexpectedly, heat crept up into your cheeks.
There was nothing crude or flirtatious in the way he said it. It sounded like a fact.
He looked at you the way scholars looked at miracles and priests looked at altars: with complete attention, as though every movement you made deserved remembering.
“You have leaves in your hair,” he observed.
You huffed, taking one. “I escaped six guards.”
“I know,” he stepped ever so closer. “They’re still looking for you.”
“How do you know that?” You raised an eyebrow, taking a cautious step back.
His smile deepened ever so slightly. “They’re remarkably loud.”
“I suppose they are.” You sighed. “They worry too much.”
His expression remained pleasantly calm. “They are guarding a princess.”
You sighed, and he merely tilted his head.
After a moment’s silence, you simply asked, “Do… you have a name?”
“Dex.”
“Dex?”
“It will suffice.” You nodded.
“Very well, Dex.”
A brightness flickered across his face at the sound of the name in your voice. Approval, perhaps. Or satisfaction.
He rested the bow across his shoulder with effortless grace. “And you, Princess,” You didn’t even notice that he had done it again. “have convinced me to let my dinner wander off. The least you can do is point me towards the blackberry bushes.”
He knew the forest better than any living creature. Yet somehow, you found yourself leading him through it anyway.
And Dex, Crown Prince of the Wyld Fae, followed without the slightest complaint.
Because, according to every sacred law of the hunt he had ever been taught, once you found something worth following, you did not let it out of your sight.
—
The blackberry bushes grew wild along the riverbank, their thorny branches weighed down with fruit so dark they looked blue beneath the fading light. Dex moved through them selecting one berry from dozens as though there was an art to it. He plucked a particularly lavish one between two fingers and held it toward your mouth.
You stared at the blackberry, then at him. “I’m not stupid.”
Dex managed an infuriating smirk. “It appears you are.”
“Excuse me?”
His mouth pulled into a chuckle. “You think I’m trying to enchant you with fruit that grew in your own kingdom.”
You simply crossed your arms “I am smarter than eating or drinking anything offered by the Fair Folk.”
“The roots are in human soil,” he said, pointing to the roots of the tree. “Made of human rain and human sunlight. You will not be bound to me.”
Ah. Right.
Still, you narrowed your eyes. “No secret marriage?”
Dex looked more amused by your paranoia, as if enjoying toying with it. “No.”
“No hundred-year sleep?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No waking up in your palace wearing a crown?”
Dex’s eyes dipped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Not from the blackberry.”
You should have been more concerned by the distinction. Instead, you leaned forward and took the fruit from his fingers.
It was sweet enough to make you hum, wild and far richer than anything cultivated in the palace gardens. Dex watched you eat it with a satisfaction so singular it was almost ridiculous, as though convincing you to accept one perfectly harmless berry had been the greatest victory of his life.
After that, you talked, mostly about nothing. Then about everything.
You told him about the tower and how the wind made noise through the stones during winter. You complained about your governess, your embroidery lessons, and the latest nobleman your father intended to parade before you like an expensive horse. Dex listened with his full attention, asking questions in places where most people would have nodded politely and waited for you to stop speaking.
He told you about the forest in return, about flowers that only opened beneath eclipses and streams that remembered every person who crossed them. He showed you which mushrooms laughed when stepped on and warned you never to follow lanterns that moved. When you asked whether every fae hunter was as strange as he was, he told you that he was considered perfectly reasonable by the standards of his court.
You didn’t believe him.
The evening came around you while you wandered along the river, eating blackberries you picked yourself and talking until the light turned gold, then rose, then a deep violet between the trees. Dex stayed close. Sometimes, his hand hovered near your waist when you stepped over roots.
By the time the first stars appeared, you had almost forgotten you had escaped the palace at all.
That was until, the distant toll of the evening bell carried through the woods. You stopped beside the river. Dex stopped with you.
“I have to go.” The warmth left his eyes so quickly, and in its place was something coldly neutral. Still, you kept talking. “My father will be very furious.”
“Oh,”
It was all he could say.
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the burnished gold hidden in his dark hair “I like you, Dex,” you said.
He went completely still.
It pleased you, strangely, to know you could surprise him. “Are all fae this kind?”
A glint passed through his mischievous eyes. “Is that what you think I am?”
“My mother says your kind are manipulative,” you said, “She says every gift is a trap and every kindness hides a bargain. She doesn’t trust your kind. Should I?”
Dex glanced toward the silver mist in the distance, then back at you. His frown had gone softer, though no less intent. “I suppose you will have to make up your own mind.”
You considered him as the fae hunter who had released a doe because you asked, as the stranger who had followed you through the forest, listened to every complaint, and fed you nothing that could bind you.
Before you could lose your nerve, you stepped closer and rose onto your toes and pressed a light kiss to the scar on his cheek.
When you drew back, he looked almost dazed, one hand lifting slowly toward the place your lips had touched. For a creature so graceful, so composed, and so clearly dangerous, he appeared wonderfully unprepared for affection.
“Goodnight, Dex.”
You began walking backward toward the palace path.
He remained by the river, watching you leave with that singular concentration.
“Will you be here again?” he asked.
You only smiled. You knew better than to give a promise to a fae.
But you thought the answer was obvious.
—
By the time you slipped back into the palace, dusk had swallowed the gardens.
Your father stopped you only long enough to ask where you had been. You could tell he was furious under his skin, having sent half his kingsguard on a fruitless search party.
You lied with the ease expected of royalty, telling him you've been reading in the reclusive west tower all afternoon. After all, you have been trained to lie to foreign dignitaries from birth.
“You are the Crown Princess,” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should have told us if you wanted to be one. You cannot simply disappear.”
“I won’t do it again,” you said, fully intending to do it again.
Once safely inside your tower, you dismissed your ladies, locked the door, and collapsed onto your bed with a sigh.
The ceiling stared back, and so did your thoughts.
You, of course, thought about Dex.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
You knew the fae hunter was a terrible idea. But he was beautiful enough that every story your mother had ever told suddenly felt painfully believable.
You rolled onto your side, hugging one of the embroidered pillows to your chest. It was only harmless fun, right?
You weren’t making bargains. You weren’t wandering into Faerie. You weren’t accepting enchanted feasts beneath silver trees.
You knew the rules.
You couldn’t eat his food, but surely…
Surely you could have some fun with him.
That wasn’t forbidden.
…Probably.
You buried your face in the pillow with a groan. “This is how princesses end up cursed.”
Suddenly, you heard a gentle tap against the window, followed by another a few seconds later.
You turned immediately, your smile widening as familiar black feathers came into view. “There you are.”
The raven hopped onto the stone sill as it had done a thousand times before, folding his wings neatly against himself before fixing you with that strangely thoughtful stare of his.
You opened the window, and he stepped inside as though he’d always belonged there.
He gave one little chirp.
You laughed under your breath, pretending to be able to talk to him, because you always seemed to pretend he knew everything on your mind. “I know.”
He hopped a little closer.
“He’s a bad idea.”
The raven blinked.
“A very bad idea.”
He seemed to furrow his amber eyes, which was ridiculous to even imagine, right.
“…But he’s awfully gorgeous.”
The bird made a small little croak.
“I know.”
You smiled helplessly, as he nuzzled to your fingers.
Your heart melted immediately. “Oh, you.”
You gathered him carefully against your chest, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. His feathers were warm beneath your cheek, damp with the scent of leaves and evening air.
“You’re still my favourite,” you half-promised. “Even if Dex is very pretty.”
The raven settled into your arm, satisfied.
You held him while looking toward the distant forest, completely unaware that he had arrived much later than usual.
—
You had not slept properly in three nights.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Dex was waiting beneath the trees. Sometimes he stood beside the river with evening light caught in his hair. Other times he was close enough that you could see every tiny fleck in his eyes and the faint silver edge of the scar you had kissed. Once, in a dream so vivid you woke with your heart racing, he had simply watched you from the other side of the mist while you tried to find the path back to him.
By the third night, lying awake and pressing your face into a pillow had begun to feel undignified.
So you abandoned your bed, pulled a cloak over your nightdress and crept down to the oldest part of the royal library with a candle cupped between both hands.
The palace was unnervingly still at that hour, thanks to the portraits watching you pass through dark corridors, and every floorboard that determined to announce that the crown princess was wandering barefoot toward a locked collection of forbidden books because she could not stop thinking about a beautiful stranger.
The books concerning the Fair Folk were kept beneath the main library, behind an iron gate whose hinges had bled rust into the surrounding stone. Your mother kept the key in her study, hidden beneath a false-bottomed drawer so obvious that you suspected she had never once considered you might look.
The lower level library smelled of old leather, damp parchment and extinguished fires. Shelves climbed toward the vaulted ceiling, crowded with books no one had touched in decades. Some of them were even bound shut with iron clasps. Others had charms stitched into their covers or warnings written across their spines in three different languages.
You found the passage about the Wyld Court in a green leather volume, frail with age.
Several dried anemones had been pressed between its pages. Their white petals had yellowed around the edges, and one crumbled beneath your thumb when you turned to the chapter on the Hunt.
The first few pages were almost reassuring.
Human stories called the Wyld savage because they hunted often, but the account insisted this was ignorance rather than truth.
The Wyld do not kill for purely sport. Their hunters study the land before taking anything from her, sometimes watching a herd through an entire season to understand which lives could be spared without leaving young unprotected or weakening the group before winter. They never hunt during birthing months. They never took more than the court required. Every part is used and every hunt ends with a rite beneath the oldest trees.
You smiled.
You remembered Dex's voice when he explained why he wasn’t ashamed to hunt. He had simply believed it should be done with his ancient ritual.
The next section described how Wyld hunters selected their quarry.
They never choose impulsively.
A hunter watches first. They learn where the animal drank, where it sleeps, which trail it favours and how it behaves when startled. They study the rhythm of its body, the sounds it makes when content, the direction it turns when frightened and the places it instinctively returns to when it believes itself safe.
You shift the candle closer.
It was practical, of course. A skilled hunter had to know what he followed.
Dex had been like that with the doe, you supposed.
The book continued.
Once the quarry has been selected, the hunter begins appearing along its path, never close enough to alarm it, and never so often that it flees the territory entirely. They learn of its world before stepping inside it, careful not to disturb the habits they wish to understand.
That sounded…. strangely gentle.
You imagined Dex moving through the forest without snapping a twig, following the doe from somewhere beyond the trees.
A note in the margin had been written in a shakier hand than the rest:
The Wyld considers attention an act of reverence.
You traced the words.
“Mmm,” you whispered, though there was no one there to agree with you.
He had seemed to have undivided attention.
Dex had listened to you with the same concentration gave the forest.
You had assumed he was simply considerate.
The book described a hunter’s patience in borderline devotional language.
The hunter does not chase too early. He lets the quarry become accustomed to his presence, appearing at familiar places until their presence no longer causes alarm. If it looks toward them instead of away, that is considered progress. If it remains nearby willingly, it is a sign that the pursuit has entered its next stage.
Your mouth curled up. The doe, freed, hadn’t remained near Dex.
You had, but surely it must be different. You were not prey.
You barely entertained the intrusive thought before returning to the page.
The Wyld believes pursuit should be quiet. A careless hunter frightens away what they hope to bring close. A patient one learns how to make his presence welcome. They leave signs along familiar paths, small objects chosen with care that the quarry would recognise they have not appeared by accident. They remove thorns and stones from frequently used trails. They frighten away other predators before they are ever seen.
You pressed your thighs together beneath the table without thinking.
It was not fear that you felt. It was the memory of Dex following you beside the river, the way he had watched you eat the blackberry as though the smallest movement of your mouth fascinated him. The way his eyes changed when you said you liked him.
Perhaps Wyld hunters were simply intense people.
Some men at court barely remembered the colour of your eyes after spending an entire dinner speaking about themselves. Dex had looked at you once and seemed to notice everything.
That was hardly frightening. It was flattering.
You turned another page.
The descriptions grew more… intimate.
A hunter learns the sound of their quarry’s footsteps before they ever see it. They can identify its scent beneath rain, smoke, or crushed leaves. Over time, they begin to anticipate where it would go before it had made the decision itself.
You smiled dreamily, picturing Dex somewhere in the western woods already knowing which path an animal would take.
Perhaps he would be waiting near the river. Perhaps there would be anemones beside the blackberry bushes.
You hoped there would be.
A final passage sat at the bottom of the page, separated from the rest by an inked border of thorns. You bent closer to read it.
Wyld fae are occasionally known to form attachments of extraordinary depth to their prey. Once a hunter has chosen, fixation may last years, centuries or the full span of an immortal life. Distance rarely weakens it. It may delay the pursuit, but seldom ends the attachment itself.
Well… that sounded a little excessive.
You turned the page quickly.
The next chapter concerned Wyld courtship.
Anemones appeared again in the illustration. You expected this part to be filled with poems and stories. Maybe an explanation of some elaborate fae ritual performed beneath a full moon. You expected several paragraphs at least.
Instead, the chapter contained a single sentence with letters that were larger than the rest of the book, boxed in black ink and surrounded by a border of thorns:
WARNING: WYLD FAE DO NOT RELIABLY DISTINGUISH BETWEEN COURTSHIP AND THE PURSUIT OF PREY.
Huh. You thought. How vague.
—
The next morning, your mother returned just after sunrise with thirty riders, two foreign ambassadors, enough sealed documents to keep the council occupied for a fortnight, and a potential husband.
Ugh.
The palace bells rang the moment her party crossed the outer gate.
Servants hurried through the corridors carrying fresh flowers, guards straightening their uniforms. Courtiers appeared from nowhere, already smiling before the queen had even dismounted.
Queens inspired that sort of efficiency.
Your kingdom had always been matriarchal. Daughters inherited crowns. Queens wore crowns and commanded legions while kings negotiated peace treaties.
Kings advised. Queens decided.
Which meant your marriage had always been your father’s responsibility. The fact that your mother was now getting involved meant one of two things: you were becoming a spinster, or your prospects have started to look so concerning, even the head of state had to lend a hand. In your case, probably both.
She embraced you only briefly before holding you at arm’s length. “You look tired.”
“I’ve been unable to rest, mother.”
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve inherited your father’s habit of avoiding sleep.”
She smoothed an imaginary crease from your sleeve before her eyes settled back into regal.
“I’ve brought guests.”
You looked past her, and one of them was already looking at you.
You recognised him immediately as Lord Edmund, though you’d never met him.
You’d heard enough.
You heard ladies from across the land whispering his name behind fans at winter banquets, and their maids lowered their voices when he walked past. A merchant’s daughter had once refused to dance with him at a feast, that she’d been sent away to live with an aunt before the week was over.
Nothing had ever been proven, but you heard these things happened because of his very unpleasant behaviour.
He was handsome enough, and more importantly rich enough, to make the rumours inconvenient.
“My lady.”
He bowed and took your hand. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist with lazy familiarity before releasing you immediately tucked your hand behind your back. “You’ve grown even lovelier than your portraits.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
He laughed.
Your mother looked between the two of you with quiet satisfaction. “Lord Edmund has spent the last month travelling with our delegation.”
“I’m honoured,” he gave a saccharine smile,
“You should be.” She said it lightly, but you knew that tone. She had already decided this alliance made sense.
Oh. No.
As her conversation moved elsewhere, you took half a step backwards, and Lord Edmund took half a step forwards.
No one noticed when his hand settled lightly against the small of your back with enough pressure that you felt every finger through the silk of your gown.
Your body stiffened.
“So tense,” he murmured.
You moved away, and of course mother turned just then.
“There you are.”
You forced yourself to smile.
The bastard looked every inch the perfect gentleman.
“Lord Edmund has mentioned going on a hunt tomorrow,” She mentioned, adjusting one of your curls behind your ear. “You’ll accompany him.”
Your stomach dropped. “Mother…”
“It will do you good to leave the palace.”
“I don’t enjoy hunting.”
“You enjoy forests.”
Not the same forest, you thought, Not the same hunter.
Your hesitation lasted a heartbeat too long.
Your mother frowned slightly. “You’ve refused every suitor your father introduced.”
“I barely know any of them.”
“Exactly,” her voice lowered. “You cannot know a person’s character across a dinner table.”
She glanced toward Lord Edmund, who was speaking pleasantly with your father.
“Watch how a man behaves when he’s armed.”
It was advice every queen passed to every daughter: A gentleman could lie, but a hunter rarely did.
“I think you’ll find him disciplined.”
Oh, you very much doubted that.
—
The next day, you did go hunting with Lord Edmund.
The only alarming detail was that you returned dragging his dead body behind your horse.
By the time you reached the palace gates, the rope around his ankles had rubbed the leather of his boots raw and left a dark trail through the dirt. His expensive hunting coat was torn open at one shoulder, caked with mud and dead leaves, and his head struck every uneven stone with a dull, ugly rhythm that made several of the guards flinch as they rushed to meet you.
You rode straight through the gates, eyes blank beneath the grime, skirts streaked green and brown from the forest floor, one hand wound tightly around the reins while the other still trembled despite your best efforts.
Your father reached you first. He looked relieved to see you alive, only to collapse into horror when he noticed what followed behind. Your mother arrived seconds later, still fastening the clasp of her cloak, and stopped so abruptly that the entire courtyard seemed to halt, too, as she looked down at Edmund.
You dismounted without assistance and untied the rope from the saddle. His entire body dropped heavily onto the cobblestones at your feet.
“He went into fae territory,” you said. Your voice sounded remarkably calm.
Your mother stared at the arrow buried cleanly through Edmund’s chest. Fae work, unmistakably.
You nudged his shoulder with the toe of your boot and looked down at him with exhausted contempt. “Very sad.”
What a lie.
The truth was that Edmund had never intended to hunt anything.
He had looked convincing enough when you left the palace that morning in fine hunting leathers and a freshly carved bow.
For the first hour, he thanked the servants, praised the hounds and kept his hands where everyone could see them.
Then, he began thinning the party.
The dogs were too noisy, so he sent the handlers east. The scouts had supposedly found fresh tracks near the ridge, so the huntsmen followed. The guards were told to wait with the spare horses near the stream because too many riders would disturb the game. His instruction sounded reasonable by itself, and even though you had been suspicious, you didn’t understand what he was doing until you were alone.
Only then did you notice that he had not examined a single track all morning. He had not tested the wind, drawn his bow or once looked into the bushes.
He had watched your body instead, not listening to what on earth you were saying. He hungrily watched the sway of your body in the saddle, and how your skirt shifted when you dismounted to cross a fallen tree. Whenever you tried to turn the conversation back toward the hunt, his attention slid away from the forest and returned to you with the same damp, crawling persistence.
By the time he guided you toward the border, silver mist was already visible between the ancient trunks.
You told him you wanted to turn back. You even pulled your horse around, but Edmund blocked the narrow path with his own and smiled at you as though your fear amused him.
There was no deer trail or quarry, no reason to be there except the isolation and the knowledge that no human voice would carry far enough for help to come.
That was when the performance ended.
He caught your wrist when you reached for the reins and dragged you down badly enough that your shoulder struck the side of the saddle. Your boots hit the ground unevenly, and before you could recover, his body pressed yours up against the horse.
You told him no, I’m not interested.
You said it clearly and shoved at his chest and tried to twist away, but he only laughed under his breath, as though refusal were a nervous habit he expected to train out of you after marriage.
And when his hand forced its way beneath your skirts…. An arrow came through the silver mist so suddenly that the air scarcely had time to whisper around it.
It struck Edmund through the heart.
You knew the arrow immediately. It was the same white arrow with black feathers, the same fine silver runes carved along the shaft. It was the same one he had used on the doe, except there was no Sleep of Rowan in his mercy.
Oh. This one hurt.
Edmund’s hand tore away from you at once, his face blank with shock as he staggered backward, looking down at the arrow as blood welled dark through his coat. He collapsed first to his knees and then onto his side, choking on a breath that would not come properly.
The mist moved between the trees, and somewhere inside it stood a hunter who had watched long enough to understand exactly what Edmund had intended.
Edmund was still alive when you walked over to him.
His eyes found yours, wide now, stripped of all his arrogance. His mouth opened as though he expected you to help. Perhaps he thought you would call for the guards.
Instead, you looked down at him, shaking with fury, and relief so vicious it almost felt like joy.
Then you spat in his face.
He died seconds after.
You stood over the body for several long moments, wrist throbbing where he had held you.
Dex had killed him.
Dex had seen and he had known exactly what was happening and had not hesitated for even the space of a heartbeat.
You should have been horrified, you should have looked at Edmund’s blood soaking into the moss and felt sick over the life extinguished at your feet.
Instead, you felt safe.
It took you nearly an hour to secure Edmund’s ankles and drag him back through the woods, following a vague trail of blackberries that ensured you made it back safely, knowing exactly who put them there. You didn’t remove the arrow; wanted your mother to see it.
Now, standing in the palace courtyard with your parents staring at the corpse, you folded your hands in front of you.
Your mother crouched beside Edmund and studied the entry wound. Her face remained composed, but her eyes flicked once toward the bruises around your wrist before returning to the arrow.
“He crossed the border?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And the fae killed him without warning?”
You met her eyes. “He should have known better.”
Your father looked stricken. Your mother looked unconvinced.
Neither of them asked why Edmund’s bow was still strapped neatly across his back, unused. They didn’t even ask why one side of your skirt had been torn near the hem.
Neither of them seemed to want to ask why you showed no grief.
—
That night, your mother sent you back to your chambers to sleep.
And you should’ve at least tried.
Instead, you lay tangled beneath your blankets, staring up at the canopy while your mind wandered helplessly back to the western forest, and the dead body of a potential suitor.
Soon enough, your mind wandered back to Dex.
His name alone made heat unfurl in your stomach.
It was ridiculous how easily he ruined you. He had barely touched you the one time he saw you. Tonight, he hadn’t even shown his face.
But somehow, before you called for him, Dex had known you needed him.
Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets.
What a sick fucking thought, you scolded yourself, what a sick fucking mind I have, that this makes my core weep?
“No,” you whispered to yourself, but your body had no interest in your dignity.
But your hand was moving between your legs before shame could stop you.
Beneath the blankets, your fingers slipped lower, tentative at first, then less so as you imagined Dex with your eyes closer.
A soft gasp left your lips.
“Dex.” The name came out needy, more pathetic than you meant it to. Still, pleasure sparked through you at the sound of it.
You said it again, quieter this time.
“Dex.”
Your fingers moved faster.
You bit your lip and tilted your face into the pillow, trying to swallow the next sound, but it escaped anyway, in the form of a helpless gasp that made your whole body shiver beneath the sheets.
You were shameless, lying alone in your tower, touching yourself to the thought of the fae who had killed the man meant to court you.
Another tremor of pleasure rolled through you as your back arched faintly from the mattress.
“Dex,” you breathed again, a little broken now.
It felt like summoning him. It felt like a confession.
You imagined him at the foot of your bed, hearing exactly how his name sounded when it left your mouth like that. You imagined his head tilting, his eyes darkening, his perfect composure cracking because you were not afraid enough, because you wanted him. Because some wicked part of you had read all the cautionary tales about fair folk and and thought yes.
Yes, him.
Yes, please.
The thought made you whimper into the pillow.
Pleasure built slowly, then all at once, warm and dizzying. You chased it with your eyes shut and his name on your tongue, thinking blood on moss and the beautiful fae monster who had looked at you through the mist.
“Dex, please—”
You didn’t know what you were pleading for.
You only knew you wanted more than just your fingers. You wanted more of that shameful sweetness rolling through you.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. Your lips parted around a mewling sound. The pleasure crested so suddenly you nearly sobbed, your body going tight and shaking beneath the blankets as his name fell from your mouth one last time, helpless and utterly damning.
For a while, you could only lie there, glassy eyes staring up at the canopy as though it had witnessed your fall from grace.
An absent-minded smile made its way to your mouth before you could stop it.
“You really are a terrible idea,” you sighed into the darkness.
The words held no conviction at all.
Outside your window, the raven landed silently upon the stone sill.
He watched you through all that, head tilted thoughtfully, black feathers gleaming blue beneath the moonlight.
That night, you didn’t notice him.
Nor did you notice that, for the first time since you had known him, he didn’t tap impatiently against the glass to ask you to let him in.
He simply remained where he was, keeping watch over the lonely tower until dawn.
—
By morning, you had decided you only wanted to thank him.
A perfectly reasonable thing, right? A man saved your life and your dignity, even if he was not exactly a man. It was only… polite.
You sat on the edge of your bed, fingers curled into the blankets, staring toward the window.
You… should know better.
But wanting never really came with a rhyme or reason.
So, you dressed quickly, perhaps too quickly.
Your fingers fumbled with the laces of your gown, and you had to redo them twice. Your hair refused to sit properly and reflection looked entirely too flushed, too guilty for a princess who had technically done nothing wrong.
Technically.
You leaned closer to the mirror and frowned at yourself.
“You are going to say thank you in person,” you said firmly. “That is all.”
Your reflection did not look convinced.
“You are only doing this, because he came to your rescue,” you continued, because apparently arguing with glass was where your morning had gone. “Like a civilised woman. You have manners, right?”
Still, your reflection looked at you as if to say that civilised women with manners did not usually wander alone into fae woods after spending the night thinking improper things about the fae in question.
You ignored her.
At breakfast, you had honeyed bread, the sugared fruit, the little cakes glazed gold beneath the kitchen light. You needed to eat, just in case. You cannot find yourself hungry in the presence of Wyld Fae!
You could not be tempted to eat or drink anything he gives you, that’s all. You needed a full stomach, because you weren’t foolish
Less than an hour later, you were slipping out through the western gate alone.
With your mother’s return, it was even easier to sneak out this time, as many of the guards were preoccupied with the queen’s every whims and needs. A queen, that your father loved to remind you, that you would one day be, too.
Still.
The morning air was damp, mist clinging to the grass beyond the castle grounds, thin as lace, and the forest stood ahead of you in a dark green wall of ancient trunks and tangled branches.
Eventually, you stopped at the edge of it.
The trees seemed to notice as it shifted though when there was no wind. Somewhere deep in the woods, a bird called once, then fell silent. The path you had taken yesterday was still there, winding blackberries between moss-covered stones and pale roots, but in daylight it looked… narrower.
Stranger.
You swallowed.
“Dex?” Your voice sounded terribly small.
Nothing answered an took one step beneath the trees.
The forest swallowed the sounds of the castle almost at once. The distant clatter of carts, the faint bells from the chapel tower, the servants calling to one another across the courtyard was barely noise behind you.
You walked for what felt like an hour.
Then another.
At first, you told yourself he would appear any moment. Dex seemed exactly the sort of person who enjoyed doing that. He would step from behind a tree, and ask whether you made a habit of wandering into dangerous places alone.
You had already prepared an excellent answer.
No, you would say. If I assumed I was in danger, I would not be here.
But Dex did not appear.
By midday, your boots were wet and the hem of your dress had collected half the forest floor. You had crossed the same fallen branch three times, which either meant you were walking in circles or the branch was following you. You had apologetically startled at least four rabbits, nearly tripped over a root that had definitely not been there a moment before, and apologised to a mushroom because it looked like it was wilting when you stepped too close.
“This is foolish,” you whispered.
Then, a branch shifted above you.
You looked up to see your raven friend sat on a low bough. His head tilted, bright eyes fixed on you with unsettling intelligence.
“Oh,” you said. “It’s you.”
The raven blinked.
For a moment, you could not move.
He looked exactly as he had outside your window: watchful and clever, as most corvids are.
Huh. You thought. He travels far, doesn’t he?
Because if this bird knew the forest, maybe he knew where Dex was, or at least where the most dense fae population was near the border. If he did, then perhaps you were not wandering blindly through the woods after all.
You took one step closer towards your friend. “I don’t suppose you could help me?”
The raven gave a small chirp.
Your mouth curved into the smallest smile. “I only want to thank him,” you said.
The raven stared as your smile faded.
“All right,” you whispered, finally admitting to him what you had failed to admit to yourself all night. “I want to see him.”
The raven dropped from the branch and landed lightly on the moss.
Behind him, the mist thickened between two dark trees.
It didn’t drift so much as gathered.
The silver-white started subtly glowing, curling over the roots like silk poured over bone. The path you had followed seemed to end there, as if the forest had brought you as far as ordinary courage could take you.
The raven stepped toward it, then looked back.
“No,” you whispered. “Stay, please. I don’t want to be alone.”
He only watched you.
The air cooled against your skin. Suddenly, the castle felt distant, like it belonged to another princess, a safer princess. A princess who would not follow a raven to the ends of the earth because she wanted to see a dangerous man smile.
And just after giving a little croak, the raven vanished into the white.
You stood at the edge, alone now, cloak ends pooling around your ankles.
For one moment, you thought you saw something through the mist, like gold flowers and black thorns along a path no human should walk. And deeper still, briefly, you could’ve sworn you saw amber eyes watching from the other side.
Your lips parted. “Dex?”
When no answer came, you should have turned back.
You knew that, but longing was not sensible. And whatever Dex had become to you since he met you… that was not sensible either.
You stepped forward and the mist touched your boots first. Then your hem, then your hands.
You should have turned back.
Instead, you took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.
—
Eventually, the mist disappeared.
It thinned around you in pale ribbons, peeling back from your face and shoulders until the forest revealed itself by degrees.
It took you a while to blink awake, looking around blankly at the white that was now retreating when…. Oh. Oh, wow.
It was beautiful.
Moss glowed faintly pink beneath your boots. The trees rose black and enormous on every side, their bark veined with silver, their roots twisting through the earth like sleeping serpents. Violet flowers bloomed among thorns, heavy-headed and luminous, turning slightly as you stepped forward as though even the plants wanted to look at you.
It was very clear that wherever you had gone, it was far away from the human realm.
You looked around, looking for your raven friend.
You looked through the strange trees, the unnatural sky, and the path of white stones winding away into the woods as if it had been waiting for your feet.
You found nothing.
Your strange little friend had vanished.
You turned in a circle, searching the branches above you and the curling mist behind you.
“Hello?” you called quietly.
Nothing answered.
You frowned, though your heartbeat was too quick for proper annoyance.
“You cannot just lead me through the mist and abandon me,” you managed to say. “It’s rude.”
A drop of water fell from a leaf somewhere overhead.
Still, no raven.
You took another careful step. The moss gave beneath your boots with a cushion-y feel that felt almost alive. “Where did you go?”
At last, a voice behind you said, “Lost, princess?”
You turned so quickly your cloak swung around your legs.
Oh.
Dex stood beneath a silver-barked tree.
In that moment, all your prepared thoughts vanished.
He looked less like he had walked here and more like the forest had grown him. He was as pretty as you last remembered him, eyes fixed on you with that calm attention that made your stomach tighten and your thoughts go embarrassingly pliant at the edges.
Your breath hitched as his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.
You remembered yourself with effort.
You had found him, yes, but you had some dignity left in you. You weren't going to make this easy for him.
“Where is my friend?” You said instead.
He raised an eyebrow slightly, though he didn’t seem confused at all. “Your friend?”
“The raven.” You glanced over your shoulder, still half-expecting the bird to appear on a branch. “He was right here. He led me through, and then he disappeared.”
Dex looked past you with mild, infuriating faux innocence. “Ravens are difficult to command.”
“I did not command him,” you insisted, trying to look away, even as you have found what you came for. “I asked for help.”
Dex tilted his head. “Did he?”
“He did,” you nodded, “but then abandoned me.”
“Perhaps he thought you had arrived safely.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You say that as though you know where he went.”
“I know very little about the private affairs of true ravens.”
“That sounds like a lie.”
Technically, it wasn’t.
Dex’s mouth curved up, barely, enough to make heat lick up the back of your neck. “You crossed into fae territory to interrogate me about a bird?”
“No.”
“Then why did you come?”
The question should have an easy answer. In fact, you have practiced it on the walk through the outer woods, when the trees still looked ordinary and you still had the comfort of pretending this was a sensible errand. You had told yourself you would be calm and grateful. You would thank him properly and then go home.
But Dex was looking at you now, all that polite pretenses felt suddenly thin.
“I wanted to find you,” you said weakly.
You hated that the words felt so bare once spoken, because you didn’t even say I wished to thank you or I owe you a debt of gratitude. It didn’t sound like court manners or duty.
I wanted to find you.
Dex took one step closer and asked. “Why?”
You swallowed.
You had many things you wanted to say, none of them a good idea saying. You wanted to tell him you had not slept properly because every time you shut your eyes, you saw the arrow split the mist.
“I wanted to thank you,” you said.
Dex’s eyes stayed on your face. “For killing the foul creature who wished to touch you against your will?”
You looked down.
Your fingers twisted in the edge of your cloak. For a moment, the forest around you blurred into last evening: Edmund too close, his fingers where they had no right to be.
The memory made your skin go cold.
You looked up at him. “Yes,” you whispered. “For him.”
Dex came closer, slowly, like approaching prey.
He gave you space to step back, space to turn away. You didn’t.
“You do not need to thank me for that,” he said, “it was my responsibility.”
His responsibility?
It certainly was not.
You should’ve questioned it. But unfortunately, you had more… urgent matters in your mind.
“I want to,” you insisted.
His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on your flushed cheeks, your mouth, the rise and fall of your chest beneath your corset.
“And that is all?” He asked.
The air warmed between you. Or perhaps that was only your body betraying you.
You lifted your chin. “Yes.”
Dex’s eyes barely changed, but you knew he didn’t believe you for a second. “Princess…” he tsked, almost scolding in nature.
“I came to thank you,” you insisted, as if repetition could make it any less untrue. Still, you were unable to meet his eyes as you said it.
“I heard what you said.”
“It is the truth.”
“No.” He stepped closer again, close enough now that you could smell rain on leather and pine. “It is part of the truth, isn't it?”
Your back touched the smooth trunk of a silver-barked tree not realising you had stepped back.
Dex stopped immediately, one hand bracing against the tree beside your shoulder. He didn’t cage you in fully or press his body to yours. He simply stood close enough that your breath tangled with his, close enough that if you leaned forward even an inch, your mouth would find his.
“Do not pretend a you’re welcome is all you should expect from me today,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
His eyes lowered to your lips. “It is frankly insulting,” he continued.
A scandalised little sound escaped you. “I do not expect anything from you.”
He smiled. “Liar.”
You should have been offended. You were, distantly, beneath the pounding of your heart and the sudden awareness of your own body, there was probably a very respectable princess who objected to being called a liar by a fae hunter in the middle of an enchanted forest.
Unfortunately, she was not currently in charge.
Dex lifted his free hand. You watched it rise, unable to move.
His knuckles brushed beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his in a feather-light touch.
“Look into my eyes,” he said softly. “And tell me you came only to thank me.”
You held his gaze, and you really did try to force it out, but would not come.
Dex’s thumb brushed the corner of your lips.
“There,” he murmured. “I thought so.”
Your throat went dry. “T-this is very unfair.”
“Is it?” Dex looked amused.
“You know what you are doing.”
“Yes.”
The honesty made something your stomach pull tight.
His eyes darkened, not with cruelty or triumph, but with want so restrained it almost looked like pain.
“Can I kiss you, princess?”
Oh.
You didn’t expect fae to be this… blunt.
Heat rushed down your throat and settle behind your ribs. It made you remember Edmund again,m, because Edmund had not asked. Edmund had pushed close and taken space and treated your refusal like a bug he could smother beneath his heel.
Dex asked.
Dex, who could have been terrifying without trying. Dex, who has killed for you. Dex, whose mouth hovered near yours and still waited.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Only then did he lower his mouth to yours.
He kissed you slowly at first. His lips brushed yours once, and for one second, he let you decide, let you lean in, and let you press yourself closer to him. You fingers curled into the front of his cloak as you kissed him back.
Then you made the neediest sound against his mouth, and his control snapped thin.
He kissed you deeper, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers warm beneath your hair. The tree was cool against your spine, his body warm in front of you, and between them you felt held rather than trapped.
His mouth opened over yours with a hunger that made your knees buckle, but even then, even with his fingers tightening slightly at your nape, he kissed like you were the singular thing that gave his life meaning.
You clutched his cloak, body tilting toward him before your pride could stop it.
Dex groaned quietly into the kiss.
Oh, what a wonderful sound.
You pulled him closer, and his other hand found your waist. His grip was warm as though he needed to feel the shape of you. He kissed you until your lips tingled, until your breath came in shallow little gasps.
When he broke away, it was only to press his mouth to your jaw, then your throat.
You tipped your head back before you could stop yourself.
Dex’s mouth curved against your skin with a little hum.
You were already shaking. “Do not sound pleased with yourself.”
“But I am,” he mumbled.
His teeth grazed the side of your neck just enough to make your fingers dig into his shoulders.
“Dex.”
For all his composure, his reaction gave him away. He liked your voice like that. He liked you, breathless and honest, he liked that that you had come here dressed in gratitude and were now pressed against a silver tree, melting under his mouth.
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, then lower. over the fabric, dragging heat in the wake of his palm.
Your breath hitched.
Dex froze at once. “Can I touch you?”
Your eyes opened halfway.
He was watching you now, close enough that his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.
“Yes,” you said, cheeks burning “Yes, Dex. Touch me.”
His hand tightened once on your hip before he kissed you again and gathered your skirts, agonisingly slowly.
He did so layer by layer, his fingers drawing the fabric upward, exposing your stockings, your garters, the bare skin above them to the cool air of the fae wood.
You should have felt vulnerable, and part of you did, but you were not afraid. The vulnerability made your heart pound harder and your mouth open against his.
Dex felt your thighs part before his hand had even reached them.
“Oh, princess.” It was filthy and wondrous at the same time.
Your face burned as his fingers brushed your inner thigh.
You gasped.
Dex’s eyes darkened as his hand slid higher.
The first touch between your legs made you jolt against him. He found you slick already, shamefully wet, soaked from his kiss and his voice and the humiliating truth that he had been right. Thank you was not all you had come for, not even close.
For one second, Dex didn’t move much.
He dragged his finger through, feeling the slick heat of you against his fingers and your hips giving the smallest helpless tilt toward his hand.
His teeth clenched hard enough to make the muscle jump.
“Oh,” he breathed again, rougher this time. “You really did come here wanting me.”
Your hand flew to his wrist to hold him there. “I c-came to thank you,” you insisted for the third time.
His fingers slid through your wetness, and the sound beneath your skirts was utterly indecent.
Your breath broke.
Dex’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Yes,” he murmured. “You are thanking me very well.”
The words made you clench around nothing.
Dex felt that too. His smile felt dangerous against your cheek.
“Ah,” he whispered. “Shameless little thing.”
You would have protested if his thumb had not found the puffy sensitive bundle of nerves, begging for his attention.
The touch was light at first, circling through the slick, making pleasure spark hot beneath your skin. Your head tipped back into his waiting palm. He kissed your exposed throat, open-mouthed, while his fingers learned you beneath your gown.
He was too careful to be rushed but too precise to be merciful.
Every movement had purpose. Every stroke, every firm circle. His thumb pressed a little firmer.
Your knees buckled.
Dex caught you with his body, pinning you gently against the tree while his hand kept moving.
His fingers slid lower. “Still only here to be polite?”
You made a strangled sound. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you gasped. “I don’t.”
His first finger pushed inside you, and the sound of it could be heard within the hush of the forest.
Your mouth fell open on a mewl, and Dex’s forehead dropped to your collarbone. He held still for a heartbeat, letting you clenched around him.
You gripped his cloak with both hands. “More.”
His eyes nearly closed.
His composure cracked, hunger flashing naked and bright through the careful mask, and then he kissed you hard as his finger began to move, gently at first, slick and deep, curling inside you until pleasure jolted through your hips.
You cried out against his mouth.
Dex swallowed the sound like he had been starving for it. “There?”
You could not answer.
He curled his finger again, and your body jerked.
“Need words, princess.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “There. Please.”
His thumb circled while his finger worked inside you, the rhythm steady and wickedly exact. Every stroke made a pool of arousal gather around his hand.
His smile should have made you embarrassed.
Instead, it made you shameless, rocking down onto his hand with a broken little whimper.
Dex groaned.
“You hear that?” he murmured.
Your eyes squeezed shut. “Dex.”
“You do,” he said, kissing your cheek. “You hear how badly you want me.”
He added a second finger.
The stretch made your breath catch.
His fingers moved again, sliding into you with ease that made your face burn and your body melt. He curled them carefully, pressing deep, finding that same place until your thighs shook around his wrist.
Dex watched you like you were the only thing in the forest.
Not like Edmund.
Edmund had wanted you afraid. Dex wanted you ruined by pleasure.
Your hands clutched his shoulders. Your hips chased his fingers. You moaned into his neck, too far gone to care about the old stories warning girls never to follow fae men into the woods.
You had followed. You had crossed.
You were here.
So you might as well make the most of it, right?
“Dex,” you mewled as pleasure flared so bright you nearly sobbed.
“There,” he whispered. “Better than your own fingers, right?”
You should have noticed. You should have asked how he knew what you had done in your tower. You should have questioned how he knew his name had been in your mouth the night before.
But his fingers curled again and your thoughts scattered.
Dex smiled on your throat. “That’s what I thought.”
He didn’t give you time to recover.
His hand moved quicker now, fingers buried deep to his knuckles, thumb steady as pleasure climbed too fast and too high. Your whole body tightened around him, hips rolling shamelessly into his palm, chasing every stroke. You were wet enough that the sound of him touching you filled the space between your bodies, and Dex seemed to lose another thread of control every time he heard it.
“You are so sweet like this,” he murmured.
“Stop talking.”
“No.”
“Dex.”
“You like it.”
You did.
His thumb pressed harder as his fingers curled exactly right.
The climax tore through you in a hot, shaking wave.
You came with your face buried against his shoulder, mouth open on a broken cry, squeezing around his fingers as pleasure pulsed through you again and again. Dex held you upright through it, one arm firm around your waist, his mouth against your temple, his hand still moving beneath your skirts until every last shiver had wrung itself out of you.
Only then did he stop.
The forest around you seemed hazy and unreal, glowing moss beneath your weak knees. Dex withdrew his fingers, and your body gave one last helpless flutter at the loss.
You should have looked away, instead you watched as he lifted his hand between you, his fingers gleamed with your arousal.
Dex’s eyes stayed on yours as he brought them to his mouth and tasted you.
His eyes turned dark with satisfaction. “You really are sweet,” he said.
A scandalised little sound escaped you. “Dex,” you gasped. “You cannot say things like that.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I can say much worse.”
“You should not.”
“No,” he agreed. “I should not.”
Eventually, he guided you carefully away from the tree.
Your legs were unsteady, dress rumpled. Your heart felt as though it had been taken apart and put back together. Dex kept one hand at your waist, watching you with a hunger that had not faded at all.
If anything, it had grown worse.
“How much more gratitude should I expect from you, princess?”
Your breath caught.
You knew you should be careful. You knew enough old stories to understand that words mattered here. Especially words spoken to beautiful fae men beneath magical trees and your heart no longer safely your own.
But then Dex’s hand slid into your hair, guiding you lower, his fingers threading through the loosened strands that your breath caught before you had even reached your knees. The moss gave beneath you, soft enough to feel unreal through the layers of your dress. Around you, the forest went uncannily quiet, as though the trees had closed their eyes and the flowers among the thorns had turned away out of courtesy.
Above you, Dex opened his belt. The buckle came free with a metallic click that seemed to echo as leather slid through its clasp, each small movement made unbearable by the way he watched you watching him. His blue-touched fingertips worked with the same terrible care you had seen when he handled his bow, and that precision made the moment feel even more indecent.
“As much as you want,” you whispered, holding his eyes, unshaded by how badly you wanted him to know the truth.
Dex smiled.
Your eyes lifted to his, licking the tip of his now-free length.
“There,” he groaned, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulled your mouth almost fully into him. “Now that feels like a thank you.”
You swirled your tongue as he closed his eyes. “Ah— fuck,” he breathed, voice barely controlled. “That’s it.”
You wanted more of that strained, beautiful sounds he tried and failed to hold back immediately.
So you let your lips and tongue become gratitude, letting every eager movement say what your mouth could not form into words.
Thank you for the arrow. Thank you for Edmund. Thank you for seeing what I wanted and waiting until I said yes.
Dex’s head tipped back slightly, a rougher, lower sound this time.
You took it as a reward.
“Princess,” he warned, though it sounded nothing like warning. It sounded like prayer.
Your eyes watered from the effort of taking all of him, from how much he was, from just how big he was that he barely fit in your velvety mouth.
Still, you looked up through wet lashes, and the sight seemed to make him twitch.
“Sweet, reckless thing.” he whispered.
You gave him more.
Dex groaned and the sound was beautiful.
This was better than court music under a chandelier during the autumn feast. This was the dangerous fae hunter above you losing pieces of himself because your mouth was warm and utterly devoted.
His pleasure was music to your ears and you wanted to make him sing.
“Look at me,” Dex said.
You did.
His amber eyes were dark now, fixed on your face, looking undone and hungry. His blue-touched fingertips glowed faintly where they rested against your cheek, wiping away a tear.
“Good girl,” he said.
You nodded, too full of want to be embarrassed properly.
His thumb stroked beneath your eye. “You are too sweet for your own good.”
You would have rolled your eyes if you had been capable of dignity.
Instead, you bobbed again, more frequent this time.
Dex’s breath broke as you tasted the first bead of arousal coming out of him, proof of how badly he wanted you.
His mouth parted around a breath that was nearly a laugh, nearly a moan.
“Do not look so shocked,” he murmured. “You did that.”
The words made heat flood through you all over again.
You should have felt shy. Instead, pride curled through your chest, wicked.
You had done that. You had made him sound like that.
So you kept going, tearful and greedy until he started murmuring curses in a language older than yours. You wanted him to remember this. You wanted him to know that you were no longer simply thanking him.
In an attempt to go deeper, to feel him in your throat as if you’ve trained all gag reflex away, you tilted your head slightly.
That’s when you saw the quiver of arrows lay in the moss beside you. It must’ve slipped off his shoulders at one point or another.
White ash arrows rested inside, carved with silver runes. You knew those arrows but it was not the arrows that stopped your heart.
It was the feathers that tipped the ends of the arrows, glossy blue-black beneath the fae light. You never noticed them before, but they were… raven feathers.
Your breath hitched.
Oh.
Oh.
Suddenly, you thought of the windowsill, your friend tapping at the glass. You remember his clever black eyes watching while you read aloud, lonely and foolish. The little creature had listened to your complaints, your restless dreams, your secrets.
The raven who had visited for years. The raven who had led you through the mist.
Your eyes lifted slowly.
Dex looked down at you with his amber eyes.
Oh.
All those mornings, all those evenings, all those years…
You should have known. You heard of stories of fae folk turning into woodland creatures all the time.
He was the raven.
Your hands tightened.
You should have pulled away and demanded answers. How long? How much had he heard? How many secrets had he carried away?
Oh, you had been so, so foolish.
You should’ve known from the first day you truly met in the woods. You should have questioned how he had known to call you princess when you had never told him what you were.
For a second, real fear flickered through your eyes. Not fear of him, Fear of the fact that some part of you did not hate it enough.
Dex’s face changed the moment you understood.
He knew the pretty princess he had been pursuing for years had finally had it all figured out.
Pleasure and guilt and hunger crossed behind his eyes in the same vein, you could barely separate them. His hand remained gentle in your hair, giving you room to turn your face away from him and the old magic curling around both of you.
You stared up at him, eyes wet, heart pounding.
You were frightened. But as your mouth kept working him, clearly, you weren’t frightened enough.
Instead, you had felt strangely, terribly cherished by the thought that the raven at your window had waited years to be touched by you like this.
As you quickened your pace, your eyes burned harder.
Dex’s thumb brushed another tear from your cheek, intended to be an apology in gesture.
You answered by giving him more.
His breath shattered.
You became greedy for his pleasure, greedy for every note you could draw from him. The forest blurred silver and green around you. The flowers bowed their heads among the thorns. Mist curled over your knees, hiding the path back, making you forget the safer version of yourself, who would have stopped the moment she realised the truth.
You were not her anymore.
You had crossed the line.
Dex’s moans were music to your ears, so controlled until they were not. Each one made your own heart pound harder, made your mouth react and your hands more certain. You wanted to ruin him kindly, to thank him until he forgot how to be anything but yours in that moment.
His head tipped back, and the sound that left him was almost helpless. It filled you with vicious pride. You wanted to keep it forever the way he had apparently kept pieces of you.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he said as the blue at his fingertips brightened.
His hand tightened in your hair, then loosened at once, still careful even at the edge of himself. His body went rigid above you, and the final sound he made was the prettiest yet.
His seed spilled into you as he reached his high and no textbook had warned you that a fae could taste like sweetness and binding magic.
Your throat worked once, eyes rolling back in a haze from the taste.
And you swallowed.
For a moment, you only knelt there, dazed.
Dex, finally catching his breath, finally looked down at you.
He laughed fondly, as though you had done something preciously foolish and still utterly expected.
“Oh, princess,” he murmured.
Then, his hand slid over the crown of your head in an almost patronising pat pat pat.
You blinked up at him, eyes glossy, mouth parted, still too ruined to be properly offended by the way he was looking at you, like you were helpless and had walked directly into his snare and thanked him for setting it.
“Poor thing,” he cooed, “you really don’t know, do you?”
Huh?
Your eyebrows pulled together, confused, mouth still dripping silver-white liquid. “W-what?”
Dex lazily pulled his belt on before crouching in front of you, amber eyes bright with wicked tenderness. His thumb brushed your lower lip, wiping away the last trace of him gently.
“You were right to refuse our fruit,” he said. “And you were right to refuse our wine.”
A strange warmth bloomed beneath your ribs.
Dex smiled wider. “But the old laws never distinguished between feasts and lovers.”
The words sank in slowly.
Your heart stumbled as looked down at your hands in the moss.
For one second, you thought the strange fae light was playing tricks on you. The glow of the flowers, perhaps old magic bending colour where it touched skin.
But no.
Your fingertips were blue at the very tips, like you had dipped them in moonlight and frost. The colour shimmered luminously beneath your skin, not stain, not paint that could be washed away.
A bond.
Dex made a pleased hum and took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the new colour as though admiring his own mark.
You should have recoiled or demanded answers. Maybe shouted at him
Instead, your lashes fluttered, and the golden thread beneath your ribs tugged you toward him until your body swayed towards him, not entirely magical in origin.
Because you truly believed, bond or not, you still wanted him.
Dex caught you.
His hand settled possessively at your waist, and you looked up at him with a weak smile that made his cold heart melt.
You had not known a lover’s offering could bind as surely as bread and wine. You had not known that he had turned your body into a feasting table and your mouth into a cup.
And the worst part was you did not care enough.
How could you, when Dex looked at you like you hung the moon and stars for him? How could you when the forest seemed to hum approval?
A distant, sensible part of you understood that you should have reacted. You should have stiffened in his arms, looked back toward the mist, thought of your mother and father, your kingdom, your guards, the frantic search parties that would soon spill into the western woods calling your name. Instead, you only curled deeper into Dex as though the sound had frightened you toward him rather than away from him, and his arms tightened around you at once, pleased by the surrender.
He gathered you closer, one hand beneath your knees and the other firm against your back, carrying you as though you weighed nothing at all. The thorn path opened behind him with a shiver of black branches, parting for their prince and the human princess he had finally claimed.
Dex kissed your temple once, his mouth lingering there as he murmured sweet little nothings into your hair. I never used the Sleep of Rowan until I wanted to become the kind of hunter you would not fear. I wanted to be good for you. You made me want to be kind. My North Star. My pretty girl. My princess.
The words should have mattered. A foolish part of you heard them and melted, heard the devotion beneath the old loneliness of centuries spent alone. Perhaps some corner of your heart truly did believe a creature like him meant every gentle thing he said, even while carrying you deeper into a realm that had just swallowed you whole.
All his pretty promises blurred into the darker truth humming through the old magic between you. He could not wait to show you his realm, his palace, his gardens, his bed. He could not wait to keep you spoiled as his lover and his plaything, the future mother to his heirs. You were for as long as the Wyld remembered how to hunger.
You should have been horrified, but you were too full of the sweetness you had swallowed, and the magic now curling through your blood like a second heartbeat. Your cheek rested against his throat, and when Dex’s hand stroked over your back, you sighed as though you were relieved, because being taken felt too much like being wanted.
For Dex, Prince of the Wyld, his three-year hunt for his mate was finally complete.
If he was being honest, he had thought it would take longer.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, flirting, dirty talk, public flirting, model!reader, Avenger!reader, Bucky Barnes is bad at feelings, reader is a menace, oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, light manhandling, possessive sex, multiple orgasms
Summary:
You have been shamelessly flirting with Bucky Barnes for months, mostly because watching him pretend not to enjoy it is too much fun to resist.
He thinks he has your little game under control until a gala puts you in front of cameras, admirers, and one man who gets close enough to make Bucky finally stop pretending.
Author’s Note:
written for this request
i have been trying to post this since 7 am this morning but the airport wifi sucked and i havent had time until now to sit down and properly format everything for tumblr (and it's 10:25 pm)
Bucky Barnes first realized you were going to be a problem on a Tuesday morning, which felt insulting.
Problems, in his experience, usually had the decency to announce themselves with gunfire, alarms, compromised exits, or Sam Wilson saying, “Don’t be mad,” in a tone that guaranteed Bucky was about to be furious. They did not usually stroll barefoot into the Avengers compound kitchen wearing a silk robe, sunglasses indoors, and an expression that suggested you had never suffered a consequence in your life.
You had been an Avenger for three days.
Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.
Bucky did not underestimate you.
That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.
“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.
Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”
“I checked cabinets.”
“You checked one cabinet.”
“It disappointed me.”
“There’s a difference.”
“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”
“That’s because we are,” Sam said.
“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”
“God, you’re worse before coffee.”
You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”
“You’re standing in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”
Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.
Your sunglasses slid down your nose.
“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”
“No,” Bucky said.
Sam snorted into his cereal.
You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”
“It was a cough.”
“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”
Bucky stared at you.
Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”
“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.
“The thing you do.”
“I do many things.”
“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”
You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.
“What’s your name again?”
“You know my name.”
“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”
Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.
“Barnes,” he said finally.
“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”
“No.”
“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”
“I’m not marketable.”
“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”
Bucky blinked.
Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.
You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.
This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”
“I’m not something to win,” he said.
Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.
Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”
Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”
“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”
“I called you worse before your coffee.”
“Details.”
Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.
That was where it started.
It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.
You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.
Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.
Bucky saw all of that.
He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.
At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.
With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.
“Morning, future husband.”
The knife stopped in his hand.
He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”
“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”
Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”
“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”
“I didn’t know you were gone.”
“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”
“I was looking at the door.”
“Because you hoped I would come through it.”
“Because I was considering leaving.”
You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”
He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”
“Of you? Never.”
“Of talking.”
“Also no.”
Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”
“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”
You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”
“That sweatshirt has no back.”
“It has some back.”
“It has sleeves and ambition.”
You grinned. “You noticed.”
Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.
He looked away too late.
You saw it. You always saw it.
“I knew you liked me,” you said.
“I noticed fabric was missing.”
“You noticed my back.”
“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”
Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”
“It’s arguing.”
“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”
Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”
“I can do both.”
“I’m devastated.”
You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”
“No.”
“Afraid I’ll impress you?”
“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”
“Only a little.”
He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.
You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.
You looked up at him through your lashes.
“Oops,” you said.
Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.
You did not pull away.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.
Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”
The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.
He let go. “Fine.”
You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
“It means fine.”
“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”
“There’s no we.”
“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay.”
Bucky choked on air.
You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”
He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.
From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”
“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”
“Progress!”
After that, Sam started keeping score.
Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.
It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.
He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.
He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.
Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.
You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.
Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.
So he pretended not to want.
It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.
The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.
You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.
By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”
He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.
“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”
“Extraction first,” he said.
“Romance later?”
“Move.”
“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.
After Prague, the teasing changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.
You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.
“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.
He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”
“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”
“Maybe I’m brooding.”
“You do that too, but this is different.”
He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”
“Only the handsome ones.”
“Sounds time-consuming.”
“It is, but I’m committed.”
The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.
After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”
“What?”
“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”
He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”
“Yeah.”
“You?”
You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”
It should have surprised him. It did not.
You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”
“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”
He understood that too well.
Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”
“I am not easy to embarrass.”
“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”
“I didn’t short-circuit.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“It was in the way.”
“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”
Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.
You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”
The air changed.
You did not look away. Neither did he.
“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.
Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.
“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”
He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.
You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”
He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.
Instead, he said nothing.
You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.
Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.
Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.
Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.
You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.
The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.
Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”
“You look beautiful,” Steve said.
Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”
Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”
Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.
You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.
“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”
Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”
“I make no promises.”
Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”
“For you? I could be convinced.”
“Unlikely.”
“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”
Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”
Steve looked confused. “For what?”
“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”
“I can hear you,” Bucky said.
“I know.”
You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.
“You clean up nice, Barnes.”
“So do you.”
For once, the answer came without a fight.
Your expression flickered.
Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”
Bucky was going to kill him.
The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.
It was you. It was the way you belonged there.
The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.
Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.
“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.
The reporters followed your gaze.
Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.
“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.
You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”
“Are you two here together?”
Bucky braced himself.
You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”
It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.
Bucky hated it.
Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.
“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
“You’d enjoy that too much.”
“Depends where.”
His brain briefly stopped producing language.
You smiled for the cameras.
Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.
Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.
You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.
He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.
Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.
Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”
Bucky loosened his grip.
“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”
“I’m watching security.”
“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”
Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.
Sam hummed. “Interesting.”
“I hate you.”
“That has been established.”
The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.
You laughed at something he said.
Bucky hated him.
“Who is he?” Bucky asked.
“Oh, we’re doing that?”
“Wilson.”
Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”
Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.
It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.
Bucky’s vision narrowed.
Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”
“His hand’s on her.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”
Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.
The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.
That was worse.
You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.
Bucky did nothing.
Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.
You looked away first.
Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.
Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.
He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.
Except you had never been holding a knife.
You had been holding out your hand.
The door opened behind him.
Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”
“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”
His eyes closed briefly. Of course.
You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.
“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.
“Not my party.”
“You’re on the posters.”
“Against my will.”
“You look very handsome on them.”
He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”
“I came out here because you disappeared.”
“You were busy.”
Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”
“With Hale.”
Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.
Your mouth curved. “Julian?”
“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”
The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.
Your smile faded.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
“That came out wrong,” he said.
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.
“All of it,” he said.
You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Bucky’s jaw worked.
You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”
His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”
“Good.”
“I know you can handle yourself.”
“Great.”
“That’s not what bothered me.”
Your expression shifted.
The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.
Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”
He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.
“I didn’t like him touching you.”
The honesty was rough, but it was honest.
You inhaled slowly.
Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”
“No,” you said. “You don’t.”
The answer landed where it should.
Then you stepped closer.
“But you could,” you said.
Bucky stared at you.
The city noise seemed very far away.
You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”
His heart beat once, hard.
“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.
“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”
He had no defense against that.
“You told me you liked me,” he said.
“I did.”
“I was an ass.”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your expression softened. “I know.”
“I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I know that too.”
The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.
He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.
You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.
“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”
Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”
“When I’m right.”
“You think you’re right?”
“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”
He stepped closer. “That so?”
Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”
“Still think this is funny?”
“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”
His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.
“Don’t,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”
“Flirt with someone else.”
The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.
Your smile faded into parted lips.
“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.
That was what broke him.
He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.
Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.
You smiled against his mouth.
He nipped at your lower lip in warning.
You gasped.
The sound went straight through him.
“Still annoying?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“Still not interested?”
He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”
“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”
Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.
His entire body went hot.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
Your brows lifted. “Are we?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
He gave you a look.
There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”
Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.
You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.
Bucky glared at him. “No.”
Sam’s mouth opened.
“Wilson.”
Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.
You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”
Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”
Bucky kept walking.
You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”
Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”
The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.
Bucky stopped walking.
Your voice softened. “Promise?”
Something dark and hot moved through him.
“Car,” he said.
“Elevator,” you countered.
“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”
“Cameras?” you guessed.
“Cameras.”
You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”
The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.
“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.
“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”
Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.
Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”
“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I usually do.”
“You’ve got it.”
Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.
Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”
“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”
“What?”
“You.”
That did something stupid to his chest.
His hands tightened on your hips.
“Me?” he asked.
You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”
His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.
“Bucky,” he said.
Your brow creased. “What?”
“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”
The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.
Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.
“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.
He held you tighter.
By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.
“So I see,” she said.
Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Eventually.”
Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”
Bucky closed his eyes.
You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”
Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”
The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.
You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”
“Don’t.”
“I like her.”
“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”
“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”
Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”
“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”
“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”
“I have been romantically persistent.”
“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”
“You were wearing that coat.”
“It was tactical.”
“It had drama buttons.”
Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”
“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”
His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”
“It was a very boring debrief.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”
The elevator rose.
Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.
He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”
You blinked. “About you?”
“About tonight.”
The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”
His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.
“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you.”
“If I do something you don’t like?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“If you want to stop?”
“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”
He nodded once.
You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
The elevator doors opened.
Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.
“Tell me,” he said.
Your steps faltered.
He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
Bucky smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”
“You like awful.”
“I like you.”
He nearly lost the thread entirely.
His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”
Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.
“You can say it,” he said.
You turned back. “Say what?”
“That it looks like nobody lives here.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“But you thought it.”
“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”
Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”
The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.
He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.
“Last chance,” he said.
Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”
“For behaving.”
That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”
Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”
“Still interested?”
His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Could be a friendly escort.”
“To my bedroom?”
“You’re old-fashioned.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”
Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.
Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.
Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.
He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.
“You think you’re cute?” he asked.
“I know I am.”
His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”
The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”
You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”
“You’ve been smug since March.”
“I was charming.”
“You were a menace.”
“You liked it.”
His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.
“I did,” Bucky said.
Your eyes snapped to his.
He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”
For once, you did not have an immediate answer.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”
“I did get under your skin.”
“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”
Your lips parted.
Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.
Your fingers went to his tie next.
Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.
His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”
“You’re already difficult.”
“I can get worse.”
“I know.”
You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”
The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Your chin tipped up. “What?”
“Trying to decide where to start.”
Your breath caught.
Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”
“I bet you can.”
“Several.”
“Generous.”
“I’m a giver.”
Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”
Your eyes lit.
He felt that reaction everywhere.
“And you like that too,” he said.
You swallowed. “Definitely.”
“Better.”
Your thighs pressed together.
Bucky noticed.
He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.
Your expression changed at once.
“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.
Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”
Your mouth opened.
No sound came out.
He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
His lips brushed the inside of your knee.
You watched him like you were afraid to blink.
“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.
His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”
“Very persuasive.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”
Your breath hitched.
“Do you?” you asked.
Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”
The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Good.”
His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”
“Your fun is very mean.”
His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”
Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”
Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”
“Liar.”
“I am a delight.”
“You’re soaked.”
Your entire body went hot.
Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”
You swallowed. “Among other things.”
“Still making suggestions?”
“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”
His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.
He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.
“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”
His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.
You looked down at him. “Bucky.”
That was all you had to say.
He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.
“Really?” you asked.
His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
He hummed against you.
His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.
“Bucky.”
He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.
You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.
“You had a comment?”
“I forgot it.”
“Good.”
“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.
He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”
That was unfair.
You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”
“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”
Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”
“That bother you?”
“No.”
“Then take it.”
His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.
Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.
“Don’t run,” he said against you.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m preserving my dignity.”
He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”
You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”
The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”
He stopped immediately.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.
Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.
He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”
You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”
His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”
“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”
“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm.
You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”
He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.
Your hands went to his shirt.
This time, he let you.
The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
“I’m not.”
“You are spiritually laughing.”
“Spiritually?”
“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.
You noticed immediately.
Your hands slowed. “Okay?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
For a second, the room held its breath.
Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”
“They’re good lines.”
His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”
You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.
When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.
“Still with me?” you asked.
His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The word came out rough.
You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.
Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.
Bucky stared.
You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”
“No, she won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
The answer landed low in your stomach.
He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.
“Sensitive,” he murmured.
“Observant.”
“Smart mouth.”
“You like my mouth.”
“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”
“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”
“You poor thing.”
“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”
“I was motivating you.”
“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”
His mouth curved. “I know.”
Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.
You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”
He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“Specific.”
“You are such an asshole.”
He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.
You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.
“I want you inside me,” you said finally.
His expression changed.
“I can do that,” he said.
Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”
His hand went to his belt. “Very.”
He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.
He noticed.
“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.
“Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Reconsidering all my life choices.”
His smile softened. “Regrets?”
“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”
Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.
He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”
It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”
“Heroic, really.”
He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”
You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.
“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”
His jaw tightened.
You touched his face. “Bucky.”
He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.
He stopped immediately. “Okay?”
“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”
His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.
Your throat tightened.
Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”
You swallowed. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”
You pinched his side.
He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.
“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”
“Don’t start.”
“I think I should start.”
He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.
Your words dissolved.
Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”
The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.
“Bucky.”
“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.
He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.
You liked the moment he lost patience.
You liked it more than you should have.
One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.
His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”
He did not.
The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.
“Still got something to say?” he asked.
You tried. You really did.
What came out was not language.
Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”
The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.
“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”
“Yes.”
His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”
Your eyes flew open.
He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.
You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.
You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”
His expression shifted.
Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.
“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”
His hand slid between your bodies.
You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.
“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”
You did.
The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”
The praise only made it last longer.
By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”
His breath caught.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”
That was enough.
Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.
The room went quiet around you.
Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”
“A little,” you said.
He started to move.
You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”
His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”
“Sweetheart,” you corrected.
He lifted his head.
You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”
Something flickered through his face.
Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.
You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.
Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
His brow rose.
You huffed. “I am.”
“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”
“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”
You stared at him.
The smile came slowly.
“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”
He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.
Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.
You caught his wrist when he finished.
“Bucky.”
He looked at you.
“I’m fine.”
His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.
“Yeah,” he said.
You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”
He did.
The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.
“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.
His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”
You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”
“Worse, then.”
“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”
“You’re very competent.”
That got you a small smile.
You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”
He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.
You softened. “Do what?”
“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”
Your heart hurt.
“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”
His eyes met yours.
You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”
His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”
“Bucky.”
“He touched your waist.”
“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”
A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.
After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”
You went still.
Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.
“You’re not,” you said.
His eyes searched yours.
“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”
His brows lifted. “Annoying?”
“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”
“You were harassing me.”
“I was courting you.”
“You bit my thumb.”
“You liked it.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”
Your pulse jumped, even now.
Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”
“Behave,” you warned.
His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”
“You’ll live.”
“I might.”
You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.
“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”
He froze.
For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.
Bucky lifted his head.
You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.
“Yeah.”
Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.
“I can do boyfriend,” he said.
Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”
“I’ll probably be bad at it.”
“I’ll workshop you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”
“I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay,” you said.
His mouth curved.
Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.
Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.
For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.
You opened your eyes.
He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.
“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.
His expression eased. “Hi.”
“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”
“I woke up two minutes ago.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe ten.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”
The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.
You stretched carefully, then winced.
Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”
“A little.”
His face changed. “Too much?”
“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”
He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.
You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”
“That so?”
“Yes. I’m very delicate.”
He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.
You smiled. “Emotionally.”
That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of you froze.
Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”
“I also brought coffee.”
You lifted your head. “Wait.”
Bucky looked betrayed.
You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”
From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”
Bucky threw a pillow at the door.
It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.
You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You knew that on Tuesday.”
“I knew it before then.”
You tipped your face up. “And yet.”
His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.
“And yet,” he agreed.
You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was letting the moment breathe.”
“The moment can suffocate.”
Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”
Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.
He looked like yours.
Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.
“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”
Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Winter Soldier divider ❤️💛
Summary : Falling for the club’s American striker, Bucky Barnes, was never part of the plan— especially since your father happens to own the club.
Pairing : Football player!Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Football/soccer au. Bucky plays in a Premier League Club. Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes and references, mentions of injury, FLUFF! You are a statistical analyst for the club, cursing. Bucky is in his early thirties, and your age is never specified (though I wrote her around mid-20s in mind.)
Word Count : 16.6k
Notes : Hi all! This fic completely self indulgent. Idk if y'all noticed but I'm currently in my forbidden romance writing phase so please allow me to sweat this out before latching on to my next trope obsession. Also, putting a bunch of Marvel Comics Characters in here was so fun. Enjoy!
James Buchanan Barnes was a curiosity.
An American—already an anomaly in the top tiers of European football—who had spent the bulk of his career bouncing between MLS clubs before making a surprise leap to English football in his early thirties. The media called him a late bloomer. A gamble. Some pundits questioned why any top flight club would take a risk on an aging striker with no prior experience in the Champions League.
Your father, the owner of one of the biggest clubs in Europe, called him an investment. And you were the one who found him.
As a statistical data analyst for your father’s club, your job was simple in theory but far more complicated in execution. You spent your days with the coaching staff analysing the numbers, predicting patterns, helping scouts identify potential transfers, and finding ways to improve the existing squad. You didn’t deal in gut feelings or media hype. You dealt in cold, hard data.
Before the season started, you’d gone through dozens of scouting reports, match footage, and advanced performance analytics when Barnes’ name kept appearing over and over again. It didn’t make sense at first— no media outlet had flagged him as extraordinary, no clubs mentioned him as a top target. And yet… the numbers told a different story.
His expected goals were absurdly high, suggesting he was consistently getting into dangerous positions but lacked the right system or teammates to convert his chances. His pressing stats were through the roof, putting him in the top percentile of forwards worldwide. His passing accuracy rivaled some of the best midfielders in Europe, which was especially great for a team begging for a versatile forward.
Besides, his fitness levels were impeccable. You saw the footage of Bucky playing full matches week in and week out, covering more ground than almost anyone in his league and rarely ever needing to get substituted out. And yet, no one saw him as someone out of the ordinary.
See, the problem wasn’t Bucky— it was the league.
The MLS, for all its growth, wasn’t built for a player like him. The tactical setups were different, the pressing structures not suited to how intense he could be at times. He thrived in high-intensity situations, in quick transitions, in teams that played with a high line and aggression. The numbers suggested that with the right system—a system like your club’s—he could finally convert on his numbers.
You took the data to your father. You built the case. You made the argument that Bucky Barnes wasn’t a gamble— he was an opportunity.
And he listened. He signed him.
July 9th — The Meeting
The first time you met Bucky Barnes in person, he was standing in the middle of the training ground, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking around like he was still adjusting to the fact that he was playing the top flight in European football. You could probably guess that he had been dreaming of this for years— most Americans in the sport did.
He was taller than you expected. Broader than most strikers. If you tilted your head a little, he looked more like a soldier than a footballer. His brown hair spilled under his ears, jaw dusted with scruff, and the way he stood made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.
You didn’t let yourself stare. Not for long, anyway.
“Barnes.” Your club’s manager, Abraham Erskine, was older, a German veteran with a kind face and the mind of a genius. He extended a hand. “Welcome.”
Bucky dropped his bag and shook it. “Happy to be here, Coach.”
Typical American, calling everyone coach. To be fair, Erskine’s gotten used to the English lads like Brian Braddock in the club calling him gaffer, so this might be a welcome change.
“This is Alexei Shostakov, the assistant manager,” Erskine continued, gesturing to the towering Russian beside him. He looked intimidating, but those who knew him understood he had a soft spot for hard working players— he even had two daughters playing in Spain.
“Coach,” Bucky said again, nodding.
“And this,” Erskine gestured to the man standing off to the side with his arms crossed, “is our fitness trainer, Sam Wilson. Another American, so at least you won’t feel too out of place.”
Sam stepped forward, grinning. “You got lucky, man. They bring in a lot of South Americans who hate the weather, but a New Yorker? You’re gonna fit right in.”
Bucky smirked. “Good to know, Coach.”
That made Sam laugh. “You can just call me Sam.”
“Noted, Coach.”
The group chuckled, but you stayed quiet, watching Bucky carefully. He hadn’t looked your way yet— not properly. You wondered if he even knew who you were.
“And finally,” Erskine turned to you, “our lead data analyst.” He didn’t mention your last name, but he didn’t have to. Everyone in the club knew who you were— partly because you’re the owner’s daughter.
Bucky’s eyes landed on you. “So you’re the one who got me here.”
You lifted your chin, “No,” you insisted. “Your numbers did that.”
He hummed in approval.
“Guess that means I owe you one,” Bucky said, shifting his bag over his shoulder. Then, he winked. Heat curled in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. You weren’t about to be thrown off by another cocky footballer.
“You can pay me back by scoring goals,” you replied.
He grinned. “Deal.”
And just like that, you had the feeling that Bucky Barnes was going to be a problem for you.
July 10th — The Signing
He would be officially signed the next day.
The press conference room was packed. You counted at least 30 reporters and twice as many cameras, all flashing lights— everything you expected when your club unveiled a major signing. But when your father told Bucky he would be the one sitting next to him, he had shook his head. “No offense, sir, but I think the person who got me here should be up there with me.”
Which was how you ended up here, seated beside him, a club-branded microphone in front of you while the media buzzed like hornets.
Bucky looked relaxed. He had done this before— press conferences, interviews, the media circus— nothing was new to him. He sat with commanding confidence, hands clasped on the table, a charming smile on his frustratingly beautiful face.
You, on the other hand, weren’t used to this. You dealt in numbers, statistics, strategy—not public scrutiny. Your father had warned you the press might have questions. Some about Bucky. Some about you.
“James,” one of the reporters started, leaning forward, “you’re thirty-two years old, making your first jump into top-tier European football. Some would say that’s past your prime—what do you say to critics who think this club is taking a gamble on you?”
Bucky didn’t even blink. “If I was worried about what critics said, I wouldn’t be here.” A small chuckle rippled through the room, but his expression remained calm. “Some players peak at 20, some at 30. I know what I can do. The coaching staff knows what I can do. She—” he looked to you, “—knows what I can do. And in a few weeks, everyone else will know too.”
He had probably been answering some version of that question for months now.
Then, the attention turned to you.
“And for you,” another reporter said, shifting their focus, “there’s been a lot of talk about your role in this signing. You’re one of the youngest analysts in the sport. But more notably, you’re the club owner’s daughter. There are some who say this opportunity—this job—wouldn’t be yours if it weren’t for your last name.”
Your heartbeat was beating out of your chest, but you kept your expression neutral. “I would say,” you replied, “that my work speaks for itself.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for a reaction. “Still, nepotism is a fair concern, isn’t it?”
Before you could answer, Bucky leaned forward, casually resting an elbow on the table. “Let me ask you this,” he said, tilting his head. “How many analysts do you think flagged me as a top signing last year?”
The room was silent.
Bucky smiled, almost smug. “None. Except her.” He jerked his chin toward you. “The scouting reports didn’t call me extraordinary. The media didn’t put me on any ‘best transfer’ lists. But she ran the numbers, she saw something no one else did, and now I’m sitting here, signing with one of the biggest clubs in the world.”
He turned to you again before he looked back at the reporters. “So, I don’t know about you,” he said easily, “but I’d say she earned her seat at this table.”
The room buzzed. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to thank him or kick him under the table. Yes, he had answered for you, but he had also defended you. Publicly.
And the way he was looking at you now, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth?
He was going to be your biggest distraction.
—
After the press conference, you needed a moment. You weren’t used to the attention, but you answered as best you could about what you saw in Bucky’s playing style, on his game intelligence.
After, you stayed behind, letting the media shuffle out while Bucky handled the rest of the pleasantries. You weren’t sure why or how you ended up in the first team changing room—perhaps you needed somewhere empty and quiet. A place to breathe. Since it wasn’t a match day, it was practically abandoned. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who needed a moment.
Bucky was there, leaning against a wall, hands in the pockets of his new training kit. He looked at you as you stepped inside, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t playing to a crowd. No arrogant smirk. No practiced charm. Just Bucky Barnes, standing in a place that hasn’t felt like home yet.
You hesitated, then cleared your throat. “I just wanted to say… thank you.”
His brows lifted slightly. “For what?”
You gave him a seriously? look. “You know for what.”
A smile ghosted across his lips again. “Figured someone had to say it.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I could’ve handled it.”
“I know,” he said easily. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
He wasn’t just some flashy signing. He wasn’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. He was someone who knew what it was like to be underestimated, to be doubted. You had found him because of the data, but now, standing here, you realised, he understood you in a way the numbers never could.
Bucky took a step closer, his voice quieter now. “They’re always gonna have something to say. About me. About you.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they’re right.”
Your chest tightened. You held his stare for a moment before nodding. “Guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong.”
August 10th — Pre-Season friendly
Bucky had been with the club for a month now. Training had been intense, the pressure relentless, but he was handling it—mostly.
Pre-season was always a mixed bag. Some teams used it to experiment, to test tactics, to let their new signings settle in. Others took it more seriously, wanting to build momentum before the real game. Your club had a bit of both— Erskine was meticulous, and Alexei, well, he just wanted to win every match, no matter the stakes.
Which was why the 3-0 pre-season loss to Ajax stung.
The squad had been sluggish, the chemistry wasn't there yet, and… Bucky had struggled. He wasn’t himself. His movements were a second too slow, his pressing wasn’t as aggressive, and when he did get into good positions, he couldn’t finish them. It was a team issue as much as an individual one, but Bucky saw it as a personal failure.
So when the final whistle blew and the players trudged into the tunnel, heads down, you knew something was going to give.
After all, the assistant manager wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, and when the team walked off the pitch, Alexei let Bucky have it.
The shouting started in the dressing room, but the walls were thin enough that you heard it from the hallway. Alexei’s booming voice wasn’t hard to miss.
“You are too slow in transition! You hesitate—this is not MLS, Barnes!”
“I know that.”
“Then act like it!”
Soon, they were yelling over each other. When you finally stepped inside, you found Bucky and Alexei squared up, the rest of the squad caught between wanting to intervene and knowing better.
“Americans,” Alexei muttered, exasperated, before pointing at you. “You deal with him.”
Then he was gone.
The room was quiet. No one wanted to be here any longer than they had to be, least of all Bucky.
“Bucky…” you started, quieter now.
He let out a deep breath, running a hand through his damp hair, sweat still clinging to him from the match. He turned, forcing a small smile for you. “I… I need time. I’ll see you at training tomorrow, yeah?”
You nodded, though you weren’t convinced.
August 11th — Training Center
The next day, Bucky was pushing himself too hard.
You saw it before training even started— he was the first one out, running sprints alone while you and the rest of the coaching staff set up. He trained with the squad, but even after, when most of the team had made their way back into the facility, he stayed to do more drills, shooting practice, more sprints. And it wasn’t helping. He was overcompensating, trying to force his body to match the pace of his mind.
You sighed, tucking your tablet under your arm.
“Wagner,” you said. You had been working with the keeper on the sidelines for the last fifteen minutes, showing him how he could make long passes more accurate. “Think about what I said. We’ll go over more footage tomorrow.”
Kurt Wagner nodded, and you turned on your heel, walking straight for Bucky, catching him before he could disappear again.
“My office,” you said firmly.
He wiped his face with the hem of his training top, squinting at you in the afternoon sun. “What?”
“Now, Barnes.”
—
Your office wasn’t anything special, just a private space tucked into the coaching room so you could work numbers without any distractions, but it was yours. Bucky stepped inside hesitantly, like he didn’t quite belong here, then leaned against the desk as you pulled up the match against Ajax on your screen.
You didn’t say anything at first. Just loaded up the footage, clipped the moments you needed, and let him watch.
His arms crossed over his chest as he took the moments where he pressed well, the chances he did create, the runs he made that were the right decision— even if he struggled to finish. Then you pulled up the heat map, the positioning data, the sequences where he got lost in transition.
"You did good," you said simply.
Bucky snorted. “We lost 3-0.”
“Yes, but you did good,” you repeated, clicking through several paused screenshots of his movements on the pitch. “Look here. Your pressing is still in the top percentile. You forced three turnovers in dangerous areas. That’s good.”
You clicked again.
“This run?” You gestured. “This was perfect. If the midfield had spotted it, you would’ve been through on goal. You were making the right movements.”
Another screenshot.
“This, though,” you pointed at a moment in the 70th minute, “this is where you need to improve. You hesitated. You had a second to get the job done, but you tried to take the extra touch.”
Bucky sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s on me.”
“Listen,” you said. “You’re not playing bad, Bucky. You’re adjusting. This is a different pace, different tactics, different system. You’re learning.”
He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Alexei doesn’t think so.”
“Alexei wants perfection,” you argued. “He yells at everyone. Even Helmut Zemo.”
Bucky blinked. Zemo? The ice-cold, disciplined defender hailed as one of the best in the world? The same guy he was still struggling to get along with? That earned a small smile out of him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Nearly murdered him last season.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t want to be a mistake.”
You shook your head. "You’re not."
August 17th — Premier League, Matchday 1
It wasn’t long before the season started, and even Bucky was surprised that he made it in the first team. But making it meant Erskine had believed in him— he wasn’t going to disappoint.
The first team they played was Liverpool. Bucky has heard a lot about Anfield’s ruthless atmosphere, but this was way more intense than he could have possibly imagined. The stadium was a sea of red and the team was a far more experienced side than he was used to.
See, Bucky had played in big matches before, but nothing like this. The intensity, the tempo, was on another level entirely.
He kept his head, though. He remembered what you told him. No extra touches. Make quicker decisions.
He remembered what Erskine drilled into the team. Exploit the space behind their fullbacks. Don’t hesitate.
So when a counterattack sparked in the 68th minute, when Wagner’s long pass reached Brian Braddock on the right flank, he spotted Bucky darting between the center-backs.
They were currently 1-0 down, but Bucky made sure the pressure didn’t get to him. He made his run.
Braddock’s pass was perfect, curling into Bucky’s path. The defender was closing in, but Bucky took one clean touch with his left, then struck with his right.
Precise. Back of the net.
1-1.
The away section erupted.
Bucky barely had time to register before his teammates crashed into him, Braddock shouting in his ear, “Fucking told you, mate!”
He even felt Zemo’s hand on his back.
But he barely heard the praise. In his mind, all he could think about was you—the analysis, the breakdown, the way you had pointed out exactly where he needed to improve. And he had.
It ended 1-1, but it was a good start. At the very least, he had made a statement. Bucky Barnes had arrived in the Premier League.
—
The dressing room was still crowded when Bucky found Erskine and your father. They weren’t disappointed, but they weren’t exactly jumping with glee, either.
“I want private sessions with her,” Bucky said, still catching his breath.
Erskine frowned. “Who?”
Bucky said your name.
Your father raised a brow. “She works with everyone.”
“I know,” Bucky said. “But she— she pulled me aside last week and it helped. If you let me have just an hour with her the day after every match, I could— I will adjust faster.”
Your father exchanged a glance with Erskine. The German manager stroked his chin, considering his suggestion.
“It’s an unusual request,” Erskine admitted.
“I just scored, didn’t I?” Bucky said, dead serious.
That made them both think.
Your father exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Fine,” he said. “I'll add it to her schedule.”
—
When you got back to your apartment, you stared at your calendar, lips pressed together as you read the update.
Post-Match Analysis — Private Session with Barnes
The day after every match.
August 18th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis
You weren’t sure what you were expecting when Bucky walked into your office after training, still fresh from the adrenaline of Alexei's harsh training regiment. His hair was damp from a shower, his training kit swapped for a plain hoodie and sweats.
You, on the other hand, were still buzzing from the past two meetings.
Post-match analysis was already part of your routine. You did one with the whole team earlier today, and you just got off the coaching staff meeting. Now, you had to do it one-on-one with him. Alone.
You gestured to the chair beside your desk as he sat down, his blue eyes darting to your monitor. You already had the footage pulled up.
“Alright,” you started, keeping it professional. “Let’s start with the good.”
You clicked the play button, and the clip of his goal played on the screen. The moment the ball left his foot. The clean strike, the ripple of the net. Bucky watched it in silence.
“You saw the space,” you narrated, “You didn’t hesitate. One touch, then the shot. Perfect.”
Bucky hummed, his fingers tapping against his knee. “That’s because of what you said,” he admitted.
You blinked. “What?”
“Last week. After Ajax.” His eyes met your as he leaned forward, “You told me what to do.”
You cleared your throat. “Well, you listened.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he just shrugged.
You shook your head and turned back to the screen, pulling up a different clip.
“Now, let’s talk about where you can improve.”
Bucky leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he focused in.
“This movement in the 32nd minute,” you said, slowing down the footage. “You were pressing well, but you ran too early here—” you paused the clip, circling an area on the screen, “—which left space behind you. Alexander-Arnold nearly exploited it.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah, I see it.”
You nodded, pulling up another clip. “And here, in the second half—you almost made the right run, but you checked over your shoulder for too long. It slowed you down.”
Bucky leaned closer, studying the footage. “So what do I do?”
You tapped a few buttons, overlaying a heat map of his movements. “The system we play—Erskine wants quick transitions. You can’t second-guess yourself. If you commit to a run, commit fully. Trust your teammates.”
Bucky nodded.
You tilted your head. “Why did you hesitate?”
He hesitated, tilting his head. “I—” He exhaled. “This league… I’m... I’m not used to people playing at my speed.”
“That’s normal,” you assured him. The Premier League had a much faster tempo than the MLS, after all. And that was exactly why he fit in here. “But you’re seeing the right plays. That’s half the battle.”
You pulled up another set of stats, showing him his passing accuracy, his pressing intensity, his shot conversion rate. “You weren’t perfect,” you said. “But you were effective.”
Bucky let out a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.
“Feels good,” he admitted. “Seeing it like this.”
“That’s the point,” you said.
After that, you could’ve sworn he looked at you a little too fondly.
August 25th — Premier League, Match day 2
You knew Arsenal would be tough. They had won their first game against a newly promoted team 5-0, and they looked formidable. Still, it was Bucky’s first game at home, and the crowd welcomed him and the other new signings like long-lost heroes— with banners raised and voices roaring.
Then the match started.
Arsenal suffocated your midfield. The first goal came early—an incisive pass splitting your defense followed by a clean finish. You saw your defender, Lin Lie’s, frustration as he failed to get the ball. A goal for arsenal.
1-0.
Then, in the 54th minute, Bucky found a pocket of space. He did a quick turn, a perfectly weighted through ball, and Joaquin Torres, another new signing many people saw as a Central American Wonderkid, took one touch, then another, before slotting it past the keeper.
1-1.
Then, disaster happened. Lin lunged in late on Arsenal’s striker inside the box. The whistle blew. There was no hesitation from the referee— it was a penalty. The keeper, Wagner, dove the wrong way.
2-1 to Arsenal.
Bucky nearly scored a goal in stoppage time, but the final whistle blew after it was saved, and that was that.
A loss.
As you walked down the tunnel, Lin Lie was already apologising, Bucky was staring at the ground. The team looked exhausted.
Your work began tomorrow.
August 26th — Training Centre, Post-match Analysis
During the team meeting, you stood at the front of the room. The players were seated in front of you, some paying attention, others looking at the floor.
"You all know why we’re here," you began, clicking the remote. The screen behind you showed the stats. "We had 34% possession. Arsenal completed 542 passes to our 287. They had 16 shots. We had 4. That’s not good enough."
You saw a few heads sinking— Bucky, Lin, and Wagner. Alexei was the first to speak after you. "We looked soft," he said, arms crossed. "We let them play their football. No aggression, no bite."
Erskine took a different approach. "Structurally, our press was broken. Too many gaps. Arsenal exploited space between the lines." He pointed to the screen, where red circles highlighted defensive breakdowns. "If we don’t fix this, we’ll keep conceding."
You saw a few nods, but no one spoke.
"Bucky," you said, turning to him. "You created and assisted our only goal, but you had six touches in the first half. Six. We didn’t get you enough of the ball."
He nodded slightly.
"Joaquin, you did well in moments, but you completed 64% of your passes. That has to improve. Lin…" You paused, seeing his jaw tighten. "The penalty was bad, but that wasn’t the only issue. You lost five duels in our defensive third."
He tilted his head, mouthing sorry.
"Let’s fix it, then.” Erskine clapped his hands and started the training day.
—
After shooting drills were done, Bucky had his one-on-one session with you.
He was already in your office as you closed the door behind you, leaning against your desk.
"You know I can do more," he said before you could even speak.
"I do," you replied. "But you need the ball to do it. And right now, we’re not finding you in the right spaces."
Bucky took a deep breath. "We’re too slow in transition."
"Agreed. But you also need to demand it. You were too passive early on. We need you dictating play, not waiting for it to come to you."
He nodded. "I’ll work on it."
You could tell he hated losing.
"Listen, you did well, all things considered," you said finally. "But you want to turn stats into results? Stop waiting for permission."
"I won't,” he promised.
September 1st — Premier League, Matchday 3
Abraham Erskine called this match the test.
Newcastle won both their opening games. They came in confident, expecting to beat you the way Arsenal had. But today, you felt something different in the dressing room. The boys were more focused. They were hungry.
And when the game started, you saw it.
The press was higher. The midfield was more coordinated. The movement was better. Bucky was everywhere, demanding the ball, dictating the rhythm. In the 28th minute, he made the difference. Torres crossed the ball to him in, and he managed to kick it in the bottom right corner with a left foot.
1-0.
The stadium erupted.
The game was far from over, though. Newcastle tried counterattacking, tried to break through. Lin Lie, in a desperate attempt to redeem himself, put in the game of his life, and Zemo was a great help in the backline, too. And then, in the 78th minute, Pietro Maximoff, your box-to-box midfielder, latched onto a loose ball at the edge of the box and buried it. 2-0. Bucky tackled him in celebration.
The final whistle blew. Your first home win of the season. Bucky’s first home win.
September 2nd — Training Center, post-match analysis
You weren’t surprised when Bucky was the first one in the building the next morning. Of course he was. Through the glass wall of the training room, you spotted him stretching, smiling like a kid who just got away with stealing sweets from a candy shop.
Later during your one-on-one session, he was grinning ear to ear the whole time.
"You see that goal?" he asked immediately, pointing to the screen. "Perfect finish, huh?"
You shrugged, trying not to stroke his ego. "It was decent."
He let out a too-dramatic gasp, stepping closer. "Decent? Decent? I’m hurt, coach."
"Stop calling me coach," you said, then held up your tablet. "You scored, yes. But you also lost four 1v1s."
His smile didn’t falter. Not even a little. “Mmm. And who won us the game?”
“You and Pietro,” you sighed.
“Me and Pietro!” He echoed.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t find it in you to be annoyed. After all, you knew he was joking around. He was still listening— you could almost see the gears in his head working, putting your suggestions in the back catalogue as he pretended to be smug and arrogant. “You’re unbearable when you win.”
“Oh, you love it.” His voice dipped dangerously low, his hand landing on your waist as he leaned in slightly.
Your brain short-circuited. That was new.
He must’ve realised it at the same time, because he immediately yanked his hand back. “Shit—I'm sorry— wait. I— that was inappropriate.”
“N-no,” you said, your voice coming out way too gentle to be fully professional. “It’s okay. You… can do that.”
Oh.
His eyes studied you, clearly shocked. Then, carefully he put his hand back, fingers splaying lightly against your waist.
Before you could even process how natural it felt—
“Ahem.”
You both snapped your heads toward the door.
Sam, ever the disciplined fitness coach, stood there, arms crossed with his brows raised. "Buck. I’m starting gym drills soon."
Bucky stepped back, his hands lingering just a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.
—
The team drills had gone well. Spirits were high after the win, and unsurprisingly, Bucky and Pietro had been at the center of it— running faster than anyone, joking around, even showing off a little. Pietro had even jokingly called him old man once or twice, and he responded with a lighthearted scowl.
Now, as the squad made their way to the cafeteria, Bucky grabbed his water bottle by the edge of the gym, where Sam was sitting on a bench, watching him with an annoying smirk.
"Man, you are so screwed," Sam said casually, taking a sip of his own drink.
Bucky could only blink, feigning innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Sam let out a laugh. "Oh, don’t play dumb. You were all over her."
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. "I plead the fifth."
“First, that’s not how it works around here… I think.” He chuckled. "Second, I saw where your hand was.”
Bucky nearly choked on his water. "That was—okay, it was barely a touch. I was just—”
"Flirting," Sam finished for him.
Bucky refused to look at him, struggling to push down the heat creeping up your neck. Sam grinned. "You do remember she’s the owner’s daughter, right? You know, the guy who signs our checks?"
Bucky shifted uncomfortably, fingers nervously tapping on his drink. "I know.”
Sam raised a brow before nudging him. "Relax, man. I’m just messing with you,” he said. “Kinda nice having another American around. Just don’t want you to get fired before we can plan Thanksgiving, alright?”
“I’m not getting fired,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. "Because nothing’s happening."
Sam lifted his hands in surrender. "Sure.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You don’t believe me."
"Not even a little bit."
Bucky sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam grinned, patting him on the back. "See you tomorrow, loverboy."
Bucky groaned. He was never going to hear the end of this.
September 17th — Training Center, post-match analysis, the day after Champions league Match Day 1
Even after coming out of a decisive 3-0 victory in the biggest stage of Bucky’s life so far, he showed up early again, already watching footage when you arrived. He wasn’t just there to train— he wanted to learn.
"You ever take a break Barnes?" you teased, setting your tablet down.
"Not when I could be getting better," he replied, eyes glued to the screen. "Look at this—my positioning here is a step too wide, right?"
You blinked. "Uh… yes."
"See?” He grinned. “I’m learning."
You were impressed. He wasn’t just playing on instinct anymore. He was analysing, adapting. But of course, that didn’t mean he stopped being… him. He was confident and annoyingly smug in the most adorable way, and over the last couple of weeks, he'd become more… flirty. Not that you were complaining.
"You like working with me, don’t you?" he said later on in that session, leaning closely as you swiped through stats on your screen.
You ignored the way your heart beat faster. "I like coaching players who listen."
December 27th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 18
Another day, another deep dive into his game.
Bucky had been here for almost half a season now, and he was settling in the squad well. Even Zemo, who rarely had a nice word for anyone, was warming up to him.
He had fourteen goals in fifteen matches, so yeah, he was making a mark on the league, especially for a late bloomer. Sure, there had been a few tough losses, an early cup exit, but overall, he was proving to be a hell of a signing. Even Alexei had begrudgingly admitted Bucky was becoming a key asset to the club.
Yesterday’s game had been tough, though.
Pietro went down and got injured in the first half, forcing Bucky to shift into the central attacking midfielder role while the untested Brazilian striker, Roberto Da Costa, took the lead up front. It wasn’t Bucky’s usual position, but he made it work. Mostly.
A 2-2 draw wasn’t the worst outcome, but today’s one-to-one session was all about analysing his game in his new role.
"You hesitated here," you pointed at the screen, freezing the frame right before his decision. "If you release the pass earlier, you create a better chance for Da Costa."
Bucky hummed, arms crossing. "Or… I fake the pass, fish the defender out, and cross it for the kid to finish."
Your brows lifted, admittedly impressed. "That… would work too."
His smile was charming, and almost annoying. "C’mon, give me some credit. I’ve got a brain and good looks."
You huffed and chuckled. "Debatable."
He turned to face you, leaning in just a little. "You sure about that?" he teased. "Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you spend a lot of time watching me."
You scoffed, arms folding over your chest. "It’s my job."
“Mmm.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Do you only watch the numbers?”
You swallowed hard. Bucky leaned in. “Or do you watch me?”
February 16th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis the day after Premier league Match Day 25
The day after a brutal, hard-fought 4-3 win against Aston Villa, you barely had time to set your tablet down before Bucky walked into your office with two coffee cups in hand.
"You looked like you needed this," Bucky said, plopping down into the chair next to you, "Thought you were gonna pass out mid-strategy meeting."
You arched an eyebrow but accepted the coffee anyway. "So you were watching me instead of paying attention to Erskine?"
Bucky only shrugged.
You set the cup aside before clicking on the monitor. "Alright, let’s start."
He groaned. "Already? No small talk? No ‘thanks for the coffee, Bucky, you’re the best’?"
"You got a red card in the 81st minute," you pointed out, deadpanned.
Bucky snorted, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. "That was bullshit, and you know it. The guy dived!"
"Uh-huh," you clicked your pen, pulling up his stats. "Still, a second yellow for dissent? Really?”
"He flopped like a fish and got rewarded for it," he grumbled. "What was I supposed to do, clap for him?"
"Yes. Or, hear me out—shut up and walk away."
Bucky huffed, but you could tell he knew you were right. He knew he made a mistake— a mistake that would lead him to missing the next match. "How bad do my numbers look?"
You pulled up his passing charts. "Not bad at all, actually,” you hummed, “89% completion, seven progressive passes, four key passes. No goals or assists, but you helped control possession."
His lips curled into a small smile. "Sounds like a solid game."
"Until the red card."
He groaned again, rubbing his fingers on his forehead. "You're never letting this go, are you?"
"Absolutely not,” you shook your head. “I thought you knew better than to swear at the ref."
"That was barely swearing."
"You called him a—" You checked your notes, suppressing a laugh. "—‘blind fucker with a god complex.’"
Bucky sighed. "Okay,” he admitted defeat. “Maybe I could’ve phrased it better."
You shook your head, scrolling through the stats. "Control your temper, Barnes."
A lazy grin formed on his face. "You just wanna give me a hard time, don't you?"
You mirrored his smile. "You make it so easy."
"You know," he said, leaning in slightly. "I love it when you scold me. Keeps me in line."
You tilted your head, eyes looking down to his mouth before you met his eyes again. "Bet you’d really thrive under a little extra discipline," You murmured, then continued, "Maybe behind closed doors, too, hm?”
Bucky froze, his pupils blown wide open. "Are you offering?"
You took another sip of your coffee, trying to look entirely unfazed. "Let’s see how the season ends first, shall we?"
Then, before he could respond, you spun your monitor back around and pulled up his heat maps. "Now, let’s talk about your positioning."
He blinked. You had never seen James Buchanan Barnes look so utterly shocked before.
He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "Right. Positioning."
You smiled to yourself. That shut him up.
May 7th — Champions League Semi Finals, Leg 2
The first leg against Real Madrid had ended 0-0, which meant it was all to play for.
They were European royalty. This biggest test of your season so far.
Pietro was finally back, which meant Bucky could return to his natural position up top. Bucky was relieved. You’d been forced to use him in midfield, and he’d done well, but this… this was where he thrived.
Madrid dominated possession, and your team had to defend for their lives. T’challa Udaku, usually a more aggressive right back, had to stay back the whole game to stop Vini jr. from going through. Wagner made three ridiculous saves. It was 0-0 for most of the match, and it seemed destined to stay that way.
Then, in the 89th minute, you got a corner. Brian Braddock curled it in, and Bucky, who had spent the last ten minutes fighting off Rüdiger, found the perfect pocket of space.
He had two touches: one for control and another to tap-in.
1-0.
Bucky’s first-ever Champions League semi-final, and he had scored the winning goal against Real Madrid at their home.
Bucky sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide in celebration, teammates piling onto him. The entire stadium erupted. You, now stood up in the coaching area, barely registered Erskine grabbing your shoulders, shaking you with an overjoyed laugh. “You were right about him!” He exclaimed.
You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “Of course I was.”
The final whistle blew minutes later.
Your team was in the Champions League finals.
May 8th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis
Bucky was already in your office when you arrived. Of course he was.
He was still in his hoodie and training gear, looking ridiculously smug as he watched the highlight reel from last night’s match. The moment he saw you, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out like a sleepy cat.
“You see that goal?” he drawled. “Beautiful.”
You laughed playfully, sitting down next to him. “It was a tap-in.”
“A winning tap-in,” he corrected.
You tried to ignore him, but failed, trying to hide the smile on your face. “You did well,” you admitted. Bucky didn’t respond immediately. You turned to look at him—only to find him already watching you.
“We could’ve won it earlier, though.” You pulled up the footage, pointing at the screen. “You hesitated again, just for a second. Watch.”
His eyes studied the replay, his brows furrowing. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Should’ve gone inside instead of trying to beat him wide.”
“Exactly.” You glanced at him, catching the way he was still looking at you—not at the numbers.
Your throat went dry.
“We’ll fix it,” you said quickly, turning back to the monitor.
“I like it when you say ‘we,’” he murmured, voice low, teasing.
You swallowed, ignoring the flip in your stomach
“Bucky,” you sighed. “You’re great. But you’re still losing a lot of aerial duels.”
He blinked, as if taken aback by the shift in tone.
“I talked to Erskine,” you continued. “He wants me to go over the numbers with you, show you how to improve, okay?”
Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly more focused. “Alright. Hit me.”
You swiped to another stat sheet. “Madrid won 72% of their aerial duels last night. You won 2 out of 7. Rüdiger dominated you physically. You struggled against Tchouaméni when he dropped back to cover. If we play like this in the final, we’ll have problems.”
Bucky let out a deep breath. “Damn. I knew Rüdiger was a nightmare, but I didn’t think I was that bad.”
“You weren’t bad,” you said. “You just weren’t dominant.”
“Right.” he smiled playfully. “And you need me to be dominant?”
You shot him a stern look. “Bucky.”
“What,” he said, then winked, “I just—”
“Bucky, stop,” you said sternly.
His smirk dropped instantly. “Shit,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
You sighed, pushing your chair back.
You usually didn’t mind his flirting. Most of the time, you flirted back. But today was different.
You put your arms over yourself in an attempt of comfort. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
Oh.
Bucky straightened his posture. His usual playfulness faded away as he carefully put a hand on your thigh, careful to not cross a boundary.
“We’re just… we're so close to winning the Champions League,” you said quietly. “You are so close.”
He nodded in understanding, He felt the pressure, too.
“You’re my project, okay?” you admitted. “I convinced my dad to sign you. If we win—with you at the center of it—it’ll shut up all the people who said I was a nepotist hire.” You let out a breath. “Do you get that?”
Bucky was silent. You had seen him fight. You had seen him frustrated—at a bad call, at a missed chance, at himself. But this was not that,
When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “You think you have to prove yourself to them?”
You swallowed. “I think I have to prove myself to everyone.”
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “God, that's ridiculous,” he said.
Your mouth parted slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You already proved yourself.” His eyes met yours, intense and steady. “You helped build this team. You made me better. I’ve talked to the boys out there, and every single one of them will say that you’ve helped, one way or another.”
Your throat tightened to close up.
“You are the reason we’re winning,” he said simply, as if it was fact. “Not me. You.”
Oh? Was that what he really thought of you?
“Look,” he continued, gentler now. “I’ll take the aerial duels more seriously. I promise.”
You nodded slowly.
Then, Bucky smiled. This time, it wasn’t smug. It was just… kind.
“You’re just so fucking smart,” he suddenly said. It came out of nowhere. “It’s annoying.”
A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.
“See?” Bucky grinned. “There she is. Thought I lost you for a second.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”
May 30th — Training Center, the day before the Champions League Final
It had been a brutal season—long, exhausting, filled with near-misses and last-minute heartbreaks. You’ve lost the Premier League, finishing third in the table.
But this was still possible.
The Champions League Final. Win, and none of the late collapses would matter.
Which was why you and Bucky were still here, pouring over his stats one last time.
“You see the pattern?” you murmured, scrolling through the data.
Bucky, sitting beside you, leaned in. His knee brushed against yours, but neither of you made the effort to move away.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Last twenty minutes, my pressing drops. Feels like I’m dragging.”
You nodded, tapping the screen. “Your pressing numbers in the first half are great, but by the end, you’re winning fewer duels, completing fewer sprints. It’s not fatigue— I’ve talked to Sam about that. So it must be decision-making. You’re reacting instead of anticipating.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “So basically, I gotta stop being an idiot in the 70th minute.”
You shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”
He turned to look at you then, and you suddenly realised how close he was to you.
You could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his eyes reflected back at you. “Thanks,” he finally said. “For everything.”
Your throat went dry.
You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the pressure, or the fact that you had spent months dancing around each other, around whatever this was.
Now, he was watching you like he was waiting.
And—god help you—you weren’t sure you’d stop him if he tried.
He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.
Is this really happening?
And then the door swung open.
“Erskine sent me.”
You jolted back so fast you nearly knocked your laptop off the table.
Miguel O’Hara stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Your defensive midfielder was one of the best in the game, and apparently, a professional mood-killer. “Said I needed to see my tackle stats.”
Bucky took a deep breath, looking away as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Great timing, O’Hara.”
Miguel chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Bucky muttered something under his breath as he grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. As he passed Miguel, the midfielder smacked him on the back—just a little too hard, but still harmless.
“Don’t stay up too late, Barnes,” he said, tone just on the edge of teasing. “Big game tomorrow.”
Bucky shot him a glare but said nothing, shoving the door open and disappearing down the hall.
Miguel chuckled before turning back to you, sliding into the seat Bucky had just left.
“So,” he said. “Barnes, huh?”
“Nope,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “Not a word.”
Miguel held up his hands in surrender. “Lips are sealed.”
You exhaled, rubbing your temples. You didn’t even know what had almost happened—if anything had almost happened. But now wasn’t the time to think about it.
All that mattered was winning tomorrow.
May 31st — Champions League Final
You stood with the coaching staff on the sidelines, heart pounding as the match against Bayern Munich stretched into extra time. Twice, you had taken the lead. Twice, Bayern had clawed their way back— first through Jamal Musiala’s quick footwork in the box, then an absolute worldie from Harry Kane.
Now, with the score stuck at 2-2, you could tell exhaustion was setting in. Bucky was still moving, still searching for the moment. As Erskine took people off to substitute, he kept Bucky there as the glue keeping the team together.
Then, it happened.
Joaquin spotted the space before anyone else did, curling a perfect cross into the box. Bucky timed his run to perfection, drifting between the center-backs. No hesitation. He jumped above the defense, and met the ball with a wonderful header.
The net rippled.
3-2.
He kept his promise. He scored a header. And this time, Bayern didn’t equalize.
The final whistle blew.
For a second, the stadium held its breath. And then, the chaos came.
The bench erupted. The players collapsed, some to their knees, others running in every direction.
The team had done it. Champions of Europe.
But before you could even process it, Bucky was sprinting toward you, eyes wide with adrenaline. Before you could properly greet him, his arms were around you, lifting you clean off the ground, spinning you around in a dizzying circle. You gasped, holding onto him for dear life
Then, as he set you down, he pressed his forehead to yours.
His breath was short and quick, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. His lips parted slightly, his eyes watching your mouth, then back up again.
Fuck.
He wanted to kiss you. For a split second, you almost thought he would.
But then you looked up to the hospitality box.
Your father was watching.
Bucky must have realised it at the same time, because instead of closing the last inch between you, he just…hugged you. So tightly, so desperately, like if he held on long enough, he could say everything he wanted to without speaking at all.
“You did it,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the chaos around you.
“No,” he said. “We did it. We all did.”
—
After the award ceremony, you ran. Instead of celebrating with the team, you sat alone in an empty conference room at Wembley, staring at your laptop screen and the match statistics in hand. You weren’t really working—you were just… distracting yourself from the noise.
From him.
The way he’d looked at you, the way he’d held you— it had been building for months.
But your father owned the club, for fuck’s sake.You were better than this.
The door creaked open, and you already knew who it was.
“You do realise we just won the Champions League, right?” Bucky asked.
You didn’t look up immediately, keeping your eyes on the screen. “That what all the screaming about?” Sarcastic, dry— your first response to being slightly uncomfortable. It worked sometimes.
Bucky let out a laugh, stepping further inside. “Hilarious.”
Finally, you looked up.
He was leaning against the doorway, medal still around his neck, shirt untucked. His hair was still damp from the match, strands falling into his face, and his palms were raw from falling down on the grass more times than he could care to count. (which was 32, by the way. You counted).
He looked ridiculously infuriating.
And so fucking good.
“Why are you here?” you asked, tilting your head. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
Bucky shrugged, stepping closer. “Was looking for you.”
You forced yourself to scoff. “And here I thought you had priorities.”
“I do.” He smirked. “Turns out you’re one of them.”
You rolled your eyes. “Save the charm for someone who’s impressed by it.”
“That would still be you,” he said.
You turned back to your laptop, pretending to ignore him, even as your heart started beating out of your chest. “Well, you’re wrong.”
Bucky pulled out the chair next to you and sat on it like he had all the time in the world. His thigh brushed yours, and you hated that you noticed.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Staying.”
“You should be celebrating,” you scolded.
“I will. When you do.”
You shot him a look. “Bucky—”
“I’m serious.” He nudged your arm. “You worked just as hard as we did. You should be out there, too.”
You took a deep breath, rubbing your temple. “I just needed a second to think.”
He chuckled. “You? Thinking too much? Shocking.”
You glared at him. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”
“Like I said—I was looking for you.”
Fuck, was he always this insistent? “Why?”
Bucky tilted his head, watching you for a second before saying, too casually, “Because you ran off before I could kiss you.”
Your breath hitched instantly.
“I didn’t.” You forced a shrug, denying the heat curling in your stomach. “And you weren’t going to kiss me.”
“You did,” he accused, “And I was.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower. “And you wanted me to.”
Your heart pounded. “My dad was right there.”
Bucky just smirked. “Yeah. And you still looked at me like you wanted me, too.”
You swallowed hard.
This was stupid.
You should shut this down.
Tell him to leave.
Remind him—remind yourself—why it would be very difficult to make this work.
But then, his voice dropped even lower. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” He whispered huskily, his Brooklyn accent slipping out of his words. “You walk around actin’ like you don’t feel this— like you don’t see the way I look at you every damn time I’m on that pitch.”
You opened your mouth, but he kept going.
“You drive me insane, you know that? Pretending you don’t want me when I know you do.”
You should shut this down.
Instead… you kissed him first.
Or maybe he kissed you first. You didn’t know, didn’t care.
Bucky’s hands were on you immediately—one tilting your chin, the other holding your waist, pulling you out of your chair and into his lap like he needed to. His lips teasing, taking, testing.
And you let him.
Your hands fisted his shirt, dragging him closer as he groaned against your mouth. His tongue brushed yours, and everything felt like a perfect contradiction—messy and controlled, rough and soft, teasing and hungry.
He kissed like he played—all in. Desperate, determined, and so fucking good at it.
His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, and your breath hitched.
You wanted more. You needed more.
Then, you heard footsteps echoing down the hall.
You shoved him away just as the door swung open.
Erskine stepped inside, eyebrows raised. “There you are. Press is looking for you, Barnes. And—” His eyes darted between the, suspicion creeping in. “Everything okay?”
It’s not like he could prove anything. You cleared your throat, smoothing out your shirt. “Yeah.”
Bucky swiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth, erasing the last of your lipstick from his lips before Erskine could see it. “Just going over some stats.”
The manager didn’t question it. “Well, hurry up.”
As soon as the door shut, Bucky turned back to you, “You almost got us caught, sweetheart.”
You scoffed. “You kissed me.”
His brow lifted. “You kissed me.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he just leaned in again, “and we’re gonna do it again.”
—
You ended up celebrating that night.
There was no way around it— not when the entire team was already half-drunk, singing Freed From Desire in the locker room, parading the trophy around the stadium like it was the Holy Grail.
You kept your distance to Bucky when your father was around, of course, but he made it hard. He kept looking at you from across the room, eyes half-lidded and smug, knowing that he got you wrapped around his fingers. Every once in a while, he’d find an excuse to brush an arm against you when no one was watching.
You almost didn’t realise when the celebrations moved from the stadium to the hotel, but at some point, you were all piling up at the bar. And bless the bartenders, having to deal with 20 sweaty footballers asking for pints all night— you even heard your father say something about having to leave a massive tip and chuckled.
Then, Bucky leaned in close. “You’re thinking too much again.”
You shivered. “You’re being reckless.”
He grinned. “What’s the fun in being careful?”
You shot him a glare, but he only chuckled, his fingers hovering over your hip as he moved past you, making a show of not touching you in full view of your father.
Fucking menace.
You managed to keep up the charade for a few more hours, dodging questions from Sam and Miguel. You played it cool. Kept your distance.
Until you somehow ended up in Bucky’s hotel room.
In his bed.
You weren’t even sure how it happened—one moment, you were slipping out of the party early, and the next, Bucky was opening his door like he’d been waiting for you all night.
And maybe he had.
You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on you, pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours like he needed you to survive.
And fuck, maybe you needed him, too.
The kiss was desperate. It was filthy.
Bucky moaned into your mouth, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. "You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered against your lips. "Do you know that?"
You didn’t answer. You just pulled him down with you.
June 1st — The Morning After
Bucky woke to the gentle click-click of a keyboard.
What?
He blinked groggily, muscles pleasantly sore, body still recovering from the match… and from last night.
And then he saw you.
Sitting at the desk across the room, back to him, hair a mess, bare skin glowing in the morning sun. Still naked.
He grinned sleepily, making puppy dog eyes at you. “You’re beautiful.”
You didn’t turn around, only humming in acknowledgment, eyes locked on your laptop screen. “Mm. Morning, Barnes.”
Bucky stretched, watching you lazily. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at match data,” you said simply, like it was obvious. “Your heat map was insane last night.”
Bucky groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Doll, please.”
You finally glanced over your shoulder. “What?”
“I love stats as much as the next guy, but I just woke up, and you’re sitting there—” he waved a hand at you, exasperated, “—naked, talking about heat maps? C’mon.”
You only laughed. “You did cover a lot of ground last night.”
His eyes turned a wicked shade of blue. “I covered a lot of ground?” He pushed himself up, the sheets slipping down his torso, exposing his bare chest. “Pretty sure you were the one putting in the work, sweetheart.”
You shook your head and put a hand out, “Come here, Barnes.”
Bucky grinned, slipping out of bed, not bothering to put anything on. His hands found your shoulders, fingers skimming along your skin as he pressed lazy kisses to the back of your neck as you showed him the data,
“Doll,” he said, mouth brushing your ear, “as much as I’d love to hear about my passing accuracy, I’d rather have you back in bed.”
His hands slid lower, tracing down your arms, featherlight, teasing.
You inhaled sharply. “Bucky—”
“C’mon,” he whispered, lips dragging down the slope of your shoulder. “Forget about it for a second.”
Your fingers rattled over the keys. “This is important—”
“This,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin, “is more important.”
His hands slipped lower, wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“Bucky,” you warned.
He looked like pure sin. “Yeah?”
You attempted to stay focused. “I really should—”
“You wanna talk numbers? Fine,” He said, tone rougher this time, fingers tracing circles on your bare thighs, “How about this— I can make you come in under five minutes.”
Your breath hitched.
Bucky grinned, nudging your ear with his nose. “Or, if you’re really competitive, we can see if you can last longer than that.”
Dammit.
Your laptop snapped shut.
And Bucky laughed as he scooped you up and carried you back to bed.
—
By the time you dragged yourself out of bed (far later than usual, thanks to a certain footballer who had been very, very persuasive about abandoning your laptop), you were immediately thrown into a whirlwind of interviews, team meetings, and endless obligations. The club's media team had scheduled back-to-back press conferences, interviews, and photo ops with the trophy.
Bucky, of course, handled it all like he handled everything— calmly, and a little smug. He was great at it.
A team meeting was scheduled first thing, mostly for logistics— transport back home, media obligations, the parade plans. You were there, half-listening as the club staff went over the schedule, but your mind was on him.
Bucky sat across the table, fresh from a shower, damp hair pushed back, a loose hoodie hanging off his frame. Every now and then, you’d catch him glancing at you.
After the meeting, the press conferences began. Thankfully, you didn't have to be involved in too much of this.
Erskine went first, answering questions about tactics, substitutions, and the significance of the win. Then it was Bucky and a few of the key players’ turn, sitting at the podium under the blinding lights as they answered the usual questions.
But it was different now. Winning meant Bucky was no longer bombarded with questions about being a late bloomer. Now, he wasn’t just an American trying to prove himself in a new league— he was a champion.
"What was going through your mind before you scored the winner?"
Bucky leaned into the mic. “Nothing, really. Just… get in the right position. Get my head on it. Score."
"And after?"
For a split second, he hesitated.
"After?" He echoed, his eyes darting toward you, who was standing at the back of the room with the other staff. "Just wanted to find someone."
No one else knew what he meant. But you did.
You stayed busy throughout the day, making sure all the data from the match was logged, answering a few questions yourself from journalists who were more interested in your role as a statistical analyst than your father.
That afternoon, the victory parade wound its way through the city, an open-top bus carrying the team through the streets, fans lining the roads, chanting, cheering, throwing scarves and beer into the air.
You stood near the back of the bus with some of the coaching staff, watching as Bucky lifted the trophy for the crowd in one hand, microphone in the other as Braddock led the chants.
By the time the parade ended, the players were drained, half-drunk, still running on fumes.
The team had plans to go out, to party until the sun came up again. But you and Bucky didn’t.
Instead, you both found yourselves in his apartment, sitting on the floor with some very expensive takeout between you.
Neither of you had planned it this way. It just… happened.
Bucky had disappeared into his bedroom for a moment, emerging in sweats and a hoodie, looking far too comfortable, far too at home for the conversation you were about to have.
You let out a deep breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding. “I should go.”
Bucky, sat back down, cross-legged on the carpet across from you. He frowned. “Why?”
“Because.” You gestured vaguely at the air, at the invisible everything wrong about this. “Because it’s late. Because I shouldn’t be here.”
He pushed off the counter, stepping closer. “You were in my hotel room last night.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
You forced yourself to look away. “Bucky—”
“Can we at least talk about us?” he finally said, his voice quieter this time, a little more unsure.
Your chest tightened. “I—”
“No, I get it,” he cut in before you could dig yourself into a hole too deep to climb out of. “Your dad owns the club. You work for the team. This is messy—” He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “But I can’t pretend this never happened.”
You couldn’t find the words.
His jaw ticked. “Can you?”
You should say yes. You should be logical, responsible. You should remind him—and yourself—why this was a bad idea.
But all you could think about was last night. The way he had looked at you after the final whistle. The way he had kissed you, like he didn’t care about contracts or your father’s approval.
“...No.”
Bucky sighed, tilting his head back against the couch. Then, after a beat, he opened his arms. “C’mere.”
That was all it took.
You hesitated for maybe half a second before climbing onto his lap, your knees on either side of his torso, hands resting against his chest. Bucky wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you’d change your mind before pressing his forehead to yours.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it, he did. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”
Your heart did an embarrassing little flip.
And before you could stop yourself—before logic, before fear, before professionalism could talk you out of it—you whispered, “Me too.”
His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice a little rough when he murmured, “Good. That’s… really good.”
But you couldn't ignore reality pulling you back up to the surface, You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself. “But we cannot let this interfere with work,” you said, fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie. “My job is everything to me. It’s my life.”
Bucky leaned back slightly, tilting his head at you, amused. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His lips twitched. “Just that I’ve never met someone so—what’s the word? Dedicated? No, obsessed. Yeah, that’s it. You are obsessed with your job.”
You scowled, shoving his shoulder. “I am not obsessed.”
“Oh, really?” He raised a brow. “So it wasn’t you I saw pacing outside the locker room last week saying ‘expected goals ratio is a lie, I have to recalculate the whole formula’ under your breath?”
You groaned. “It was wrong, Bucky! The data wasn’t aligning with the actual game performance!”
He grinned. “Uh-huh.”
You crossed your arms. “Excuse me for caring about my work.”
“I love that you care.” His hands smoothed over your waist, drawing small circles against your hip bone, “And this won’t interfere with anything.” he promised.
You gave him a look. “You say that now, but what happens when I have to take a call about your contract? What happens when you have a bad run and I have to be the one to tell Erskine you’re underperforming?”
Bucky’s smile didn't falter as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears. “Then you tell them.”
Your stomach twisted into a knot. “Bucky—”
“I never want you to sugarcoat my performance,” he said firmly. “Not for me. Not for anyone. If I’m not good enough, I want to know.”
Your fingers toyed absently with the hem of his hoodie, your chest tightening. He made it sound so easy.
“I don’t want to be the reason your career suffers,” you admitted.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I was just about to say the same thing.” he said, “But I don’t want to lose you over a technicality.”
You bit your lip, exhaling. “It's… not a technicality. It's my— our careers.”
“And we’ll figure it out,” he said simply.
He was so sure. So certain. He might’ve just convinced you.
“We… we also need to keep this a secret,” you added after a beat. “Okay?”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think the media will tear into us?”
“You kidding?” You huffed. “The public won’t care. We're probably the least exciting couple in football.” It was clear he hadn't been paying attention to the people his teammates were dating— models, actresses, singers. People whose lives were much more public than yours. “But if my dad finds out, he will have your head.”
Bucky grinned, tipping his head to the side. “Hm. That’s fair.”
“At least… for now.”
His smile softened, hands sliding down to your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he didn’t want to let go. He nodded. “For now.”
Then, with a teasing smirk, he added, “Guess that means I get to have you all to myself for a little longer, huh?”
Mid-June — Off-Season
The break between the seasons was a welcome relief. You both had a month-ish of downtime before the pre-season training would start again, which meant you had time to work, unwind, and—try as you might—keep things from getting even more complicated.
One morning, you found yourself sitting at Bucky’s kitchen table, your laptop open in front of you. You were scouting potential transfers for the club—yet another thing you’d been buried in since the season ended. Bucky had insisted that he’d handle the coffee run, but now he was back with an Americano and a Cappuccino, lazily balancing a football from one leg to the other in the yard while you worked.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he walked past the window, kicking the ball up and catching it with ease. He was wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, and honestly, you could hardly focus on your scouting with him out there.
Ugh. How dare your boyfriend be this hot?
“Hey, Bucky!” you called out, trying to regain some focus. “Can you come in for a minute?”
He glanced up from his ball-throwing session and grinned, giving a mock salute before striding inside. “What’s up?”
“Can you give me your opinion on this winger?” You pointed to the stats on your screen, showing a promising young player with an impressive 89% overall performance.
Bucky asked, “How old is this guy?”
“Nineteen.”
Bucky squinted at the stats, then at his photo, his eyes narrowing as if trying to assess him.
“Nineteen?” He flopped onto the couch next to you, his feet up on the coffee table as he leaned over to get a better look at the screen. “Left winger, huh?”
“Yeah, I know. This could be a major long-term signing for the team,” you said, scrolling through his performance history.
Bucky scoffed. “Skip.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Skip him,” he repeated, dismissing the player with a flick of his hand. “Nineteen and that good? He's gonna have an ego bigger than the Ikea in Wembley. That never ends well.”
You laughed. “Bucky, this isn’t Football Manager. You can’t just skip players because you think they’re going to have an ego.”
He grinned, giving you a playful scowl. “You know I’m right.”
You would never admit it, but you just put the kid’s profile aside and labelled it sign to loan.
—
As the week passed, you found yourself spending more nights at Bucky’s place. It was cosy— comfortably messy, with football memorabilia covering the walls, a couch that swallowed you whole, and a kitchen that always smelled like something baking or a hearty pot of soup simmering. Sometimes, he stayed at your apartment, but you preferred it here. Yours felt more like a workspace with personal touches sprinkled here and there. It wasn’t intentional, it was just that most of your personal things were still at your father’s house— childhood home.
One evening, you sat Bucky down in the living room, he glanced up from his phone.
He put his phone down, tilting his head in curiosity. He could tell you had something to say. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk about ground rules. For when we go back to work.” You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be serious for once.
Bucky’s lips curved in amusement as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ground rules? You mean like… no affection in public?”
You crossed your arms and nodded, fighting back a smile. “No sneaking around at work. No kisses in the hallway. No dragging me into empty offices for secret make-out sessions.”
“Aw, come on.” Bucky leaned back, draping an arm over the couch with a dramatic sigh. “What’s the fun in that?”
You raised a finger, trying not to cave to his puppy dog eyes. “And no making up dumb excuses just to see me.”
He scoffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “What if I actually need to talk to you?”
“Then you schedule a meeting in the calendar, like everyone else,” you said, matching his defiance, but the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.
Bucky groaned, flopping against the cushions in fake defeat.
Then, almost sheepishly, you added, “Okay… maybe one office make-out session a week. But we have to be smart about it.”
His eyes lit up instantly. “Deal.” Before you could second-guess yourself, he pulled you into him, triumphant.
The rules were set, no matter how ridiculous they felt. And yet, as you nestled closer, you couldn’t help but think that maybe… just maybe, this secret was worth keeping.
After all, who could resist Bucky Barnes? Even if he was a little too cocky for his own good.
July 16th — Pre-season Training
After a long break, the players were eager to get back into the groove, and the club was ready to push for even bigger achievements in the upcoming season. You were buried in your stats and scouting reports, more focused than ever.
The first day back was as intense as you expected. The training ground was buzzing with activity, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart race as you entered the facility. You’d been through this routine countless times before—analysing stats, monitoring players, making sure their numbers were as perfect as possible. But this time, there was one thing you couldn’t calculate: how your relationship with Bucky would affect everything.
You stepped into the manager’s office, where Abraham Erskine was discussing strategy with Alexei.
"Good morning," Erskine greeted you, offering a nod. "Have you had a chance to go over the data from last season?”
You nodded, adjusting your glasses. "I have it all here. Still need time to get through everything, but I’ll get it sorted out."
Erskine grinned, always trusting your analysis. "Perfect."
Alexei gave you a nod. "And if you need anything, you know where I am."
As you stepped out of the office, you saw Bucky on the pitch, running fitness drills with Sam and his team. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he dribbled the ball, his movements fluid and precise. Dare you say, a striker at his prime.
He caught your eye from across the field, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You quickly turned your attention back to your clipboard and the stats on your screen, reminding yourself that you couldn’t afford distractions.
—
The players were already out on the field, getting ready for a five-a-side training match. Alexei was yelling on behalf of Erskine from the sidelines, making sure everyone was pushing themselves to the limit.
You joined the rest of the coaching staff, standing near the sidelines with Erskine, Alexei, and Sam, watching the players as they ran across the field trying to defend and score in a small-scale match..
"Bucky's looking good," Sam commented, watching as he received a pass, flicking it effortlessly past one of the defenders.
"He's been working on his stamina during the break,” you said, the words slipping out before you could think.
Thankfully, no one seemed to question how you knew, except for maybe Sam, who only raised an eyebrow.
"That’s good. He’ll need it for the new season," Erskine added. "We’re pushing the tempo this year, more focus on fast breaks."
"Speaking of fast breaks," Alexei said, "Did you see that new guy, Piotr? He’s got decent pace.”
You nodded, jotting down notes. Piotr Rasputin, the new left-back, had already made an impression during his first few sessions. His speed, strength, and ability to cover ground quickly were going to make him a key player in transitions.
"We’ll need to see how he works with T'Challa,” you said, “probably gonna be a tough adjusting period, especially with our new signings in the center."
"Right," Alexei said, glancing toward the center of the pitch. "Marko and O’Hara will need to get their communication sorted out. They’re both physical players, but Marko can be a bit… rough around the edges."
You nodded. Cain Marko, the new central defensive midfielder, had a reputation for his strength, but his discipline was something to keep an eye on.
The match continued, and Da Costa struggled against Zemo. Thankfully, Torres was feeding him precise passes, setting him up for shots on goal.
You were going to have a good season.
July 25th — First Pre-season Game
Another match. Another win. Another goal from Bucky.
This time, it was a home game to test out your tactics against Italian Champions Inter Milan.
It was a textbook performance from Bucky: 91% passing accuracy, five successful take-ons, one assist, and, of course, a goal.
The moment his shot hit the back of the net, Bucky turned straight to where you stood on the sidelines, barely masking the grin pulling at his lips.
This was for you.
July 25th — Training Center, Post-Match Analysis
You sat on the edge of your desk, laptop open, trying to keep your focus. Bucky, on the other hand? Leaning against the chair, still in his sweaty training clothes, looking way too satisfied with himself.
"Your movement in the final third was better this time," you said, scrolling through the match data.
"Mhm," Bucky hummed, distracted. His fingers traced along your thigh.
Are you even listening?"
"Of course, doll." He smiled. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was the picture of innocence. "Final third movement. You liked it."
You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away when his hand slid higher. Focus. Stay professional.
"Anyway," you continued, keeping your voice even, "your xG in the first half was—"
He kissed you before you could finish.
Gently, teasing, just enough to make you lose your train of thought. You sighed against his lips, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, but you didn’t stop.
"Your xG was 1.2," you managed between kisses.
"Mhm," he mumbled, mouth trailing along your jaw. "And what about my pressing stats?"
You tried to focus, but Bucky’s hands were slipping under your shirt.
"91%," you exhaled, tilting your head as his lips brushed against your neck.
"That good?" he murmured, grinning against your skin.
"Yeah," you breathed, biting back a gasp as his hands tightened around your waist. "Best in the squad."
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, pleased. "That right?"
You nodded. He had a good game and he knew it.
"Guess we should celebrate, then."
—
It’s safe to say that you and Bucky extended your stay in your office.
By the time you had finished cleaning your office up after the mess you made, the training ground was almost empty.
Now, it was just you and Bucky, sitting on the edge of the training pitch, boots scuffing against the grass.
Your phone buzzed with a traffic report. You glanced at it and groaned. "Ugh. I’m gonna be stuck in traffic for hours before I get home."
Bucky stretched, and offered. "Come to mine."
You shook your head. "Yeah, and get stuck in the same traffic? No thanks."
You turned the screen toward him, showing the live updates— Multiple road closures. An accident on the main route out of the city. Absolute chaos.
He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Great."
A second passed as stared at the screen, then at Bucky, then back at the screen.
You had an idea.
"Wait—come with me."
Bucky frowned as you stood abruptly. "What?"
"Just trust me."
—
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into a long, tree-lined driveway, the city chaos left behind. The road closures were the other way. Thankfully, you had keys to a place nearby.
Bucky sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching as the gated house came into view.
His brows raised. "What’s this?"
You put the car in park. "My dad’s house. The house I grew up in."
Bucky blinked. "Your dad—"
"He’s not home," you clarified quickly, unbuckling your seatbelt. "He's on an overseas trip to meet with sponsors. Won’t be back for a week, I think."
Bucky turned to you, a mischief on his lips. "Oh?"
You swallowed. "Don’t get any ideas, Barnes."
—
The door clicked shut behind you.
It was quieter than you remembered, and it felt like time had paused the moment you left, freezing everything in place, waiting for you to come back.
And yet, the air still smelled the same. Your father’s favorite room freshener clung to the walls like a memory that refused to fade. You could even still smell the polish on the hardwood floors—it was all still here, untouched. Preserved.
Bucky followed close behind, his usual confidence tempered by the fear of stepping out of line. He looked around, taking it all in.
And then he saw them.
The trophies.
Lined up on the shelves outside of your father’s study, glimmering under the light. They stood untouched, as if time waited for you to claim them again.
Small ones at first—junior leagues, local tournaments, academy honours. Then bigger. Regional championships, national competitions. Medals draped over plaques, certificates framed neatly.
His eyes landed on a newspaper clipping, framed like the rest.
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD WONDERKID: THE DEFENSIVE FUTURE OF WOMEN’S FOOTBALL
And beneath it was a photo of a younger you.
His throat tightened. Then he saw it—the trophy that confirmed it. Under-20 Women’s World Cup Champion.
You hadn’t just been good. You had been one of the best of your generation.
"You wanted to play, too?" Bucky’s voice was almost careful.
You hesitated. Not because you were hiding it, but because it wasn’t something you really talked about anymore.
"Yeah," you admitted. "Center back." A ghost of a smile formed at your lips. "I was pretty good, too."
Bucky stepped closer, scanning the awards, the photographs tucked beside them—team shots, you at the center, laughing with your teammates. And then there was one—caught mid-game, celebrating a goal with a knee slide and unfiltered joy.
His voice went lower. "What… happened?"
Your fingers trailed along the edge of one of the shelves. "Hamstring injury. It never healed right. Tried to push through, but I wasn’t the same."
Bucky could only nod. He knew injuries, knew what they did to athletes, to their futures.
"How old were you?"
"Seventeen."
His heart ached. Seventeen. Just a kid.
You shrugged, forcing indifference into your smile, as if who you were then didn’t for who you are now. "I knew I’d never go pro after that, so I chose to fall in love with this part of the game."
Bucky was silent for a moment, before finally saying. "I didn’t know that."
You met his eyes and gave him a sad smile. "Lots you still don’t know about me, Barnes."
He didn’t like that like there were parts of you he hadn’t uncovered yet, pieces of your story buried so deep even you pretended they didn’t matter anymore.
"You ever thought about it?" he asked. "What could’ve been?"
You hesitated for a second. "Sometimes," you admitted. "But not in the way you think."
Bucky tilted his head, waiting.
"I don’t regret where I am now,” you explained. “I love being the person who sees things before they happen, I really do. But…" You ran a hand through your hair. "Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like. To step onto that pitch, just once. To have a chant for me, to hear my name over the speakers, to be in it, you know?”
Bucky didn’t look away. He did know. That was his life. "You miss it?" He asked, curious.
"Every now and again," you admitted.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached down, plucked up one of your old medals, turning it over in his fingers. His thumb brushed over the engraving of your name.
"Then let’s play."
You blinked. "What?"
"Right now," he said, that cocky little smirk you loved so much playing on his lips. "I saw the goalposts in the garden. One v. one. Unless you’re scared?"
You rolled your eyes. "Bucky—"
"What?" He tossed the medal back onto the shelf and turned to you fully. "Can’t keep up with a pro?"
“I coach you,” You reminded him, scoffing. "I am not scared.”
He stepped back toward the door, a familiar flame in his eyes. "Prove it."
And just like that, the fire inside you came back to life.
—
Not ten minutes later, you were outside. The grass was cool and damp beneath your feet, the backyard stretching wide and open behind the house as moonlights casting shadows over the makeshift goalposts your father had set up years ago.
Bucky had found an old football in the garage, rolling it under his foot, watching you with that same infuriatingly charming face.
"First to five?" he offered, challenging you.
You nodded.
The game started off sloppy—neither of you in match form. You were coming off years of watching from the sidelines, and of course, he was going easy on you.
Your first touch was too heavy, shots lacking precision. But after a few minutes, instinct took over. Your muscles… remembered.
You faked left, then flicked the ball around him with a burst of speed that surprised you.
"Shit," he muttered, turning on his heel to chase after you.
You laughed, breathless.
This was familiar. This was intoxicating.
For the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about strategy, about numbers, about your father’s expectations or the injury you suffered.
You were just playing the game you had loved since you could walk.
Bucky caught up, nudging you with his shoulder, using his strength to knock you off balance. He stole possession with an easy touch, flicking the ball past you before slotting it into the net.
You huffed, placing your hands on your hips. "Lucky shot."
He tilted his head, watching you. "You love this,” he said.
Not a question. A fact.
You chuckled. "I do."
His blue eyes softened, like he could see straight through you and find the kid who had once dreamed of stadium lights and roaring crowds. The kid who had to let it go.
"Don’t forget that."
You didn’t know how to answer. So you just tackled him instead.
—
It was fast. Messy. Fun.
You scored. He scored.
4-4.
You knew he let you score at least two of your goals but you didn’t call him out on it. He was your boyfriend, after all. Your boyfriend who, mind you, who won the Golden Boot last season.
Bucky yelped as you knocked him off balance, the two of you tumbling into the grass. He landed on his back, you half on top of him, both of you laughing too hard to care.
The laughter faded, but you stayed close. His hand found your cheek, fingers brushing over your skin.
His voice was softer when he spoke next.
"You would’ve been great."
The words settled. You hadn’t let yourself feel like this in a long time.
“Maybe," you whispered.
His thumb traced over your cheekbone. "No maybe about it."
And then, there was nothing else to say he kissed you.
Slowly, his lips impossibly gentle on yours.
When you pulled back, you didn’t hesitate. You scrambled up, found the ball, and booted it straight into the net.
5-4
"I WIN!"
Bucky groaned, throwing his head back into the grass. "You were distracting me!"
You stood over him, victorious. "Sounds like a skill issue, Barnes."
—
Your childhood room felt smaller than you remembered.
Old posters still covered the walls, though their edges were curling and yellowing slightly with age— legends of the game staring down as you both sat on the bed.
Bucky looked amused when his eyes landed on one in particular. He let out a low whistle.
“Gerard Piqué, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, already hearing the teasing you were about to endure. “Shut up.”
Bucky grinned, leaning back on his elbows. “I get it. World-class defender, Champions League winner… and what, you had a little crush on Shakira’s ex?”
You scoffed, kicking off your shoes as you dropped onto the bed. “I admired his game.”
"Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing to do with those blue eyes?" His smirk was downright wicked now. "Kinda like mine, now that I think about it. I’m seeing a pattern here."
You crossed your arms. “I liked his defensive intelligence.”
Bucky laid beside you. “And his face?”
You smacked him with a pillow. He caught it effortlessly, laughing.
You huffed. “He was a good defender.”
Bucky laughed.
You grabbed another pillow, but this time, Bucky beat you to it and tucked it under his head. He was still chuckling when he said, almost sheepishly, “I, uh… didn’t really have a crush when I was younger, but—”
You raised a brow. “But?”
He sighed. “I did have a lot of Thierry Henry posters.”
You blinked. “Thierry Henry?”
It caught you off-guard. Henry and Bucky were very different strikers, after all. Thierry Henry was sleek and technically refined. Bucky was more of a physically dominant, power-based striker.
Bucky shrugged, pretending to be indifferent, but you could see the slight pink creeping up his neck. “He was cool, alright?”
You grinned. “Are you sure you didn’t have a crush on him?”
Bucky groaned, covering his face with the pillow. “He was just so smooth. That dribbling, those finishes—he made everything look effortless.”
You laughed, nudging his arm. “This is adorable.”
“Shut up.”
“You were a little Thierry Henry fanboy.”
Bucky groaned again, but there was no real frustration in it. You tugged the pillow away, still smiling.
You traced patterns on your bedsheets. “I never would've guessed."
Bucky turned his head toward you. "And I never would've guessed Piqué was your type."
You chuckled. "He's not my type."
Bucky hummed, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "No?"
You swallowed, leaning into his touch.
"You," you insisted. "You're my type."
Bucky chuckled, hand cupping against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.
"Good," he whispered. "Because you're mine."
You both laid there for a while, talking without any pressure, just enjoying the kind of conversation that happens when the world feels small and distant.
You asked him about life in America, about the MLS. If he missed anyone.
Bucky hesitated, staring up at the ceiling. "Not really. I mean, I had my team, my life there, but… football took me everywhere. Always moving." He sighed, a little wistful. "My sister's still there, though."
"You’re close?" you asked.
"Yeah. Used to be more, but... she's— we’re both always busy now." He paused, "But you’ll meet her someday."
You smiled. "I’d like that."
Bucky looked over at you, his expression soft. "Yeah?" he asked, as if he hadn’t quite believed you'd want to.
"Yeah."
There was a quiet moment before Bucky turned his back to the ceiling, lost in thought. "I, uh… I had a best friend in MLS."
You nudged him with your elbow. "Had?"
He smiled faintly. "He's still my best friend. He called to congratulate me on the trophy, actually. Steve Rogers. We grew up together in Brooklyn, playing football since we were kids. Ended up on the same team in MLS. He was always better, though."
You raised your eyebrows. "You literally won the Champions League last season."
Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, well. Steve was special. One of those players who just had it." He looked at you, his voice growling smaller. "Like you."
Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment.
Bucky kept talking, his voice almost a whisper. "A couple years ago, he got injured. It was... bad. Never really got back to the way he used to be." He sighed.
Oh. So Rogers was very much like you.
“We used to spend hours just playing in the streets, using whatever we had for goalposts"
You hummed.
"I think I miss that part of football the most,” he admitted. “Just... playing for the love of it. No expectations. No pressure."
You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you in.
"I get that," you whispered.
For a long time, you didn’t speak. There was no need for words. You just laid there, wrapped up in each other.
For the first time in a long time, you weren’t alone anymore.
July 26th — Your Father’s Residence
Last night had been so innocent.
Just the two of you, curled up together in your childhood bed, limbs tangled beneath the covers.
Bucky had been sweet, so sweet and surprisingly well-behaved, even going so far as to change into one of his clean training shirts before bed, despite your teasing.
And, for a few blissful hours you had peace.
When you woke up, you felt Bucky’s chest beneath your cheek, his arms loose around your waist. For a moment, you simply watched him— his sleep-mussed hair, the way his brow scrunched slightly, the way his lips parted just enough to let out a barely-there sigh.
He was so adorable like this. Nothing like the relentless striker the world saw on the pitch.
Just Bucky. Just yours.
You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily before slipping from the bed, careful not to wake him. You walked over to the other side of the room, grabbing the jug of water from your desk and taking a sip, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you turned to the window—
And froze.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
There it was. Your dad’s car. In the driveway.
OH. SHIT.
Your stomach flipped as panic jolted through your spine.
"Bucky," you hissed, spinning around. "Bucky, wake up."
He didn’t respond for a few seconds, only managing a sleepy groan, a grumble of "Mmm, five more minutes."
You stared at him in utter betrayal. A professional athlete— a man who woke up at the crack of dawn to train every single day— was suddenly a five-more-minutes kind of guy?! Unacceptable.
You shoved his shoulder. Hard. "JAMES! HE’S HOME EARLY,” you whisper-shouted.
Bucky shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed. "Wait—who—what—"
Well, that did it.
"My dad! My dad is home early!"
For two whole seconds, Bucky just took his sweet time processing.
"Oh shit,” he blinked.
Good. His panic mode was finally activated.
Your brain short-circuited. "Okay, okay, okay—uh—we have to sneak you out."
Bucky scrambled out of bed, moving in the most uncoordinated way you had ever seen him move. "Right. Right. Sneak out. I—I just need to get my stuff—"
"You don’t have anything!"
"Shit! Okay!" he whisper-yelled, as if that somehow made things quieter.
And then you heard footsteps from downstairs.
Your dad was awake.
Oh god. Any second now, he’d either call up to you or worse— walk upstairs and find his club’s star striker sneaking out of his daughter’s bedroom.
You and Bucky exchanged a look.
The sheer terror shared between you was almost comical.
"Window?" Bucky whispered.
You gawked at him. "You’re a footballer, not Spider-Man. Are you insane?!"
"Back door?"
"It’s right by the kitchen! He’ll see you!"
You tiptoed to the bedroom door, cracked it open just enough to listen. You could hear the faint sizzling of something cooking.
Okay. Okay. You could work with this.
You turned back to Bucky. "We can do this. Just—just act casual."
Bucky gave you the most not-casual look ever as you both stumbled toward the hallway. "What the hell does ‘casual’ mean?"
"It means don’t act guilty!"
"Well, I am guilty!"
"Of what?! We didn’t do anything!"
"I don’t know?!" He was borderline hysterically whispering.
Before you could argue, Bucky suddenly stiffened.
Your stomach dropped. Slowly, with dread pooling in your gut, you turned.
And there your father was.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs. Arms crossed. Watching.
Shit.
“Barnes,” he said.
Bucky made a noise that was not human, best described as a strangled mix between a squeak and a whimper. His spine locked up so straight it was a miracle he didn’t snap in half.
Your dad looked at you. Then to Bucky. Then calmly, too calmly he asked, “You stayed over?”
Bucky opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. All of that jaw movement and still, absolute nothing came out.
You, already in full-blown panic mode, squeaked. “He—he stayed in the guest room!” A blatant, terrible lie.
Bucky nodded so fast it looked like his head might pop off. “Guest room. Yup. Uh—I was gonna go home from the training ground, but the, um—traffic!”
That wasn’t a complete lie.
“…gridlock,” you added weakly. “I had the keys here and… I, um, offered a stay. Can’t have our star boy stuck in training overnight!” You joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood.
Your dad’s expression remained unreadable.
“That’s very nice of you,” he finally smiled, but you couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Bucky, sensing his only possible window of escape, inched toward the door like he was sneaking past a sleeping bear. “Well, uh—thank you for the hospitality, sir. I should probably—”
“Oh, nonsense! Any player of mine should stay for breakfast!”
Bucky froze.
You froze.
Your dad, already turning toward the kitchen, utterly oblivious to the horror radiating from both of you, continued, “I’m making waffles. You’re both eating.”
Bucky turned to you, pure fear in his eyes. “Why does this feel like a trap?”
You whispered, “Because it is.”
—
The kitchen had never felt so small.
You and Bucky sat at the long wooden table like criminals waiting for questioning, hands stiff on your laps. Meanwhile, your father hummed as he mixed the batter. Your father never hummed.
You were so, so screwed.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and vanilla filled the air, very deceptively warm and comforting. You should have felt cosy, sitting in the same kitchen where you’d spent countless mornings as a child, where your father had once ruffled your hair and reminded you to eat before school.
But today, was Bucky Barnes sitting beside you, his knee just barely brushing against yours under the table.
“So, Barnes.” Your father finally spoke, pouring batter into the waffle maker. “How’s training been?”
Bucky’s voice cracked. “Good, sir! Strong. Very strongly. Uh—good preseason. Feeling… fit. Ready. Strong.”
You kicked him under the table, daring him to say strong one more time.
Your father nodded. “Good, good.” And then, without so much as a glance, he said, “You didn’t stay in the guest room, did you?”
Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the table.
“When I got home and saw my daughter’s car and the football outside, I figured I’d check if anyone else was staying the night.”
Your father paused. “You weren’t there,” he narrowed his eyes, pointing a fork at Bucky. “You slept in my daughter’s room.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Your father poked at the batter, checking if it was done.“So. Are you two dating?”
Bucky choked on air.
“Dad!” you yelped, heat flooding your face.
Your father only shrugged, his expression neutral, his movements impossibly calm. “What? It’s a simple question.”
Bucky, hands now frantically tapping the table, started rambling, We—uh—we’re just—”
Your father arched a brow, unamused. “It really shouldn’t be this hard to answer, Barnes.”
Bucky flinched like he’d just been tackled into the ground. After bracing himself, he blurted out, “Yes.”
Your father hummed again (seriously, the humming was unsettling) as he plated the waffles. “I’m not stupid, you know. It’s obvious. That, and Wilson’s been hinting about it for weeks.”
Fucking Sam.
Bucky blinked, though. He was surprisingly calm about this.
“And you’re okay with that?” You asked sheepishly.
“As long as Barnes keeps scoring goals and doesn’t break your heart?” He shrugged, “Sure.”
“So…” Bucky decided it was a good time for a joke. “I don’t have to run out the window?”
Your father chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d rather you not break your legs before the season starts.”
Oh. Okay.
Your father slid a stack of golden waffles onto both of your plates, pouring syrup over them with far too much exaggeration.
“Eat your waffles, kid.”
And just like that, Bucky Barnes had officially survived meeting your father.
Not as his boss. But as his girlfriend’s dad.
(Barely).
-end.
Extra note : I’m considering doing a part two where Steve gets hired as part of the coaching staff but I don’t know if anyone will read this fic, let alone like it 😭😭😭 I feel like it’s just such a niche audience lol.
HELLO?!! This was a masterpiece!! I absolutely love how you wrote all the characters. I didn’t think it was possible I could fall more in love with Bucky, but I did! 1000000/10 recommend
Summary: Falling for a mysterious man has been exhilarating, until you discover his biggest secret and realize you’ve been loving the most dangerous man in the city. But can you run from a monster in his own home when his eyes and ears are everywhere?
Word Count: 22.8k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni); smut (oral f receiving—but just in the beginning so you could skip it if you want); lots and lots of panic/anxiety/paranoia (reader); moral shock; huge misunderstanding; fear of being trapped; secrecy in a relationship; discovery of hidden identity; unequal power dynamics (implicit); manipulation (perceived); weapons (guns); Bucky might be a little possessive, but we love it; references to violence and criminal activity; Bucky is soft only for you; Bucky is down bad
Author’s Note: Oh my gosh, my first fic of the year, I’m so proud!! Mob Bucky has had me in a chokehold y’all and I’m so happy I finally get to share this. It took me what feels like an eternity. There is a second part to this coming up shortly. I fully planned on packing all of it into a oneshot but it’s gotten way out of hand and I don’t think tumblr would even let me get it out in one go. I also didn’t want to cut anything down because I already spent so much time trying to get everything the way I wanted it, and removing parts would’ve sent me right back into editing hell, so here we are. The second part is already in progress and should be up in a few days once I finish it properly. I hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist | part two
You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you can’t fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat won’t make it out.
Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.
With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.
Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though you’re not managing all that well.
His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesn’t use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.
He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.
His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.
“Stop that,” he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. “Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me.”
“Bucky, the guards,” you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. “Your people. They will hear. They will think—”
Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.
“I don't care what they think. I want them to know.” He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. “I want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when I’m the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who I’m answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.”
With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. You’re entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.
His hands lock you into place, and the way he’s eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. He’s being greedy. He’s using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.
He’s a businessman, that’s what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. He’s a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but who’s to blame you for it.
The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.
Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like you’re the only meal on his plate.
His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure you’re pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. It’s dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. He’s gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.
Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourself—it all doesn’t feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you won’t be able to look at his people anymore.
He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you don’t understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if that’s all he’s been waiting for his whole life.
Damn, you’re a lucky girl.
He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like he’s trying to draw your very soul to the surface.
It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.
He tracks you through his lashes, and you’re careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesn’t stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesn’t seem to embarrass him in the slightest.
Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.
He catches your wrist.
He’s not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.
“What’d I say,” he warns, voice low, husky.
You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. “Bucky—”
“Make the noise,” he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. “All of it.”
His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. You’ve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isn’t some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though he’s already done the math but there’s no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.
He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. It’s thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like he’s trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.
“Bucky—,” you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.
He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teeth—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.
He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.
He’s fast and skilled and you’re made to take it.
“Open up,” he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldn’t possible open up more for him.
There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. You’re straining upward, seeking the release he’s dangling just out of reach.
He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, it’s dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.
"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."
He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, and—
And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. It’s a sharp and intrusive sound and it’s stripping the air of its heat.
Bucky doesn’t seem to care, though. He doesn’t so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.
The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.
Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.
The phone dies.
He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.
Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.
You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift you’ve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.
“Bucky,” you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. “You should get that.”
His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.
“It can wait,” he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.
Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.
He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.
“Bucky—,” you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.
“My girl deserves to get off first,” he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.
And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesn’t take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.
Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.
The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isn’t a sob anymore. It’s a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.
Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.
And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.
By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if he’d reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.
When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.
Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You don’t need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.
Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodies—when the door rattles with a knock.
Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. “Boss?” a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.
His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.
With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.
“What,” he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.
“Sorry, boss,” The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. “But, uh— it’s important. You are needed.”
You want to let out a heavy sigh. But you’ve seen this coming, really.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. He’s not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.
“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.
Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.
“It’s Sam,” he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.
You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.
Bucky gives a long exhale.
“Give me five.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.
And Bucky doesn’t make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.
You try to turn to his face. “Bucky, you should go.”
His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.
“You come first,” he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasn’t done anything wrong.
You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. “I don’t want to hold you back from work.”
“You’re not,” he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.
But then he’s shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomach—those scars are another mystery he hasn’t let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.
You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when he’s no longer touching you.
He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesn’t bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. It’s almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.
You’re still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.
“Stay here,” he says gently. “I’ll handle it.”
Handle it.
The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.
He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.
You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it’s the one you always get to see when you’re the only audience.
“Make yourself at home while I’m gone, yeah?” he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. “If you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.”
You smile at him, nodding softly.
His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. “Didn’t plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Should’ve known better, though.”
“You’re the boss, Bucky,” you ease lightly. “I assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.”
His mouth curves.
“Unfortunately.”
He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs sweetly. “Soon as I’m done with this.” His thumb traces your cheek. “I’m coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.” His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. “Cuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.”
Your stomach does a small, excited flip. “Maybe?”you tease, leaning into his touch.
He presses his smirk against yours. “Definitely.”
With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. It’s almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.
At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. “Lock it behind me, doll.”
The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.
His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.
“Get Wilson on the line,” he demands, tone clipped. “Now.” And then the door shuts.
You’re left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.
You don’t get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you don’t deem it necessary to lock the door when he’s just out taking a call. And you’re sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.
So you flop back into the mattress—that certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feels—and stare at the ceiling for a moment.
Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.
Because really. What on earth.
You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.
The place is obscene.
And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your résumé.
There’s a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.
And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.
Maids.
And guards.
Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.
Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.
And somehow—how the fuck—you have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.
And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.
The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.
You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.
A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.
Instead, he found you.
You.
Who once tripped over a grocery store display and apologized to the oranges. And yet he looks at you like you hung the moon with questionable hardware.
You grin into the pillow.
Also—objectively speaking—the man is incredible in bed. Like, it’s crazy.
Biting your lip and staring up at the ceiling, you wonder if the chandelier is as baffled by your luck as you are. It’s like winning the lottery without buying a ticket, and you’re silently pleading with the laws of probability to stay bent in your favor just a little while longer; at least until he realizes you’re a mere mortal and not the goddess he’s treating you as.
It’s weird that a man like him noticed you. Weird that he’s so sharp with the world but so gentle with you. Weird that he lives in this fortress of wealth and power and still tells you to steal his shirts if you’re getting cold.
Your eyes drift toward the wardrobe.
Top shelf on the left, he said.
You imagine one of his massive shirts swallowing you as a whole, and snort softly.
Yeah.
You definitely pulled a mob-boss-looking, suit-wearing, ridiculously attentive gentleman who apparently worships the ground you lie naked on.
Weird. Very weird. But you’re not complaining. You’re just mentally haggling with the universe, offering to never ask for another favor again if it just promises not to reclaim its prize or realize he’s a solid ten and you’re way out of his league.
He told you he runs a company.
You imagine glass walls and long tables and men in suits who nod too quickly while he stands in front of them all in his suit, looking all delicious and hot. You imagine paperwork, meetings, a name etched into metal on an office door. He never corrects you. He only smiles in that small way of his—enigmatic, a little asymmetrical, a little careful, as if the smile is something he built from spare parts and polished until it gleamed.
You’ve been dating for a short time. And considering the mystery he surrounds himself with, you guess it’s going to take a while until you truly get to know him. Until he truly starts telling you how his day has been and what he has been up to—and what taking a call means in his business.
But he kisses as though he’s been starving in a snowstorm. As though warmth is an endangered species and your mouth is the last sanctuary. His hands are large and soothing, and they never wander without purpose. He touches and handles you like the first blossom of a century-plant, something that has spent a hundred years preparing to bloom for a single day. And he looks at you as if you are that miracle. As if you are the only soft thing in a life built of stone.
And so, you tell yourself, you can wait for him to be ready to talk.
You don’t know what he does after midnight. You only know he sometimes steps onto the balcony to take calls. His voice changes there. It drops. He doesn’t smooth over his words and instead lets the corners stay pointy. You just never catch his words. The only thing you can do is admire the way the city lights flicker behind him like they’re afraid of him. Or in awe.
And when he comes back inside, he presses his forehead to yours as if he’s returning from war.
Contemplating, you lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. Then you sit up.
It’s not cold, the room is perfectly climate-controlled in that rich-people way where seasons are merely decorative suggestions outside the window; but you suddenly want one of his shirts.
Not for warmth, but for him, for the smell of him, for the proof that this is all actually happening and you are actually here with him somewhere out there in this huge mansion, waiting to get his mouth back on you. For the possibility that his detergent—whatever luxury forest-scented nonsense it probably is—might trick your brain into thinking he’s still right there.
You glance toward the wardrobe.
It’s enormous, who would have guessed. Cathedral enormous. Dark wood doors that probably cost more than your childhood bedroom set. It suggests that Bucky owns multiple versions of the same devastatingly expensive suit.
You slide out of bed and pad across the carpet, which is so soft it feels apologetic for touching your feet. Putting on your underwear for comfort, you make your way over to his wardrobe. The doors open without making a single sound.
You step inside and it feels like even the air is filtered for perfection. It’s a humbling difference to your own apartment, where the dresser functions less like furniture and more like a high-stakes game of Tetris, with your favorite sweaters perpetually losing the battle against a jammed bottom drawer, and where finding a matching pair of socks requires the luck of a seasoned treasure hunter.
There are rows of shirts, jackets, trousers. Everything spaced just enough apart to breathe. Everything immaculate. A faint scent of sandalwood and something clean and expensive drifts forward to greet you.
You tilt your head up.
The shirt shelf is ambitious.
You stand on your toes but you don’t reach anything. You reach higher, basically for nothing. Your fingers waggle uselessly in the air, far away from touching anything.
You sigh.
Because obviously, the man built like a six-foot-something war monument thinks a shelf near the ceiling is perfectly reasonable.
You walk out of the wardrobe and glance back toward the bed. Then toward the chair near the window.
His jacket is draped there. It looks like it belongs at the head of a mahogany table, brokering peace or declaring war with a single sharp lapel. And in between there’s the shirt he’s tossed aside as soon as you both entered his room, with an untidiness that feels like a glitch in his otherwise perfect Matrix.
It’s the shirt he didn’t bother to put back on when leaving you here. You grin.
Well.
That works too. Perfectly, even.
You wander over, the carpet not letting any sound free. The chair sits near the tall windows, moonlight cascading across the floor in long silver rectangles. It looks graceful somehow. His jacket catches the light along its seams, and you shiver at the thought of how elegant and powerful it makes him look.
You reach for it, intending to lift it aside and claim the bunched shirt.
But the moment you grab the jacket, something feels off. It’s heavy. Not normal-jacket heavy. Weighted. You frown faintly, adjusting your grip. You pick it up fully, wanting to fold it neatly, when something slips out of it.
There’s a short, dense thud against the floor. It makes you freeze.
The object lands on the dark carpet inches from your toe; a short, metallic punctuation mark in the silence. It drinks in the chandelier’s glow and spits it back out with a cold, silver arrogance. It ignites an unmistakable shimmer that makes the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.
Your brain takes a second to translate the shape.
It’s a gun.
You stare at it.
The word sits adamantly on the floor of your mind and turns the room into a crime scene before anything has even happened. It’s a sharp fracture in the timeline—there is the version of you from five seconds ago, and the version of you staring at a hunk of lethal metal.
This thing is real. Very real. Not movie-real. Not plastic-prop-real. More like heavy-metal-object-that-could-alter-the-entire-direction-of-a Tuesday-real.
Your knees grow weak and you crouch down so very slowly. Who knows, maybe sudden movements can already trigger it. You’ve never seen a real gun. You never expected you would, not like this, at least. This feels pretty surreal.
The jacket still hangs half off the chair behind you. The shirt you wanted is crumpled innocently beneath it, but you’re not grabbing it.
Your attention remains on the gun. You don’t touch it.
It’s not like your heart is racing noticeably, but there is a new tightness in your chest and it’s making you feel as though your thoughts all have quietly stood up at once.
Because. Right. Of course.
You know Bucky runs a company.
You know he’s wealthy enough to own a mansion that probably requires a map and a tour guide.
You know he has guards. Actual guards. You knew all that.
But with this gun sitting there on the carpet, it feels like looking through a new lens that snaps the blurry facts you know of this man into a slightly different focus.
If it’s frightening, you’re not sure, but it’s definitely clarifying.
You sit back on your heels for a moment, staring at it. He carried this in his jacket pocket. Casually. Just around. Like a wallet. Or keys.
Your mind tries to rewind through the past weeks. The way he watches exits. The midnight phone calls. The men who seem oddly respectful around him. The commanding note in his voice when he tells someone to do something.
You bite your lip, a hectic internal editor trying to bridge the gap between the little you know about the man and the metal you’ve found. You tell yourself not to panic, because panicking won’t give you any answers. And there’s no need to panic, because he’s just a man with power, a man who’s a boss and bosses tend to have people who don’t like them.
That’s no reason to use a gun on anyone, but it’s probably just a formality. A piece of insurance stored away like a fire extinguisher you hope to never use. Maybe it’s not meant for violence at all, just for peace of mind.
He’s protective. You’ve seen and felt it. Just last week, he was absolutely livid, after one of his guards stepped out of line with one of his maids, who’s this sweet old woman who had been with his family since his father’s time. He was in such a blind tailspin over it, and your soothing touch was the only thing that was able to pull him back to earth.
He would build a wall around everyone he cares about just to keep the wind from blowing too hard. Perhaps this gun is just part of that wall, a safety he keeps close so he never has to feel helpless. It doesn't have to mean he’s dangerous. It just means he’s prepared. It’s a precaution, a tool, a just in case that will likely collect dust until the end of time.
You try to settle the thought, but it feels like trying to pin a map against your chest in a storm; the harder you flatten your palms against the paper, the more wind tunnels through the gaps, ballooning the center and snatching the corners from your grip. If you manage to squash one section still, the air pockets behind the rest, turning the whole thing into a thrashing thing that fights to fold itself back up or fly away entirely. No matter what you do, no matter how much you lean into it, the wind will always be a second faster. The wind will always have the upper hand, hollowing out the space between your hands and the whole truth you are trying to read.
You just have to believe that the man who touches his girl so carefully is the same man who would only ever use that steel to keep the world at bay.
Your gaze lingers on it.
You don’t know much about guns. Your knowledge is mostly assembled from movies, news articles, and the vague understanding that they belong firmly in the category of things you should probably treat with respect. And it definitely belongs to a world you’ve never really stepped into before.
But apparently, Bucky lives there.
You glance toward the door he disappeared through. This is the guy who permitted you to steal his clothes, who pressed a kiss to your forehead with the softest lips. When he looks at you, it’s with that specific focus, that startled sort of wonder that always makes you feel so over-exposed, but also exponentially adored.
Your chest softens despite yourself. Still.
You eye the gun again, and one thing has become very clear in the last thirty seconds. You might be dating a man you know less about than you thought.
And that realization sits in the room with you now, waiting for you to act on it.
But you don’t know how. You simply keep staring. The chandelier light kisses its metal edges until they gleam faintly, indifferent to the fact that your brain is currently eroding into a new shape.
You swallow, and even that sounds strange in the imposing space, like it wandered too far from home.
Leaving this thing on the floor feels wrong.
And if Bucky comes back and sees it there... You don’t know why, but the thought makes your stomach tighten.
So you reach down, only now seeing that your hands are slightly wavering. Your fingers close around the grip, and the first thing you notice is the weight. It’s heavier than it looks, solid in a way that makes your palm immediately aware that this object was designed with very serious intentions.
You lift it slowly. Nothing happens, obviously. The world doesn’t explode. The chandelier doesn’t shatter. The mansion continues breathing its wealthy breath around you.
But holding it still feels like stepping one inch deeper into a room you didn’t know existed.
You turn it slightly, meaning only to orient it so you can slide it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket, but you spot an engraving, small letters carved into the dark handle.
JBB
Your brow furrows. You stare at them for a moment, tracing the edges with your eyes.
The metal around the letters looks softened. Not scratched exactly, but worn in the way objects get when they’ve lived in someone’s hand for a long time. Like a favorite pen. Or a well-loved watch.
If guns can look old, this one does. It’s not antique-old, but familiar-old.
You tilt your head. JBB. You try to assemble a name around the letters. The only name you know for the man currently pacing somewhere in this mansion making serious phone calls is Bucky.
Just Bucky.
You don’t know his last name, you realize suddenly, and you don’t like that.
You know his favorite whiskey. You know the exact shape of the scar on his shoulder. You know the way he presses his nose into your hair when he tries to calm himself down.
But his last name leaves a blank space in your mind. You glance down at the gun again.
JBB.
Maybe it belongs to someone else. Someone with a J. Jake? James? John? Jacob?
Maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe it belonged to his father. Maybe it’s one of those rich-man- heirloom objects that get passed down through generations alongside cufflinks and complicated legacies.
You exhale quietly.
That explanation sounds reasonable enough that you decide to borrow it for the moment.
Very carefully, and with explicit intent, you slide the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. The fabric settles around it like it knows exactly where it’s needed.
You smooth the lapel automatically.
There.
No evidence.
Your fingers linger on the jacket for a second longer than you want.
It still smells like him. Clean soap. Dried tobacco. Something stronger beneath it that you can’t put a name to but always recognize immediately as Bucky.
You step back, and suddenly the room feels different. Not threatening, but it does feel larger still.
Because now your brain is busy counting the things you don’t know.
You don’t know his last name.
You don’t really know what his company does.
You don’t know why men knock on his bedroom door looking nervous.
You don’t know why he carries a gun like it’s just another accessory.
You rub your arms lightly, because now there is a faint prickle of awareness crawling along your thoughts and it is spreading throughout your body.
You’ve been dating for six weeks. Is this long enough to demand answers? To justify interrogations? Gosh, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about a lot of things right now, really. You’ve been floating through the beginning part—the sweet, dizzy, honeymoon fog where the only facts that matter are the ones you feel.
But now there’s a small string of sunlight sliding through the fog. A string of curiosity. You turn back toward the bed where your clothes lie in a small, careless pile.
Maybe you’re overthinking this.
Maybe.
Still.
You pull your shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. Your jeans follow, and then your fingers reach automatically for the necklace resting on the nightstand.
The pearls catch the light when you lift them. Bucky gave it to you two weeks ago.
It’s delicate. Real pearls, because he just can. Everything about him seems to come with an expensive quality attached.
You remember the way he looked when he gave it to you. Almost shy, which was deeply unfair considering how the man is built.
Saw it and thought of you, he’d said. Think about you all the time, he’d added.
Which had melted approximately seventy percent of your internal structure. You fasten the necklace and touch it lightly now.
Gentleman.
Ridiculously good in bed.
Mysterious.
Possibly carrying engraved guns.
You sigh.
You feel a little guilty. Because what you’re about to do is technically snooping. And snooping is not great. Your mother would absolutely deliver a lecture about boundaries if she could see you right now.
You glance around the massive room again. The desk by the window. The bookshelves. The curated neatness of everything.
You bite your lip. You’re not looking for secrets. You’re just looking for context. A clue. A name.
Something that tells you who Bucky is when he isn’t kissing your forehead and telling you to raid his closet.
Your feet move before your conscience can finish filing complaints.
Your steps make no sound as you move across the carpet, wandering deeper into the room and scanning the shelves and surfaces with a caution that can’t suppress your intrigue.
You don’t need all the answers. Just one or two. So you start with the obvious places.
Drawers.
It feels less intrusive somehow; opening something that was clearly meant to be opened. You move slowly, like a guest in a museum after hours, careful fingers, quiet breath, a mild sense that the walls might be watching.
The first drawer slides out with a wooden noise and even that sounds rich. Inside, there are watches. Several of them, lined neatly in velvet compartments. Dark metal, silver, leather straps. You don’t know brands, but you know enough to guess that each one probably costs more than your car.
You close the drawer.
The next one holds cufflinks. Rows of them. Small polished things that look important and serious and entirely uninterested in your investigation.
And it only goes on this way. You open drawer after drawer, and there is nothing strange. Nothing suspicious. Just the belongings of a very wealthy man who liked things neat.
Your shoulders loosen a little. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the gun is just a rich man's security thing. The guards downstairs carry them too, probably. It doesn’t automatically mean anything bad.
You open another drawer.
Paperwork. Boring looking things. A passport tucked neatly inside a leather sleeve. You hesitate for half a second before closing it again.
That one definitely feels like crossing a line.
You step away from the wardrobe and wander toward the nightstand instead.
The wood gleams darkly under the chandelier.
You pull open the top drawer.
More ordinary things. Wallets. Sunglasses. A small tray of rings.
Further back in the drawer, you find a small stack of Polaroids. You fish them out, because you recognize the first picture. It’s a picture of Bucky and you from a few weeks ago. You had found an old Polaroid camera and wanted to try it out, practically levering him into the frame while he grumbled about how he wasn’t photogenic which was total bullshit in your eyes. But he isn’t even looking at the camera in the photo. He is looking at you with a fond little half-smile.
Looking at a few others, you realize they are of you. All of them. One is a shot of your back as you walk toward a sunset, another is a blurred profile of you sleeping on his shoulder.
There is a warmth prickling at the back of your neck and you feel something slacken inside your stomach as you slowly lower the photos back where they were.
Nothing about all of this screams crime lord. Your nerves ease another notch.
You almost laugh at yourself. Your brain likes to get dramatic. Bucky is archiving your relationship, he is sweet and protective and tender and just—
As you are about to pull your hand out, your fingers brush against something cold and metallic near the back of the drawer.
You pause.
It’s partially hidden beneath a folded black cloth. Just the faint glint of a chain catching the light.
Curiosity taps gently on your shoulder.
You slide the cloth aside and notice the silver chain. It’s thin and tangled loosely like it’s been dropped there without much thought.
You hook your finger under it and lift. Something heavier at the end slips free. Two small metal plates fall against each other with a quiet clink.
Dog tags.
You blink.
That’s not strange, exactly. Lots of people keep sentimental things. Maybe Bucky served in the military. That would even make him hotter, to be real. But it does feel a little hurtful that he didn’t share this information with you.
You turn the tags over idly, expecting to see a name you don’t recognize. However, though, you do recognize the name that’s neatly spelled out on the metal plate. And it has the air in your lungs turn to stone, refusing to move a single inch.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Your stomach drops in such a harsh way, there is no ending to the fall. Your internal organs are unmoored and everything about you feels dizzy and weightless. It’s like stepping down a staircase that isn’t there. You’re still gripping the metal, but the connection between your brain and your hands has been cut, and now your fingers feel distant and wooden, filled with a needling sensation you know comes right before they start to shake.
And they do shake.
A thin tremor at first, then worse, until the tags begin to chatter against each other. Each sharp nick of the steel feels so biting and loud, broadcasting the exact moment you are losing it.
Your mind flips through memory like rifling a deck of cards too fast.
News headlines.
Conversations overheard in cafés.
Podcasts about organized crime.
New York’s most notorious mob boss.
The man whose name floats through the city like a ghost story told after midnight. James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB.
Heat rushes up the back of your neck while the rest of you goes ice-cold. It feels like standing in two climates at once—your skin clammy, your spine rigid, a cold sweat blooming between your shoulder blades.
Every breath you pull in is labored and metallic, coating your lungs in a film of disbelief that makes your chest ache. You can almost hear the gears of your reality grinding to a convulsive, screeching halt, stripping the teeth right off the life you thought you were living.
Your pulse is a furious SOS tapped out against the underside of your throat; a muddled, thrumming reminder that you are standing in the epicenter of a storm you didn't even know was brewing. You feel thin, translucent, like a sketch of a person that someone could erase with a single, hard look.
Your fingers tighten around the dog tags. No.
No no no.
Your brain scrambles to reject it. Because that’s outrageous.
That man—the one people call dangerous in all kinds of languages, the one whose operations stretch across half the city, the one who apparently runs things so carefully that no one has ever managed to pin a crime on him—
That man is a myth.
A shadow.
A name in newspapers. No photos. No confirmed identity.
Just whispers.
James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB
You stare at the letters again. You recall the way his initials were engraved in the gun.
Your mind scrambles for explanations—wrong tags, coincidence, someone else with the same name—but every attempt at reason breaks apart in your hands.
Bucky. James. Bucky. James.
James Bucky Barnes.
Your eyes drift slowly across the room.
The suits.
The mansion.
The guards.
The midnight phone calls.
The seriousness.
The gun.
Your hands are shaking tremendously. JBB.
James.
Buchanan.
Barnes.
Your mind repeats it over and over again. The math is suddenly very simple.
He kissed your forehead fifteen minutes ago. He told you to steal his shirt if you get cold. He gifted you present after present because he simply could. He spoke your name as if he had ingrained it on his tongue.
He is the most dangerous man in the city.
Something uncomfortably glaring and stinging climbs up the back of your neck, and it’s making you feel watched by a predator you once mistook for a protector.
You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. Illegal shipments. Rival gangs disappearing overnight. Entire businesses quietly changing ownership after one meeting with Barnes.
And yet there is no evidence. Never evidence. Just the name. James Buchanan Barnes. The general public doesn’t know what he looks like. There are no confirmed photographs. Just rumors.
But you know exactly what he looks like. You know the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired. You know the scars on his body, know his reactions to your lips on them. You know the exact sound he makes when you laugh unexpectedly.
You are standing in the bedroom of the most notorious mob boss in New York. Wearing the pearl necklace he gave you.
Sleeping in his bed.
Dating him.
For fucks sake, he’s been inside you. You came on the most wanted dick in this city.
The walls of his seemingly huge room, so pristine and elegant, now seem to turn from a sanctuary into a beautifully curated cage.
You have been falling for the most dangerous man in the entire city and until two minutes ago, you had absolutely no idea.
Your hand moves to put the dog tags back in their place, but it’s like you’ve switched to autopilot. Your fingers operate with a sense of detachment while your mind is still a mile behind, screaming.
You lower the chain back into the velvet-lined dark with a tremble you can’t shake. You should crush it in your fist, should throw it at the ground and stomp around on it, should spit on it for what this man did—to the world, to you—but all you can do is handle it with a carefulness that is usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.
The metal hits the bottom with a tiny clink. The sound is so small, yet it feels like a heavy iron gate slamming shut between who you were five minutes ago and who you are now.
You slide the drawer shut, the wood-on-wood glide sounding like a long, slow exhale of a secret that’s finally been caught. You do it with agonizing slowness, as if by moving quietly enough, you can trick the universe into rewinding the last sixty seconds, or rather the last months so you could have avoided stumbling into his strong but deceiving arms.
And immediately, your brain begins doing what brains do best when frightened—it rewrites the past with fresh ink.
Everything changes. Everything. You look around the bedroom again. But it’s not the same room anymore. It’s not a beautiful space where you spent evenings laughing and tangled in sheets with a man who handled you like he was scared to hurt you.
Now it’s a room belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. Mob boss. Ruler of the underworld. The man people whisper about like saying his name too loudly might summon him like the devil.
Your stomach is curled into a hard stone, your fingers still numb. And suddenly every memory of the last few weeks starts recoding itself.
You remember the first gift he gave you. Not the pearls. The flowers. Three dozen white lilies delivered to your apartment door a day after your first date.
You’d laughed at the absurdity of it, calling him to tell him that this is too much, way too much, but he had smirked over the phone, so soft and unabashed, only replying that you deserve it, that you deserve way more than that.
At the time it felt romantic. But now your mind shears the memory, leaving the colors bled and the angles wrong. You turn all the memories of him over in the light until the shadows fall differently, until they take on shapes that start to build a picture.
Maybe it wasn’t romance. Maybe it was a strategy. Because that’s what men like him do, right? They buy people. They build golden cages out of small, glittering gestures.
You rub your arms slowly.
Another memory surfaces. The restaurant. The one with the insane skyline view where the waiters treated him like visiting royalty.
You’d joked about it. Do you secretly own this place?
He’d smiled that slow, mysterious smile of his and simply offered you more wine. He had looked so pleased.
Tension coils behind your ribs, but your mind keeps going.
The necklace. The pearls. One month together and he gives you something that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
You had protested. He’d looked almost offended. He pouted at you. He looked so adorably soft, so hopeful you would take this gift from him, that you thought it to be sweet.
Maybe a little over-the-top.
But that was just Bucky, is what you thought. A little intense. A little larger than life.
However, now the thought hatches, its spindly legs prickling against your focus.
He wasn’t spoiling you, he was buying you. Buying your affection. Buying your trust. Buying your silence.
Heat floods your face. Shame webs across your heart in a dark lace of regret. You feel so embarrassed. It spreads across your whole chest and even stains the air around you.
Because you fell for it. You idiot fell for it.
Hook, line, and embarrassingly enthusiastic sinker.
You believed the soft way he looked at you. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he kissed you like he had been wandering the desert and you were the first water he’d seen in years.
You believed the way he listened to you ramble about dumb things like your coworkers, your favorite movies, the stupid podcast you liked.
You believed the way he touched you. Gentle and devoted, and it all seemed so loving.
Your throat is tight, turned into parchment, the soft tissue shrinking and hardening until it feels ready to crack. Because all that might have been a performance. A simple performance to fool you.
Of course, he would know how to act. Of course, he would know how to charm someone. Men like that survive on manipulation.
But you don’t understand why it’s you. Why you of all people? You’re not wealthy. Not powerful. Not connected.
Which somehow makes it all the more humiliating because maybe that’s exactly why. You imagine the possibilities, and each one feels worse than the last.
Maybe he needed someone clean. Someone with no ties to his world. Someone who could unknowingly hold something for him. Transport something. Sign something. Test something.
Maybe you were never a girlfriend, but a tool. A pawn. A convenient, smiling civilian. Someone harmless enough that no one would suspect anything.
Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sound that hasn’t even formed, but you cannot lock out your mind, and a keener thought pushes through.
What if he didn’t need you for anything practical at all? What if you were just entertainment?
A normal girl to play house with for a few weeks. A soft distraction between grating business meetings and dangerous deals.
Your eyes and cheeks burn at the thought that somewhere behind those soft eyes and tender hands, he might have been laughing at how easily you melted. How quickly you trusted him.
You feel sick. Your stomach heaves in a frantic attempt to purge the very air you breathe. It drags liquid heat up from your gut to your searing cheeks.
Your gaze drifts to the chair by the window. His jacket still hangs there. Inside it, the gun rests quietly.
Your stomach flips again.
Because suddenly it feels impossible that the man who carried that gun tonight was the same man who tucked the blanket around you earlier, who swiped his tongue against your pussy this deliciously and stopped you from hiding your reactions.
It was simply a power play, and god, are you a stupid girl.
You hear his voice in your head again. Stay here. Lock the door.
A shiver runs down your spine. Because now the words sound different. There is none of that protective and caring cadence. All you hear is a command. Containment. Showing you he is the one with the power, he is the one dealing the cards.
Oh, god. What have you gotten yourself into. This is definitely the worst thing yet.
You know you have to get the hell out of here. High-tail it. Let your panic lend wings to your feet to carry you the fuck out of the devil’s quarters.
You absolutely cannot still be in this room when he comes back. Pretending you didn’t notice the gun was one thing. Pretending you didn’t discover who he actually is, is another thing entirely.
The lie would be too large. It would sit between you like a loaded weapon much deeper and more fatal than that damned gun.
Your pulse is a vibrating scream inside your throat, your chest, your whole body, because what happens when he sees that you know?
What does a man like James Buchanan Barnes do with loose ends?
Fear and dread pin your lungs against your ribs and make the hairs on your arms stand up.
You don’t want to find out. You grab your phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Inside your mind, your thoughts are colliding and yelling at one another, memories reshaping themselves into something darker.
He was so worshipful. So attentive. So careful with you.
And it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
He really is the best actor you’ve ever met.
You glance once more around the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The luxury of everything.
Then you head for the door. Because whatever this was, whatever he was, you need to be gone before James Buchanan Barnes comes back.
There is that low, now seemingly threatening rattle vibrating through the wood of the door. Somewhere down the long dark of the hallway, a mess of voices spills out—too muffled to catch the words, just a low drone. Then there’s the sound of footsteps on the marble, over and over, like a pendulum, until it gets softened by the rugs.
It’s eerie how this place just functions. No clanking, no friction. Just the invisible, midnight grinding of a house that knows exactly how to keep itself running while everyone else is dead to the world.
Bucky's house.
No—your mind corrects strictly.
James Buchanan Barnes’s house.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and turn the handle.
The door gives a tiny, smug click, and you step out slowly, looking around to see nobody.
Ahead, the hallway just stretches out forever, all that dark, expensive wood shimmering under these wall lamps that just stare at you, glowing like something waiting for its turn to speak.
It’s wide enough that you expect a massive echo, but the carpet is so thick it just eats your footsteps. It’s unsettling. The whole place feels like it’s sucked in its gut, just holding its breath, waiting to see if you’ll decide to jump through the floor-to-ceiling windows to your right in your desperation to leave this place.
The door closes behind you, and even though it doesn’t really make a sound, you flinch so hard, your little jump through the window plan might be accidental.
Your heart begins to pound harder now that you’ve left the safety—no, the illusion—of the bedroom.
Because this house feels much larger and colder out here. Maybe you should have taken the gun with you. But you don’t know how to use such a thing, because you’re a normal person, and normal people don’t carry those things around like an innocent handbag.
You take a few unsure steps and it feels like you’ve stepped backstage at a theater and suddenly realized the play you were enjoying might actually be a crime scene.
You know the way to the front door.
He walked you through the mansion when you first visited, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through endless rooms and hallways with an easy familiarity that felt charming at the time.
But you know better and realize he was just showing you the cage. But at least you were paying attention. Every turn, every hallway he bragged about is burned into your head. That charming tour just became the only map out of here.
Two hallways down. Past the staircase. Through the long gallery with the ample paintings.
Then the front entrance.
Simple.
Except for the fact that his mansion is apparently populated by a small army.
Maids. Guards. Staff who move through the house like quiet satellites orbiting the gravity of one man.
These were all signs you simply overlooked because he’s handsome. You bite the inside of your cheek out of frustration with yourself. How can one person be so fucking blind.
You start walking.
Your footsteps are soft, but your heartbeat is anything but.
A maid appears at the far end of the corridor just as you round the corner, and everything inside you locks up.
She pauses when she sees you, instantly throwing you a smile that genuinely looks pleasant. She recognizes you. You don’t recognize her. Your stomach turns and turns until it is knotted too tight to even be able to move.
“Miss,” she starts politely. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
You force a smile that you hope doesn’t look like it’s made entirely of nerves and the urge to run down this hall, disappearing out of sight.
“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light, a little apologetic. “Sorry— I just... I think I need some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.”
The lie comes out smoother than you expected. Maybe panic is a good acting coach.
The maid’s expression softens immediately. She even looks a little too concerned for you for whatever reason.
“Of course,” she says sweetly, and you actually feel bad for lying to her. Does she know who she’s working for? Does she know who you are supposed to be for the man who is her boss? Maybe you could ask her. Maybe she would shoot you for it, who knows. Maybe everyone in this godforsaken building owns a gun, ready to use it. “Would you like me to call the boss—”
“No,” you interrupt quickly, then soften the urgency with a small laugh. “No, it’s fine. He’s busy with work, right? I don’t want to bother him.”
You hate how natural the sentence sounds. How easily you can say work when you now know that word hides a thousand darker things.
The maid nods, but she does seem a little hesitant. “Of course.” Thankfully, she leaves it at that.
With the wish for you to feel better soon, and an awkward thank you from your side, you continue walking.
One corridor.
Then another.
Your mind keeps racing ahead of your body, building plans like emergency scaffolding.
It all suddenly looks so terrifyingly menacing. Especially in the dark. It feels so much like a trap. The lights are down and the shadows feel like they’re actually reaching for you. There’s this dreadful, suffocating weight pressing out from the walls, like the house itself is holding a grudge. Your skin is crawling, and the air feels too thick to actually get into your lungs. It’s stale, as though it’s been sitting in a basement for a hundred years, and now the building has finally stopped pretending to be a home and turned into a giant cave with only dead ends so you will never have a way out and will end up as a rotting corpse in some forgotten corner.
The dark walls feel like they are crowding your shoulders. Those deep red carpets are laid out just a little too perfectly, too insistent on keeping you in the center of the floor. Walking down those corridors feels like being threaded through a needle.
And it’s not that the place is ever actually quiet, it’s just that every sound here is on a leash. There is the clink of glass coming from somewhere deep in the gut of the mansion. The dry, dusty thud of footsteps on rugs that are probably more worth than your life in the eyes of the mob boss. Voices that stay low and thick, never quite hitting the walls. It’s too disciplined. It’s a silence that’s been trained to keep its mouth shut.
He probably won’t notice you slinking out of his home. However, what he will definitely notice, is that you will never see him again, or answer his texts or calls. So that will be a problem.
The man owns a gun, and whatever else he can kill people with. So you can’t go home, is what you think as you descend the wide staircase. When you get out of here, you can’t flee to your apartment.
Because he knows where you live. He picked you up there. Dropped you off there. Walked you to your door like the perfect gentleman.
You almost laugh at the bitter irony.
The most dangerous man in the city knows your address. He played the perfect gentleman just to find out where and how you live.
Which means going home would be like walking back into a trap you’ve just barely escaped.
But you know just who is badass enough to help you out of this situation. Natasha.
Natasha lives across town. Natasha answers calls at ungodly hours. Natasha once helped you move apartments at two in the morning with nothing but her wry commentary and a borrowed truck.
You could stay with her. For a few days, weeks, maybe even longer. You know she won’t mind. She’s just that kind of friend.
You could figure things out from there.
Your hand tightens slightly around your phone as you reach the bottom of the stairs.
You’ll text her once you’re outside.
Not before.
Because paranoia is part of your bloodstream now, and who knows who might glance at your screen, who might casually mention later that they saw you messaging someone.
So you keep walking until the entrance hall opens before you like the lobby of a five-star hotel. It’s extensive, with vast floors and tall ceilings and capacious doors at the far end like the exit to another world, a world you want so desperately to be a part of again.
You wipe your clammy hands on your thighs and try to mentally prepare yourself for this last step.
You cross the obsidian floor toward the doors with what you hope resembles casual determination.
Not too fast. Fast looks guilty. Not too slow. Slow looks hesitant.
You aim for something in between—the walk of a woman with a mild headache and absolutely no catastrophic revelations fluttering around inside her skull.
God, everything about the place seems so much darker now. The darkness even slinks upward into the walls, which are paneled in matte-finished ebony that drinks the light before it can reach the corners. There is no glow, not the one you imagined when you first walked in here, hand in hand with a man you thought you could fall so deeply for and would be safe with. But everything now feels iterative and cold and to feel safe means to leave and never return.
The guards notice you immediately.
Two of them stand beside the colossal front doors, tall shapes in dark suits, shoulders squared in that particular way men stand when their job description includes the possibility of violence. They’ve always been polite to you before. Quietly respectful. The way staff are supposed to be with someone important to the man who owns the house. You only now know the direction this importance takes.
They both straighten slightly when you approach.
“Ma’am,” the left one says with a deep voice that gives nothing away.
You offer another careful smile, layering it with just enough exhaustion to make your earlier excuse believable.
“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your tone breezy, like this is the most normal thing in the world to do in the middle of the night after spending hours in their boss’s bed. “I have a headache, and don’t want to interrupt Bucky while he’s working.”
Your voice nearly stumbles over the name.
Bucky.
The harmless version.
The one that belongs to the man who kissed you like you mattered. Not the one attached to James Buchanan Barnes.
The guard on the left side of the door glances at the other one. It’s subtle, but you see it. A quick trade of communication.
Then he looks back at you.
“Boss aware you’re leaving, ma’am?”
The way he uses the word boss makes bile rise up your throat. You are actually getting a headache.
You force yourself to keep smiling.
“Oh, he’s busy,” you say lightly, waving a hand as if this entire situation is mildly inconvenient but otherwise harmless. “I would feel bad for bothering him while he’s working. And I could use some fresh air and a little rest. So I thought I would just head home.”
Neither guard moves. The doors remain closed.
You swallow tightly, and it feels like there’s a stone coming down your throat along with it, which makes your limbs feel heavier.
“I will call him,” the second guard offers, already reaching toward the small device clipped at his belt.
“No,” you blurt too quickly.
Both men look at you again, and your pulse tumbles when you feel a subtle shift sliding into place, into the invisible perimeter around this house, the machinery of control that keeps things exactly where James Buchanan Barnes wants them.
Your throat feels dry. Your voice tries to find a hiding place inside the hallway of your throat. You pull yourself together as best you can. “That’s really not necessary,” you add, softer this time, trying to patch over the crack you just made in your own story. “It’s just a headache. I don’t want him to be distracted by that. You can just let him know I left once he is done.”
The first guard studies you more closely now. He doesn’t seem suspicious exactly, but he does seem cautious.
And suddenly the hallway behind you feels very long. Too long. Because if they call him, and he walks in here while you’re standing at the door trying to escape his mansion—
Your thoughts spiral into vile possibilities faster than you can control them.
What does a mob boss do to a girl like you when he realizes she has discovered his identity? Certainly no good things.
Your heart pounds so loudly, it’s a single roar all around your skull. You feel hot, so hot, you could burst into flames.
The second guard lifts the radio slightly, eyes on you. “Sir—”
“Baby?”
The voice comes from behind you and it sounds so soft. Confused.
Your insides startle into a panic so bright, you turn blind for a second.
Your entire body freezes up.
Baby.
A freezing shiver breaks loose at the base of your skull and slides all the way down to your heels.
Baby.
The word traces the line of your back, making every hair stand up.
Baby.
You know you have to react in other ways than fear to your so-called boyfriend, so you turn around slowly, trying to unpin your strained expression.
He’s standing halfway across the hall.
Except, now he looks like a stranger.
While he was gone and taking that business phone call, he had changed into one of his perfectly tailored suits. The charcoal wool is stiff and sits snugly, and it would have ignited a heated flutter in your lower belly just an hour earlier, but now it just makes him look malevolent. He looks terrifying in his elegance. So symmetrical, your lungs are wheezing out of sheer fright.
The sweat on your skin, once warm from him, has now turned into a layer of ice. You look at him and think that no, this man doesn’t love you. All you have been to him is a soft room he stepped into to wash off the smell of whatever he does in that suit.
The business he talked about isn’t spreadsheets and meetings. It’s the way the two guards behind you have gone absolutely still, like dogs waiting for a whistle.
He looks dangerous. You have never associated Bucky with direct danger, only with protecting you from danger. But this is not a boyfriend’s posture, it’s a king’s. Even that softly confused frown he is giving you doesn’t make him seem less threatening. It’s just the look of a man who owns everything he sees and knows what to do with it.
Bucky.
Except now your brain whispers the other name.
James.
Every inch of that expensive tailoring screams that he could have you erased before his morning coffee, and he wouldn’t even get a crease in his trousers.
While you were falling in love, he was just managing a distraction.
Your heart is breaking all over again.
“What are you doing down here?” His voice sounds the same as always, and yet it doesn’t.
The guards immediately straighten although he is talking to you, though you wish he wouldn’t.
“Sir,” one of them starts, but Bucky lifts a hand slightly without even looking at them, silencing whatever explanation they were about to offer.
His eyes are on you. Only you. Concern tightens his face almost immediately.
There is a cold needle threading through your nerves. You feel like a deer that has been eating out of a hunter’s hand, only just now noticing the rifle leaning against the tree.
“I—” Your voice nearly betrays you, cracking halfway through the first syllable. Act. You have to act. You drag in a breath and force your shoulders to loosen, shoving your face into something resembling mild embarrassment rather than existential terror. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you lie, carefully smoothing your tone. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. It seemed pretty important.” You look toward the door, turning your body slightly with it in a gesture of longing. “So I planned on just heading home.”
His brows only pull further together, his expression turning deeper, and it doesn’t make this better at all. “You’re the only important thing, sweetheart. You know that.” His voice is low, but how does he manage to make it sound this gentle? Even soft.
Oh god, he’s coming closer. Of course, he’s coming closer, he’s your boyfriend, pretending to be your boyfriend, pretending to be worried, because his girl allegedly has a headache and wants to leave when he promised earlier to continue pleasing her in bed and asked her to stay and lock the door behind him because he doesn’t expect her to leave in the middle of the night.
But that doesn’t make it any easier for you to handle, doesn’t make your body react less in the horrifying way that this scary man is moving toward you, and he doesn’t know you know what kind of scary he is.
You feel your body fight against itself. You want to swirl around, run, bolt, fly through the door outside into the night, never to be seen again. Or at least not by him and his people. But you can’t. You have to stay, you have to remain planted to the floor. Even taking one step back would be a fatal mistake.
And suddenly he’s right there with all his tallness and built, and he still looks warm, but so much more intimidating.
You feel your insides shrink into themselves, your heart slipping into a corner somewhere deep.
The sheer scale of him in that suit makes your stomach drop. He is not a man, he is an entire system of brutality hidden behind a charming smile and gold cufflinks.
You shiver at the fact that your boyfriend could end a life with a nod of his head, and then come home and press his face into your neck as if his hands were clean.
“You’re not feeling well?” His voice drops into a frequency that is meant to be gentle and soothing, but for you, it just sounds like the rumble of an engine. The furrow in his brow grows shadows on his forehead. His eyes shift between yours so fast and piercing, with such a concentrated focus, scanning for the source of your pain as if he could kill it for you.
His hand comes up instinctively, the same way it always does when he’s worried about you, or when he’s not. It’s just normal for him to touch you. But watching his hand move toward you this time makes your back stiffen and a ring of alarm sounds out in your skull, shrill and poignant.
His fingers brush your cheek.
Your skin crawls of its own accord, and you flinch. You force your reaction to be small, but you can’t suppress it entirely. Your brain blanks, and your heart strikes high.
His hand stills, and so does your heart as it feels like.
Bucky notices everything. You guess it comes in handy with being the most wanted crime boss in the city.
His eyes sharpen slightly, and his concern turns more piercing. He looks at his hand still hovering awkwardly, then at you. His eyes are distraught, hinting at something deeper that just broke in two. And he looks so deeply puzzled.
“Hey,” he lets out, and it sounds a little raspy. You scramble.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe quickly, forcing a small laugh that sounds thin even to your own ears. “I’m just a little dizzy, I think.”
He studies you for a long moment.
The guards are silent now and you feel them watching from behind your back.
The house feels too quiet, too attentive, too alert.
James’ hand lowers slowly, though his gaze doesn’t leave your face.
“You’re pale,” he acknowledges, his voice grainy. He sounds like he is holding his breath.
You shrug weakly. “Yeah, well. Not my best look.”
He’s not smiling, and you start sweating. How did you never notice just how scary this man looks.
He’s thinking. You can see it. Pieces moving behind that stormy gaze. Your heart hammers harder.
Please don’t see it.
Please don’t see that you know.
He exhales slowly, then reaches for your hand, and he doesn’t do it possessively, nor roughly, just tenderly closing his fingers around yours.
“Come with me,” he says quietly, and it could sound like a plea if he weren’t the man that he is.
Your skin is a furnace. You might explode. You force a shaky breath, praying he doesn’t hear the way your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.
“Bucky, I really just—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly, but there is something thick and hunted in the way he talks. “Just a minute.”
He looms over you with his whole presence and those intensely fevered eyes and he sucks the oxygen clean out of your lungs.
He nods toward the hallway behind him.
“My office is right there. We’ll sit down for a second, make sure you’re okay. And if you think I’d let you go home alone with a headache you can think again, doll.”
Doll.
God, you really have been stupid. Doll.
This is not a sweet endearment. This is literal. You are a thing made of porcelain that he is scared of dropping—or since a man like him isn’t scared of anything—you’re a thing he realized he can break.
Your pulse spikes.
Office.
Private.
Closed door.
Every alarm bell in your body begins ringing at once.
In his office, the rules of the outside world—the rules where you are safe—don’t apply. It’s where the blood gets mopped up.
But the guards are watching. The exit is behind them.
They aren’t moving a muscle and stand there like gargoyles, guarding your only hope for escape.
And Bucky—James—is standing right in front of you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, concern weaving through his quiet tone.
Well, you’re shaking because you can feel the callouses on his hands, the strength in his grip that suggests he could snap your wrist without his expression changing. He knows you are vibrating with nerves, but he has misdiagnosed the fever.
You force yourself to breathe. To smile. To pretend. Just like he has all these weeks. Just like he does now.
“Just the headache,” you whisper, and it’s tasting like bile.
He studies you for another long second, and for a moment you think he might see the truth. You think the mask is going to be ripped away right here in the hallway.
Then he squeezes your hand gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He turns you away from the door that would bring you to safety, moving his hand to the small of your back, and it is the gentlest thing in the world. But that somehow makes it so harrowing, because there is nothing rough in the gesture, nothing that could be called force by anyone watching, nothing but warmth and assurance, leading you into the heart of his house with the grace of a protector, and yet your whole body reads it like a sentence being handed down.
You are now thoroughly trapped, you realize while swallowing down the rising tide of bile. It feels like a master painter adding the final, darkening stroke to a portrait you can no longer step out of.
But there is nothing you can do. You let him steer you away from the door because what else are you supposed to do? Rip away, run, scream? That seems impossible in a house that breathes his name through every vent and doorway. A house where even the air seems employed by him.
The mansion appears to lengthen as you walk through it, as if corridors are being pulled like taffy just to spite you, just to show you how laughably far the front door already is, how absurd it was to think you could simply walk out with a polite excuse and a swallowed scream in your throat, hoping nobody heard it rattling behind your teeth, pretending you were still a girl who had a choice in where she slept tonight.
You try to pay attention. You try to mark the route the way people do in movies when they’re kidnapped or hunted or trying not to fall off the edge of the earth—left at the long console with the black granite top, right at the staggering painting in the gilded frame, straight past the alcove with the antique lamp and the white flowers that smell expensive and funereal at once.
But panic is a vandal and it is paralyzing and it comes in and smashes every useful thought with a chair.
Your heart is beating too hard, your blood too loud, your mind too busy manufacturing horrors to do something practical like remember turns. Foyer, hall, archway, staircase, another hall. No—was it staircase first? Was the office past the library, or past that room with the dark green walls?
Oh god, this is horrible. You're really starting to feel lost and this might be a catastrophic blow to your faith.
You try to pin each detail to the inside of your skull, but they slide off slick as fish, and every second spent trying to memorize the geography of this place only makes you more conscious of the fact that you are being walked farther and farther from the only exit you knew.
Why would he take you this far? The question lets sweat collect at the base of your neck. Why not the room just off the main hall? Why not one of the closer offices? Why not let you leave if you are only dizzy, only pale, only under the weather the way you claimed?
Does he suspect something? Has he already seen it, the wrongness in your face, the recoil you were too slow to hide, the way your voice came out laced too tight? And worse than that, more awful than suspicion because it drips with intention—was there always going to be a moment like this? Had he always been walking you here in one way or another, from the first date, from the first gift, from the first time he looked at you as if you were worth the chase?
Maybe this is what men like him do. Maybe he had a plan long before you ever had a clue. Maybe there has never been a single unarranged second between you, and you were just too lovesick and dazzled to notice the rails under your feet.
His hand stays at your back the entire time, broad and warm, but it makes you want to shove him away from you. When you hesitate, the pressure spikes just enough to remind you which way the door isn't. He is leading you forward and it would have felt gentle, but it doesn’t. No longer.
His thumb-strokes across your back don’t feel comforting at all and more like he is smoothing out a wrinkle in his own sleeve or the way he might polish a piece of silver he has decided to keep.
You suppress a chilling shiver he surely would have felt.
When you glance at him, because some abhorrent part of you still does, still wants to; you find concern in his face and it nearly brings you to the floor. You can’t glimpse any coldness, no strategic thinking whatsoever. At least not the kind you expected to see. His eyes aren’t narrowed and sharpened with discovery, there is no clipped impatience, no telltale crack in the mask.
He looks at you the way he has always looked at you when something seemed off, with his little frown and that determination, as if your problems are things he would like to drag outside and beat to death with his bare hands.
His gaze moves over your face with the same intimate concentration that once made your stomach warm for all the right reasons. It does not help. It makes everything worse.
Because if this is performance, then he is monstrous at it. If this is an act, he’s lived in the skin of it for a lifetime.
A lie shouldn’t feel this solid, shouldn’t have a thumb that knows exactly where your tension hides.
If he is acting, then he deserves a stage and an audience and perhaps a crown.
You can barely stand it, this collision between what you know and what he appears to be. A man can’t look at you like that and still be the most feared name in the city. Except apparently he can. Apparently, men can be two things at once. Apparently, the universe is vulgar enough to make both true.
You pass a maid coming the other way—a small, neat woman in a crisp uniform. She is carrying folded lines in her arms, and Bucky acknowledges her with nothing more than a curt nod, and she responds with a warm little smile aimed at you and the faintest dip of her head—something halfway between greeting and curtsey, so practiced it is almost invisible, but not invisible enough, not to you, not now.
It makes your breath hitch, how he doesn’t swell with importance, or doesn’t put on a show of his control.
He’s so comfortable in his power that he doesn't even need to show it off; he just steers you onward, knowing nobody will do a single thing to stop him.
And your stomach lurches so suddenly it feels as if your bones have missed a step. Because there it is. There, in one small exchange, is the whole persona of him. He is not loud or cartoony with his power, he just has it. It’s real. It doesn’t need to announce itself because everyone in its radius already knows where to bend.
The maid’s smile is kind, almost affectionate, and that somehow shames you more, because it suggests this has been obvious to everyone but you.
They all know what he is. The guards know. The staff knows. The men at the gate, the drivers, the strangers in tailored suits who always nod to him with instant stillness in their spines—they all know.
And you, meanwhile, had been floating around this house in your pretty little ignorance, accepting tea on silver trays, accepting jewelry in velvet boxes, accepting his mouth and his hands and his delicious attention as if you had simply stumbled into the arms of an intense, rich man with old-fashioned manners and a dangerous face completely by accident.
You would like to face palm yourself, but this is a bad moment.
Natasha will definitely do it for you once you get out of here and manage to escape to her apartment.
You had looked at the signs and called them charm. You had looked at vigilance and called it romance. You had looked at fear arranged into etiquette and thought that wow, he really runs this company proficiently.
The embarrassment of it blooms hot under your skin, nearly as painful as the fear. You have been blind. Worse—willingly blind. Blind not by accident but by appetite, by wanting. Love, or whatever this early ferocious thing is, has wrapped a hand-woven scarf around your eyes and led you smiling into a cathedral built from warning signs and decorated with red flags.
And the humiliating part, the part that makes you feel like you could peel yourself out of your own skin from sheer mortification, is that you had even congratulated yourself for being so unbothered by his world.
Look at you, cool girl extraordinaire, dating the beautiful, mysterious executive in his deluxe mansion, pretending not to notice the guards and the driver and the way everyone waited half a beat too long for his approval before moving.
You had thought you were being mature. Sophisticated. Unruffled. Meanwhile, you were essentially a decorative houseplant with a pulse, sitting in the sun of his attention and calling it insight. It would almost be funny if it weren’t your life currently doing a slow and terrible cartwheel off a cliff.
How could you have ever believed that a guy like him would be interested in that naive, silly girl that you are.
Honestly, if you survive this ordeal, you will end up in some corner of your small, meager apartment, bawling your eyes out, and keep living that unlucky life of yours.
He glances at you again as you walk on that burgundy red carpet deeper into the hole that is another hallway, and his hand presses a little more firmly between your shoulder blades. It’s protective rather than possessive to anyone looking in from the outside, but the gesture sends another flare of panic through you anyway.
You wonder if he can feel the fear on you, if it comes off your skin. You wonder if men like him are trained by experience to smell a lie the way dogs smell storms. You wonder whether he is leading you to comfort or containment. Every room you pass seems too opulent to be real with those chandeliers like frozen explosions, rugs plush enough to kill the sound of literally anything, the dark wood twinkling creepily under low gold light, paintings in heavy frames, looming over everything, looking down their painted noses at anyone not born into the frame.
The place no longer looks luxurious so much as fortified. You see the thickness of doors now. The depth of corridors. The strategic sightlines. The subtle placement of people. This house is not merely beautiful. It is defensible. It is a kingdom in disguise.
And you had been letting yourself be loved in it. You stupid girl had let him come way, way too close to you.
But it’s what makes every step hurt more than it should. Because despite everything, despite the gun and the initials and the name on the tags and the avalanche of terror crushing common sense into powder, there is still some small perfidious corner of you that keeps stumbling over the memory of how gentle he was, how attentive, how he watched your face as if your feelings were weather and he meant to learn every season.
You hate that part of yourself right now, and that it even exists in the first place after everything you found out about the man and what knowing him entails.
You want cleaner fear, simpler fear, fear without ache in it. But your fear is contaminated by affection. By memory. By the wrenching possibility that whatever else he is, whatever blood has dried invisibly on his hands, the softness he’s shown you may have been real. And if that is real, then the rest is not easier to understand. It is harder. Infinitely harder. It means the monster did not wear a mask. It means the monster kissed your forehead and tucked blankets around your legs and remembered how you take your coffee. But your brain can’t follow all of that.
Another turn. Another corridor. Another room you cannot catalogue fast enough.
You try again to memorize the path, because panic may be a vandal but desperation is stubborn.
The wall here is paneled more deeply. There is a bronze wolf on a pedestal. A narrow window at the end of the hall. A runner rug patterned in deep red, almost the color of old cherries, almost the color of dried blood if your mind is in the mood to be cruel, which it surely is.
Your thoughts keep darting ahead of you and slam themselves against every worst-case future they can find. If he knows you know, what does that mean? If he does not know you know, what then? Which is safer? Is there a safer version of this at all?
You imagine phones taken gently from your hand. Doors locked with apologetic clicks. Promises made in that low warm voice while your life narrows to the width of his will.
The terrible thing is that none of your imaginings need to be loud to be horrifying. A man like him does not need spectacles. He has infrastructure.
By the time he slows in front of a set of double doors farther inside the mansion than you have ever been allowed, or invited, to go; your nerves are so frayed they feel almost luminous, every sound oppressive, every movement enlarged.
He looks down at you, his face still threaded with worry, and sweeps his hand from your back to your elbow in a gesture so careful it would be beautiful in any other universe. In this one it only makes your chest tighten until breathing feels like work. He leans slightly closer, and his voice drops, intimate as a hand at your throat, though there is nothing harsh in it.
“What’re you thinking about, baby,” he asks quietly, searching your face.
Well, you’re thinking about the front door.
It’s where you left your mind.
Or maybe it was lost in his room already. Maybe it stayed with the gun on his carpet.
And the other, the more rational part of your mind, the one that told you this couldn’t have been true anyway, because you are you and he is him, lingers in every news story you ever half listened to.
You are inside the tormenting, glittering realization that you have not just fallen for a dangerous man, but for the dangerous man, and that all the softness you took as sanctuary may have only been the most exquisite blindfold ever tied.
“Nothing, Bucky,” you reply weakly, trying to ease, but your voice is shaking just that tiny bit, and judging by the uncomfortable twist of his mouth, he caught it.
You’re too lost in your stupidity that you’re hardly present when he opens his wooden office door and ushers you inside, again with the most tender movements.
The office is warmer than the hall, quieter too, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms and the hairs stand tall at the back of your neck because this room is built to keep any sound inside and secrets fat and sleeping in the walls. Everywhere you look there is dark wood and low amber light and books lined up in stern, handsome rows as if knowledge itself has been drafted into his service.
You feel the world shrink from cathedral to chamber, from public performance to something confined, more dangerous, more indiscreet, because now there are no guards, no maids, no witnesses to help keep either of you inside your assigned role.
There is only him, only you, only that soft snick of the door as he shuts it behind him; and that small, tidy sound feels like it’s happening inside your own chest. You watch his hand leave the brass knob, and the logic in your head just gives up. There’s only a hysterical, messy scramble of thoughts, all of them howling at once and all of them useless.
He turns back to you immediately, all his attention gathering around you with that familiar chilling completeness, and before you can decide whether to stand very still or bolt like a startled animal with nowhere sensible to run, he is guiding you toward the couch near the fireplace with one hand steady at your waist and the other brushing over your arm, then your back again. He’s never forcing or gripping hard, but he’s just not letting go of you and it makes you want to jump against the wall in hopes it’ll crack and you’ll land on the other side because his touch is making you more and more nervous.
He treats you as if he thinks you might faint at any second.
It is infuriating, that gentleness. It feels like a kind of torture that’s impossible to fight because your skin has a longer memory than your head. Your body still knows him first as safety. It still recognizes the heat of his palm and the strength of him, the way he moves as though you’re the center of the room.
And now every instinct is splitting at the seams. All you want to do is run, you want him away from you, you want to be far gone from all of this, you want to scream and scream some more, but the other half of you is remembering how carefully he tucked a blanket over your legs last week when you fell asleep during a movie or the way he has checked you for bruises after literally making love to you with that distressed frown upon his face, scared he’s been too rough with you.
The collision makes you dizzy enough that, absurdly, he may not be wrong. You might actually faint. Just from the sheer vertigo of finding out that the man who kissed you so devotedly has a name the whole city says with a tremble in their voices.
“Sit down for me,” he coaxes, and his voice is low, soft, carrying none of the steel you used to hear when he dealt with his men, and that contrast nearly makes your skin crawl.
You lower yourself onto the couch because your knees are not reliable enough to argue with him. The room seems to have acquired a faint sway, because the blood in your veins feels thin and feverish, and he stays right there, close enough that his thigh nearly brushes yours before he drops into a crouch in front of you.
The sight of this dangerous man folding all that height and breadth down to your level, gaze lifted to your face with plain concern would have melted you an hour ago.
But all it does now is frighten you some more. It feels too intimate, too earnest, too much like care, and care from a man like him is no simple thing. It is not a ribbon. It is a chain in softer clothing.
You swallow hard and that alone almost makes you flinch.
His eyes move over you with increasing worry, taking inventory in little silent increments. Your face is pale, you feel the damp shine of stress at your temples, you can’t keep your fingers still in your lap, and you can’t quite tame the uneven hitch in your breath.
He reaches up and lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek, his brows knitting tighter, and his mouth presses into a serious line. “You’re sweating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he would like to issue orders to your body until it starts behaving properly.
His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, feather-light, and you have to stop yourself from jerking away too sharply. You have to refrain yourself from slapping his hand away.
He notices even the version of restraint. You guessed, he does. A man like him has to. A man like him would. But it does worsen your situation.
A chill spreads along the base of your neck.
His eyes sharpen, not with suspicion exactly, but with apprehension deepening into something more searching, more troubled. “Talk to me, baby,” he pleads, softer still. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”
You stare at him.
For a moment the question does not make sense, your mind too busy running in circles with sirens in its hair, but you notice the shadow in his face, the hunch, the way his gaze jumps to your mouth, your throat, your posture curled too tight, and it seems bizarre because he honestly looks as though he might dread he pushed you too far, touched you too much, misread your body, took a liberty you weren’t ready for.
The absurdity of that nearly splits your head open because earlier when he—god, when he had his criminal tongue on your pussy—he acted so attentive, he seemed genuinely careful and devastatingly patient, and yet now, knowing what you know, even that lightness now hardens into a new breed of atrocity.
Because if this is him being careful, if this is him holding himself in check, then what does rough look like in a man built the way he is, in a man whose name can make grown men go quiet? What shape does cruelty take when it belongs to someone with this much power and this little need to raise his voice?
“No,” you answer too fast, the word skidding out of you. “No, you didn’t— nothing like that.”
Well, he did do something. A lot, really. Things that would put him in a cell never to be let out.
But he didn’t do anything to you yet. Yet. He might, if you don’t get your shit together.
His shoulders loosen by a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He still looks wound up. He still looks a little perturbed.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and there is something sincere in his voice, it is disorienting. “Because, honey, you can tell me if I was too much. If I missed something. If I—” He stops, swallows, and the hand at your cheek gentles further, as if he is trying to make himself seem safer. Funny. “I need to know. Need to know if there was ever a moment when you didn’t feel good.”
Something is dipping in the air around you, and everything feels distorted. Your head is hazy and a complete maze, because how is he even doing it this well?
You pull back then, small at first, because having his hands on you for longer will surely drive you insane. You don’t shove him off, or smack his hand away, you simply move out of his palms enough to break the line of his touch, but even that has him looking at you more closely.
You gather your hands together in your lap so he won’t see them tremble and shake your head with a smile that feels stapled on, brittle and thin, and one wrong breath away from snapping in half. “I’m okay,” you say, aiming for sheepish, for embarrassed, for normal. “I just need some sleep, I think. That’s all. It’s probably stupid. I’m probably just a little exhausted and overreacting.”
He doesn’t buy it.
You can tell immediately, and you hate that you can tell, but you notice how his whole face changes in that subtle way his face does when he has decided something is amiss and he is not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it.
He shifts closer, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, his attention absolute. “Then sleep here,” he deadpans. As if this is simply the answer to all the problems in the world. “You don’t need to go anywhere tonight. 'Specially when you’re not feeling well.”
Your stomach contracts into a hard, cold knot, and it feels like there’s a displacement in your chest. It’s the sensation of a staircase ending one step too soon and you didn’t notice so now you’re hitting air instead of floor with a heart-shaking jolt. It is jarring. It is petrifying, because it means you’re not getting out of here that easily. You might not be getting out of here at all if he continues to look at you like that.
Sleep here.
Stay here.
In his house. In his reach. In the center of the web.
Your pulse stutters so hard it hurts.
“I should go home,” you try, and even to your own ears it sounds small, unconvincing, more instinct than argument.
His frown deepens, utterly baffled by your insistence in the face of what he clearly sees as a solvable problem. “Why?” he asks quietly, and his voice sound a tad hoarse. “If you feel bad, why would I let you leave?”
Your lungs can’t seem to catch any air although it’s all around you.
Why would I let you
He didn’t say why would you leave, no he said why would I let you.
Good god, you really have been a stupid girl. The signs were all in front of you, weren’t they? They were literally speaking to you.
He’s talking in a tender tone, making his voice all soft and gentle, even soothing and so concerned, but that’s just the outside. You never paid attention to what lay underneath, hidden deep inside, because the outside was pretty and alluring enough. And maybe you are imagining it now, the gravelly implications in his tone, maybe your body’s just trying to see and hear things that aren’t there, but perhaps it truly has been there all the time and you were too wrapped in him to notice it.
You stand up quickly.
And you shouldn’t have done that because he will think what the hell you’re doing now, but your body decided and now your body is doing it.
The room sways, your vision going soft at the edges for one humiliating second, and his hands are on you—one at your elbow, one at your waist, and there is no shaking them off.
You flinch despite yourself and he stills as if you have struck him. You know he doesn’t understand your reactions, how could he.
“Hey,” he coos, his voice lowering even further, and there is definitely something thick in his voice. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist, too breathless, too papery, trying to peel his hands off you without making it look like peeling, which is impossible, because every move feels too fast or too urgent, every instinct either too frightened or too telling. “Really, Bucky, I’m just tired. I’m probably being ridiculous.”
His gaze searches yours with such intensity it feels almost physical. “You’re trying to get away from me.”
The words are quiet, and although there is no anger in them, no threat at all, it has your mouth go dry.
“No,” you answer, and it is not a good lie. “No, Bucky. Of course not. My head’s just really hurting.”
Something in him clicks into a higher gear—not a lack of trust or anything like that, but a kind of piercing, automated focus. Something in his eyes snaps into high definition. All that soft, vague concern is gone, replaced by an attention so bright and infiltrating it feels like being pinned to a board under a microscope.
Carefully, he makes you sit back down on the couch and lands right beside you. You feel the heat of him pressing into your side, though he does give you a bit of space.
His hand comes to your upper arm, stroking once, and you hate your own pulse for noticing how familiar it feels despite it having lost its appeal. “Look at me,” he presses, and it almost sounds like an order. His voice seems serious enough to make you shiver in fear.
You look at him because you have to and refusing would be louder than screaming.
His eyes are so damn blue in this weirdly dim light, clear and intent and lined with such deep worry. He’s definitely denser, his concern losing its fluff, but not its patience. There still is no trace of coldness, no roughness, nothing that is overly intimidating despite the man he is.
Just that same irksome softness, that same look like your distress is something he wants to fix with both hands, with all of himself if necessary.
It rattles you more than if he had come in hard and sharp and monstrous. A monster would be easier. A monster would let your fear stand up straight. But this man looking at you like your pain pains him is a labyrinth with no clean exits.
And it feels foreboding. It has you more on edge. It’s the way the woods go quiet right before something heavy steps out of the brush; a sudden, absolute alignment of intent.
Maybe he knows you know and now he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce. You do your best to keep your fright behind your eyes.
“You can sleep here tonight,” he offers again, gentler now, and it seems as though he believes repetition might soothe you into agreement. “I’ll stay with you. Or I won’t, if you want space. I’ll get you water, food, whatever you need. But I’m not sending you home like this.”
Not sending.
Again that wordless, soft-toned authority.
Again that sense that his care and his control are fused so tightly together they share a bloodstream.
You are running out of room inside your own face. Running out of expressions that can pass for normal. Running out of ways to keep the panic from drawing its blade.
So you do the only thing you can think of, the stupidest thing, the most desperate thing—you lean in and kiss him.
It’s short and small and only meant to reassure, to smooth over, to redirect. Your lips meet his and every cell in your body revolts.
And it’s not at all because he kisses badly, god no. Even startled, even worried, he receives you with immediate tenderness, one hand lifting to cradle your jaw, his mouth warm and careful and heartbreakingly familiar but also so, so foreign, a cold shiver seizes your back.
It is what makes nausea roll through you so suddenly you nearly choke on it. Because this is James Buchanan Barnes.
This is the name on the dog tags, the name on the news, the name people lower their voices around as if it might hear them and turn its head.
This is the most feared man in the city and his mouth is still the same mouth that kissed the corner of your smile with one of his own.
Your stomach turns so sharply you have to concentrate not to pull away in disgust too soon, not to betray yourself with the wrong kind of urgency.
You kiss him once, twice, tasting dread under the memory of want, and every instinct in you screams that you are pressing your lips to a loaded weapon and pretending it is a rose.
When you ease back, you make yourself smile.
It feels gargantuan, the effort of it.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, like that explains anything, like that proves you are only tired and not terrified, only overwhelmed and not trying to survive. “I promise. I can go home like this.”
His thumb brushes under your eye so lightly, and you run your tongue over your lip, trying to get that uncomfortable tingling to go away.
But he still looks unconvinced.
More than unconvinced, actually. Plagued. As if the kiss reassured him of your affection but not your state, and now that mismatch is bothering him in ways he can’t make sense of.
His gaze lingers on your face, then your mouth, then your hands clenched too tightly in your lap. He takes one of them and turns it gently palm-up, his fingers closing around yours. You can feel how much bigger his hand is. You can feel how easily it encloses.
And all at once the room feels narrow as a throat, the walls leaning in, the lamplight too gold, the air too warm, and you are sitting inches from a man who could ruin your life before breakfast and is looking at you like the only thing he wants in this world is to make you feel safe.
“What’s going on, doll?” His voice could even be pleading, just a little bit. It’s definitely croaky. “I— I get the feeling—”
“I told you, Bucky. It’s just a headache.” He sighs to that, but all you can think about is how completely his hand closes over the bones of your own. How easy it would be for those fingers to tighten from comfort into command, from tenderness into something unarguable.
His other palm is at your arm, and your body does this awful arithmetic without your permission, subtracting your strength from his and arriving, every single time, at the same answer—none.
There is none. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You notice things you never let yourself notice before because before they were part of romance, of safety, of the warm relief of being cared for by someone larger and more grounded than you.
Now those same details come back rearranged into something atrocious. The width of his shoulders. The thickness of his thighs where they bracket the edge of the couch. The controlled way he moves, never wasted, never sloppy, suggesting he has long ago become intimate with force and no longer needs to flaunt it.
Even the gentleness feels frightening because it is so deliberate. You can feel, in every cautious touch, that he is handling you lightly not because he must, but because he chooses to. And choice is a nightmarish thing when done by a man like him. Choice means there are other versions of him. Choice means there are rooms in him you have never seen. Choice means the tenderness is not the whole house, only one lit window.
You sit very still because being still feels safer than moving, and panic has made your limbs feel both too heavy and too ready to misfire. While he studies your face with that immensely worried crease between his brows, your thoughts keep slipping sideways into grotesque little visions of what would happen if he decided to stop being soft.
Not even dramatic visions. That would almost be easier. Nothing so loud as being thrown or shouted at. Your fear is smarter than that now. It imagines quieter things. A wrist caught before you can pull away. A door closed with no visible hurry. Your name said in that low voice while every route out of the room gently, politely disappears.
You hate yourself for thinking it, hate the way your pulse kicks harder with each new image, hate most of all that his touch remains careful through all of it, remains incessantly kind, so that your fear begins to feel almost counterfeit in the face of what he is actually doing, and then the next thought corrects you suddenly—no, not counterfeit. Instinct. Instinct finally dragging itself awake after weeks of sleeping with its face turned to his chest.
He must notice something fresh pass through you, some new tremor or tightening, because his jaw flexes and then he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
He is glancing at the screen and some shutter drops behind his eyes. It doesn’t slam, it just falls shut, as simple as that. Just sliding into place as neatly as a blade returning to its sheath.
He lifts the phone, says a name you don’t catch because your ears are too loud with your heartbeat, and when the person on the other end answers, his voice changes so completely that a chill runs over your skin.
“Bring cold towels to my office. And painkillers. Water too.” That is all.
Simple words. Ordinary words.
But the voice that carries them is stripped clean of softness, and that is what makes your blood curdle. There is no gentle edge worn smooth for your benefit. It is a voice pared down to function, to expectation, to command. Not loud, not theatrical, not cruel in any obvious way, it is just cold the way a simple black stone is cold. Cold the way a locked gate is cold.
There is no room in it for hesitation, no room in it for mishearing, no suggestion that obedience is a favor rather than the natural order of things. Whoever is on the other end responds immediately, and he ends the call without another word, already moving to set the phone aside, already turning back toward you, and your whole body has gone thin with dread because all you can think, stupidly, helplessly, is this is how he speaks when he is not pretending to be gentle.
And if this is his ordinary command voice, then what would he sound like if he knew? If he looked at you and saw recognition staring back, saw the name James Buchanan Barnes fully formed in your eyes, saw that you had found the gun and the initials and the tags and had welded them all together into the truth? Would his voice sharpen? Flatten further?
Would he say your name with that same smooth authority and turn it into a thing that could pin you in place?
The thought is a beaded sweat of ice trailing down the ladder of your back.
You try not to react. You fail a little. He sees the shiver, he sees, because he is James Buchanan Barnes for goodness sake, and immediately his focus softens again as he leans a fraction closer, anguish returning to his face as if the colder version of him never existed at all.
The door catches your eye over his shoulder.
It is simply there. Closed, but not locked, at least not that you can see. Dark wood, brass handle, a square of possibility in a room rapidly losing oxygen.
And once you look at it, you cannot stop.
Your gaze keeps darting back like something hooked. You begin to map the distance with desperate measurements.
If you stood up now—no, not stood, launched—if you shoved him hard enough to buy yourself one puzzled second, maybe two, could you make it? Out the office, into the hall, left or right—God, which one had you come from?—and then what? Down one corridor, past another, through that impassable warren of pragmatic but pristine floors and expensive silence and armed loyalty, praying that your body would remember what your mind failed to memorize?
You picture it anyway. You can’t help it. You picture yourself bolting, slipping on gleaming floors, turning wrong and wrong again, heart exploding in your throat while the mansion multiplies around you like a bad dream, each hallway birthing three more, each staircase leading not to freedom but to another floor full of his money and his people and his reach.
Still, the image won’t leave you. It grows instead, takes on velocity. You imagine the first breath of motion, the clean scary choice of it. The couch under you unweighting. The door handle cold in your palm. The sudden crash of everything becoming honest.
You don’t have a lot of choices here. So maybe fate would take pity on you. Maybe panic would become a compass. Maybe your body would remember a route your mind cannot hold. Maybe the front hall would be merciful and simply appear in front of you, all that dark wood and those massive doors and the guards too startled to stop you before you ripped yourself out into the night. It is preposterous. It is probably impossible. It becomes, nevertheless, the brightest thought in the room. Bright enough to burn.
You are too poised on the edge of movement now, too taut, every nerve drawn tight as wire.
“Baby,” Bucky starts, a little alarmed, and he shifts closer again, one hand lifting instinctively, probably to touch your face, your shoulder, your wrist, some place he thinks he can soothe.
But the sight of that hand coming toward you almost does it. Almost tips you over from imagining escape into choosing it. You can feel your muscles gathering without permission, your body preparing itself in secret, a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow. Run, run, run. For one crazed second you are already halfway gone in your mind—up off the couch, around the table, through the door, don’t think, just move, just run, run, run—
And then his fingers brush your arm, so lightly, so soft, but it breaks something inside you because you want his sweet touch, you want him to hold you, to soothe you, to love you, but you don’t want it to be James Buchanan Barnes, you want it to be Bucky, but he’s no longer Bucky, he won’t ever be anymore, and so you simply react.
You jerk, shoving his hand away before you can stop yourself, not enough to really hurt, but enough that the gesture hangs in the air between you like a shattered glass note.
Your breath is now gone entirely.
There are a few beats where simply nothing happens.
Then his hand drops back.
You stare at him, your own hand hovering stupidly in midair as if all you have to do is snip your finger to turn back the time.
And Bucky—James—just looks at you. For a small moment, he simply looks startled, like a deer in the headlights of your rejection. He looks so tremendously confused, his face totally unglued, but then his eyes shift gears, shift into alarm, shift into a concern so much deeper than before. It seems as if your recoil has unhinged him. As if it has frightened him for an entirely different reason than the one clawing its way through your chest. As if it has confirmed something he’s only lived in a nightmare before.
His features warp into something resembling desperation, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and asking, and it is nauseating to watch—the way he’s already cobbling together a version of reality where he isn’t the monster you’re trying to run from.
He is misinterpreting your panic and it makes you sick.
He isn't thinking She knows what I am. His mind is sprinting in the exact opposite direction to protect itself.
He thinks the headache is actually a migraine that has you reacting strangely, or it’s a panic attack, or some hidden trauma he didn’t know about, and he is already frantically building a scenario where he gets to fix it. His mouth stays slightly open, his breath hitching as if he’s about to choke on his own breath. He looks around the empty office with this desperate, wild squint, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he expects to find a physical monster standing there—something he can actually put a bullet in to make you stop shaking.
“Alright,” he lets out, and his voice is completely broken, a rough, dry scrape that sounds like it is tearing his throat.
He doesn’t lunge for you or do something big. Instead, he actually hitches his weight backward, trying to make himself smaller, which is harrowing because he is still twice your size and wearing a suit that could be sprinkled with blood in under an hour. His hands stay out in front of him, palms up, fingers twitching with this jittery, helpless energy. He is looking at you with this forlorn begging in his widened eyes, practically pleading with them for you to blame it on the lights, or the noise, or anything else in the world—because the alternative is that he is the thing making you look at him like he’s an executioner.
You might be running out of time to pretend.
“I’m sorry, Bucky, I— I’m so sorry, I don’t—” You don’t even know what explanation you are going to give him now, only that you are suddenly full of the clumsy need to fill the room with words before the room fills with something worse, and so your mouth opens on instinct, on panic, on the miserable little scraps of sanity still fluttering inside you. You hear yourself stammer out some thin, transparent nonsense about feeling strange, about maybe being overwhelmed, about maybe needing air, maybe needing to go home, maybe nothing, because every excuse sounds flimsy the second it leaves you, and every sentence makes your spirit mulch and dissolve into a gray slurry that won’t hold a shape.
And Bucky is still so close and still so beautiful and still so racked with his brows pinched into a severe, pained knot. His eyes are full of shadows, and this is all so bad.
His softness somehow makes all of this worse, not better, because if he were cruel already, if he were cold already, if he gave you even one clean villain’s grin, one sharp look, one thread of honest menace, maybe your fear would have somewhere proper to sit.
But he only examines your features as though it truly physically aches him to see you like this, as though your panic has reached inside him and laid a dirty hand around his heart.
“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he starts, and he says it so quietly, with so much care, still, but also with a mounting unease that is just about to reach its peak. “I just wanna know what’s going on. Talk to me, baby. Please. I—” he breaks off with a sigh, his jaw grinding. “If something’s wrong, if something’s going on, then I gotta know.”
You swallow hard in hopes that anything might help soothe the sting behind your eyes. You don’t believe him, not fully anymore, but some humiliating, hopelessly romantic part of you still recognizes the cadence of the man who kissed your forehead this morning, the man who tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the most tender hands, the man who remembered how you take your tea and which side you prefer to sleep on and the fact that you hate when socks twist inside your shoes.
It is unimaginable, it is desolating how tenderness can survive in the same body as terror, how your heart can continue making a fool of itself even while your mind is setting the whole house on fire.
“Bucky, really, I’m just...” Your voice hitches, the words sticking like thistles in your throat. You look down at his hands and they are so huge and capable, currently flexing with an empty urge to hold you. You know those hands have held weapons. You know they’ve ended lives and carried blood. But right now they are trembling because you won’t let them touch you.
You can feel yourself growing sharper and shakier by the second, every nerve in you pulled too tight, every breath arriving shallow and unhelpful, and still he keeps speaking to you in that quiet and gentle tone, asking whether it was something earlier, whether he pushed too far, whether he missed something, where exactly it hurts. You can’t tell him it’s your heart and not your head that is currently in shambles.
The concern in him seems real. That is the terrible part. It seems real enough to bruise. You shake your head too quickly. You try to smile and feel it crack before it even fully forms. You say you are just tired. You say you do not know. You say you are fine with the kind of desperate brightness you would use when standing on the edge of a roof insisting you are only admiring the view.
His gaze drops to the space you are slowly clearing between you, and his expression hardens. Gears are grinding behind his eyes and suddenly he looks like the man in the hallway, filled with command and so fucking terrifying, your pulse spikes to unhealthy numbers. He doesn’t look at you, he turns his head to look in the direction of the closed door, his posture squared.
“Did someone say something to you?” He asks, his tone dropping into a low, scraping register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “In the hall? Before I came out?”
You blink at him in disbelief. Does he think someone threatened you? Does he think one of his own men, or some interloper in his kingdom, stepped out of line with you? The fact that that would cause such an intense reaction in him makes you want to be catapulted straight out of here because this is genuinely just getting all too much. He seems about ready to tear his own house down to find the monster that scared you, completely unaware that he is the one wearing the monster’s skin.
You are about to open your mouth to improvise your way to freedom, when there is a brisk knock on the oak door and it makes your entire body jerk.
Bucky turns toward the noise, but not before you catch the brief, hot flare of irritation that darkens his features. He rises with all his coiled grace and contained force, and for half a second you just stare at his back, seeing even that differently now. He really is a tall man. He is immense. Broad. Space seems to make room for him as he steps to the door. God, what the hell did you walk yourself into. The only thought that gives you a tiny bit of ease is that there surely have to be other girls out there who would have fallen for it all, looking at him.
He cracks the door open. A man stands in the corridor holding a tray balanced with a folded stack of damp, cold towels, a bottle of water, and a blister pack of painkillers. And it’s weird how this would have struck you as absurdly thoughtful just hours before but now it feels sinister. It is purely ominous. It is comfort orchestrated by absolute authority; a display of care that only exists because of total, unquestioning submission.
Bucky, or James, or the most wanted mob boss of all time; thanks him, quickly, absently, not unkind but distracted, his thoughts still hooked to you so visibly that even the man at the door registers the tension.
And that man glances inside just enough to catch sight of you on the couch, sitting there sweating, pale, rigid as a hunted thing.
A manic urge strikes you to scream for help. You want to yell at this stranger to run, to call the precinct, or to simply throw you over his shoulder and get you the hell out of this building. But the impulse dies in your throat. It would be entirely useless. Every single person under this roof operates on his frequency. This man wouldn't take a single order from you even if it would be more of a plea than anything else. All of these people in this damn building listen to his every word. He wouldn’t do a thing to help you.
And before you can even let go of the fantasy, the man immediately drops his eyes again and leaves, because everyone in this house seems trained in the art of not seeing too much.
But you see too much now. That is the problem. That is the irreversible thing.
Because while Bucky’s back is turned, while he takes the tray and shuts the door with his shoulder and crosses toward the sideboard, your gaze begins to snag on the office around you with new eyes, and suddenly nothing is only furniture anymore.
Nothing is only decoration. All the wood in here is dark and expensive, perhaps even that is getting paid to stay silent, and there are details you would once have filed away as masculine and stylish.
But now everything is imposing. Everything reads as evidence.
Like that locked cabinet that is too reinforced to hold unimportant paperwork. There is a map pinned behind glass with inked markings that look less like commerce and more like a tactical grid. A stack of files sits bound with a suspicious kind of neatness. Then there is a heavy antique letter opener glinting on the desk like a civilized version of a threat.
Even the art on the walls seems changed, the frames too severe, the subjects too stern, everything in here curated by a man who does not simply possess things but controls them. He dictates outcomes. He governs people. His office is a single spider web woven from all this darkened wood and his suits, and you are the only thing inside it that is still vibrating, sending signals straight to the center where he stands, and it is making your skin grow cold in patches.
He is opening the water bottle for you.
That tiny, stupid gesture nearly does it—the torturous way he makes this all so normal and so intimate when he says, “Here, baby,” without turning yet, as if this is still salvageable, as if you are merely unwell and he is merely worried and the world has not already split clean down the middle.
Something primitive detonates inside you, and perhaps if it were a conscious thought or a decision or just some other thing in a civilized sense, maybe you wouldn’t do what you are doing, but your body is revolting before your mind can dress the fear in language, and you’re up.
Oh god, you’re up.
You’re off the couch, you’re on your feet, and now there’s no going back, now there’s no sitting down because now you sprang up and now you will run. You will run because the suddenness of your own movement has chosen the path for you.
Without looking back, without another word, your feet move you to the door and they move so fast, the room is moving with you, your vision is filled with streaks. Your hand fumbles blindly before finding the door handle, wrenching it open, and then you are sprinting.
“You love me, you say. You love me, you say. You love me, you say. Then why are you shaking?”
- Richard Siken
A/n: I know this is basically one single scene and I truly don’t know how I managed to make it this long. I always add unnecessary details and emotional spirals wherever possible but I worry that I sit in the emotions for too long sometimes.
So please feel free to let me know if the emotional introspection and all those feelings got to be a little too much at any point because I know I tend to ramble and take a while getting to the point in my writing and it’s getting a little frustrating. Hearing what you guys think would be really helpful 🫶🏻
And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, please feel free to consider my ko-fi
I love how you wrote both the reader and Bucky! It’s interesting to see how the reader is now playing every past moment and changing the meaning behind everything, whereas Bucky is just trying to calm her down. I can literally feel the anxiousness come off of reader 😂 This was an amazing story!
warnings: MDNI, steve transforms into a literal wolf, NO a/b/o dynamics, PTSD, mentions of grief, minor character death (off-page), reader is a little stupid, minor injury, slowburn, forced proximity, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, grumpy x sunshine dynamic, use of a petname (bunny), semi-public nudity, unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, biting/marking, hair pulling, dacryphilia if you squint, BDE steve
author's note: this was going to be set in the same world as belong to you but i changed my mind. 💗 also i was live laugh loving this when i wrote the outline but now i lowkey hate it! 🥰 i don't even know what happened but one second i thought i was onto something, and the next, i found that i had lost the plot. but at least now it's out of my head! #mybad. @superbassbuck mrs. werewolf herself, this is for you.
The Pacific Northwest was known for its lush forests. It was what Steve Rogers had been banking on when he’d moved there abruptly. It was what he’d hoped for when he’d set about the lumber yard a couple towns over from where he’d decided to set up. No one had asked him too many questions. He’d just taken what he’d needed and gone. Anything else he’d acquired had been found at estate sales or made on his own. He had no one to rely on but himself, after all.
He’d grown used to the distant rush of water that cut through the forest, the whistle of wind through the trees. The chirping of the birds that went silent when a storm was about to pass through. The woods had infinite sounds for him to listen to, his hearing much better than it had used to be. It was a complex orchestra, one that couldn’t be accurately repeated. Each day there was a slightly different melody.
Perhaps if the forest didn’t play music, Steve would feel the walls of solitude pressing in on him more forcefully. But when the window was open late on a warm night, and all he could hear were noisy crickets and hooting owls, he could almost forget about the lack of another human body beside him, like there used to be. Almost.
The loneliness was penance for what he’d done, and he’d serve his sentence willingly. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Steve Rogers might have been a good man, once, but he believed that good man had died when she had. There just hadn’t been a body. Only a lonely ghost, destined to haunt a tiny cabin in a far-off spot in a forest people didn’t venture into all too often. But it was better that way.
Steve felt that the forest responded to him in a way it might not if he had been a regular man. But there was nothing regular about him, not anymore. The leaves seemed to sigh when he walked under them, the moss seemed to curl tighter to logs and trunks. The tiniest animals didn’t skitter through the underbrush quite so much as they did when he wasn’t hunting as a creature. The forest had folded him into its great, green embrace, and welcomed him.
He was lucky that people didn’t tend to travel so deeply that they came upon him. It happened sometimes—some hikers just believed that they had a natural compass as an extra sense—and he'd reluctantly help them back to a path that would take them far away again. Three years in the woods had worn away at his social skills, yes, but Steve had been more than ready to adopt a more standoffish persona. He couldn’t take care to be too friendly lest people thought it an invitation to wind their way back to his home, to poke their noses in where they didn’t belong.
He remained blunt, to the point. He’d turn away, broad shoulders brushing tree branches, without so much as a goodbye. His rifle would bump against his back as he walked. His general appearance, rugged in every sense of the word from the flannel shirts to the dirty boots, the hair he’d grown out to match the beard, along with his hulking height and stature, was another helpful deterrent.
Despite his coldness to humans, he wasn’t an outright savage. He’d take the time to free animals from the gruesome traps some hunters would set up, saving them from the rusty snap of metal jaws. And Steve was also a very, very good shot. If an animal was beyond saving, he wouldn’t miss, and he’d make their suffering end as cleanly as he could. Inhumane traps like that would be taken apart and disposed of. They had no place in what he’d come to know as his forest.
The smaller creatures, mice and birds, might not have feared him, but the larger ones certainly did. Whether he liked it or not, Steve was king of the forest, a mantle that weighed on his shoulders like cement blocks. So, he’d spend his time in his cabin whittling figurines or reading one of the same four paperbacks that had survived the journey, so yellowed and worn that they looked decades old. He’d hunt and fish and lay in the dark, swim in the lake in the summer months. But always, he was alone, with nothing but his own cruel memory as company.
You very much loved your job. Being a freelance photographer had always been your dream, your work just good enough to pay your bills. You were still coming into your own. Engagements and gender reveals were your biggest money makers, but you thought you liked street photography the best. You even had a decent following on social media, with people inquiring about booking your services enough that you got to travel over to the neighbouring states pretty frequently.
But your portfolio was starting to look a little bare, a little boring, of late. Street photography was more difficult when you kept venturing into small towns without so much as a city square. Big cities just weren’t in your budget right now, especially not when you’d just signed a six month lease on an apartment that really shouldn’t have cost as much as it did, but the string of business you had on the docket was all in the same area, and you’d figured—why not?
You hadn’t been in town very long, but you’d already surmised that people much preferred outdoor activities here rather than cheese and wine tastings, upscale clubs, and hot yoga. No, it was much more down-to-earth here. There were three separate tackle and bait shops, multiple sporting goods stores, and grills and lawn mowers lined the outside of the hardware store like trophies.
It wasn’t necessarily your vibe—you’d never been the type of girl to enjoy hiking, let alone running—but it was interesting, that was for sure. On your first day there, you’d seen four separate men wearing the same exact plaid shirt. Your online following was a larger total than the town’s census. But in a town this small, it wasn’t too long before you heard something that piqued your interest, just a little bit.
You’d been in the town’s most popular coffee shop, snuggled into the blue and orange booth in the corner. The amenities might have been basic, but they still knew how to foam up a latte, so you weren’t complaining. Editing photos was a more tedious task, but it was something you enjoyed the rhythm of. Usually you had headphones with you, but you’d forgotten to charge them, so you listened to the idle chatter around you, instead.
“Jacoby swore it was the size of a brown bear. Said it looked him right in the eye, too. But it took him back to the path like it knew he was lost.”
“Huh, surprised it didn’t take a chunk out of him first.”
“I don’t know, I’ve heard about this wolf before. Seems sort of friendly, even though it’s always alone. Not the first time I’ve heard of a hiker being brought back to the trail like that.”
You dialled into the conversation when you heard about this wolf. Your finger slowed on your trackpad as you listened to the men at the table across from yours.
“Leave it to Jacoby to get himself lost like that. Ain’t his dad a hunter? He should know directions by now.”
You grimaced at your screen. You’d much rather hear of this benevolent creature than how much of an idiot this Jacoby guy was. One of the men laughed. “Yeah, well, you could hand Jacoby a map and a compass and he still wouldn’t know how to find his own ass.”
It looked like that was the end of the story. You sipped the dregs of your latte, the stoneware mug still warm in your hand. This set of photos needed to be complete to send to the client by tomorrow, and you weren’t going to get any of it done by listening to small town gossip. But then…
“Anyway, I thought there were no wolves around here. Foxes and coyotes, yeah, but not wolves.”
“Well, like I said, every time I’ve heard about it, hikers have said it’s by itself. Must not have a pack or something.” A pause, and then a chuckle. “Hey, maybe it’s just the big, bad, wolf.”
Suddenly the perfect shot seared itself in your mind with a clarity you couldn’t even hope to capture with the perfect focus on your lens. A beautiful wolf, maybe pure black or white, staring directly into the camera. Maybe it would be standing on a big boulder, looking regal. Sunlight would dapple its fur, and moss and ivy would be crawling up the trees around it…
You’d certainly never taken a photo like that before. But wouldn’t it be stunning in your portfolio? You didn’t even think about it that long, your mind already made up. That would be the photograph of a lifetime, and you were going to be the artist.
You almost shut your laptop in your excitement, wanting to get up at that exact moment and go venturing out into the woods. But your equipment was at home, and you really did need to finish editing.
You’d mostly tuned the men out, an exhilarating hum in your bones as you kept working on your edits. You weren’t really listening when they continued on to say, “D’you think that guy who lives out there’s ever encountered it?”
“Nah, probably not. He would’ve shot it by now, don't you think?”
“Eh, I guess. My uncle met him once. Scary son of a bitch. Maybe the wolf hasn’t crossed him ‘cause it knows it would get stuffed and put on display. That dude’s probably into taxidermy and all that shit.”
All you really paid attention to was that there was a man living in the woods, and he’d probably be the perfect person to ask about this wolf. It sounded like a brilliant plan. And if he did turn out to be some sort of creep, you had pepper spray somewhere in an old purse. You’d be just fine. Besides, all artists had to take risks at least once in their careers, right?
A more practical person might have stopped at one of the many sporting goods stores and gotten some things to prepare, like appropriate shoes, perhaps a backpack and compass, a sturdy water bottle, and pants with enough pockets to keep essential items like a flashlight or satellite phone on hand.
Yes, a more practical person just might do that.
You, however, were much more of a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants’ type of girl. You didn’t know where this man in the woods was located, nor the wolf, but you figured that you’d just go with whoever you found first. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find the man, at least. Couldn’t you just look to the sky and find smoke curling from a chimney or something? It was a bit muggy out for late spring, so you selected your favourite white dress from the closet. You braided your hair to keep it out of your face. Then you gathered up your car keys, your camera bag, and your hopes and dreams, and headed out.
Your cellphone dictated the directions to you. It was a decent drive outside town limits, halfway up a hill, but eventually your tires crunched over the gravel of a very small parking area. A sign that really needed to be repainted was tacked to one of the trees. ‘Silverlake Woods Hiking Trail A’ was inscribed on the board in faded white paint. You supposed there must be hiking trails B and C somewhere too, but A sounded like a good first step.
The sun was still high in the sky as your shoes scuffed stray gravel onto the path. You were absolutely sure, as you navigated the dips and curves of the trail, listening to the cheerful birdsong, that you’d find some sort of success. At the very least, you’d be able to practice taking nature shots.
Steve was very used to the familiar sounds of the forest. He might not have known what day of the week it was, but he could tell the time of day based on the sounds. There was a rabbit snuffling around the undergrowth a little ways away. He could hear its body moving, slow hops as it searched for something to eat. He could tell without seeing it. As it was, Steve was laying on his back in the minuscule kitchenette trying to fix the sink. Water had been smacking him in the forehead in a slow drip for the last ten minutes. Living in seclusion like this, he’d gotten pretty good at fixing problems when they came up. He only ventured into town for things once or twice a year, under strict emergency.
The wrench clicked every time he twisted it, the sound blending in with all the others he could hear—the birds, the rabbit, the leaves brushing together in the breeze. The snap of a twig…
He smelled you at the same moment he heard the twig. Floral, but manufactured, not natural. Perfume. Under it, something clean and powdery. Deodorant, maybe. His whole body went stiff. The water was dripping more sluggishly now, and he didn’t even flinch at the next bead of it that landed and slid sideways down his temple and into his hair.
The scent of you underneath the products you used was softer, sweeter, but not too much. Not in an overwhelming way. More like the flavour of strawberry cream. He could taste it in the back of his throat.
As alarming as it was to Steve that someone was getting close to his territory, he was more concerned that you seemed to be alone. He couldn’t smell anyone else. Sure, there were plenty of women in town that were seasoned hikers. But usually he’d smell bug spray, along with rations carried along in a backpack. He’d hear the buzz of a walkie talkie or the murmur of a partner. Surely you weren’t just ambling along without the proper preparations. You were still on one of the paths, Steve thought, since his cabin was a decent way off from any of them. Realistically, you should pass right by him. But still, he was tense as he listened to your distant footsteps, and the occasional click of something he couldn’t quite name.
You were finding yourself to be quite delighted by the forest. Maybe sandals hadn’t been the right footwear—there were a surprising number of fallen logs and broken branches about—but the paths were pretty easy to navigate in broad daylight. Well, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, because the sun wasn’t as strong as it could have been. The trees were all thick with leaves, blocking out the sun for the most part unless you happened upon a clearing. The lack of light made the forest cooler than you’d imagined as well, the trees acting as a never-ending awning.
Your camera bumped against your sternum as you moved. You’d gotten some nice shots already, wild berry bushes and pretty birds that you’d passed by on your walk. Still no sign of the wolf or the man, but you weren’t worried. You hummed a little tune as you continued on. A flash of brown and white in your periphery had you turning your head to the side, squinting through a thicket of bushes.
A deer nibbled daintily on a leaf, its ears twitching as it kept a constant scan for danger. Quietly, you adjusted the lens of your camera and zoomed in as much as you could without sacrificing clarity. The click of the shutter made the deer glance your way, but it didn’t deem you as a threat. You looked at the photo and frowned. It was a little too far to be a great shot.
Carefully, you stepped off the path and onto the wild grass. It tickled your ankles as you navigated around the bushes. You just wanted to get a bit closer. The deer kept eating its lunch, unperturbed. You kept stopping every few feet to take more photos. You wondered if you could get close enough to let it sniff you. Maybe you could get a shot of its glossy eyes, its soft snout. Maybe it would even let you feed it.
It felt like a scene from a fairytale. The deer would go still every time your steps were too loud, but it hadn’t decided to run from your approaching figure, not yet. You hunched your shoulders inwards, trying to appear smaller, less scary. You were close enough now to extend a hand.
But this wasn’t a fairytale. Fairytales wouldn’t have your foot catching on a tree root as you took another step, wrenching your ankle and sending you down to the forest floor, hard.
The shriek of pain was distinctively human, not animal. “Fuck,” Steve muttered under his breath. He laid under the sink for a second longer. He hadn’t even seen you yet, but he’d already decided you’d be possibly the stupidest hiker he’d ever have the displeasure of meeting.
He could still hear you rustling about in the underbrush, but he let your scent guide him as he ambled out of the cabin’s safety. You were far enough that you wouldn’t have seen the cabin, but he knew you’d stepped off the trail.
He saw the white of your dress first and almost choked on his breath. He hadn’t seen a woman in a sundress in… Well, it had been a long time. But he couldn’t appreciate the sight of you, because what idiot thought that was appropriate to wear out in the wilderness?
You were sitting with your knees close to your chest, your hands fluttering around one of your ankles. Steve did a double take at your choice of footwear. Sandals with so many straps, they might as well have been made solely of string. Something glinted in the grass beside you. Your scent was a little more cloying now—well, the perfume was—but he was close enough to pick up other things, too. The faintest hint of coffee, something more chemically like air freshener. You were quite a pitiful thing.
He crossed his arms over his chest, stopping a few feet from you. Alright, it was time to get your sorry ass up and out of here before night fell. The walk back would take you at least an hour. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice gruff after days of silence.
When you turned your head to look up at him, only just noticing that he’d arrived, Steve felt a jolt down his spine. You might have been the dumbest person around, but God…
You were beautiful.
It had been years since he’d been around people socially, but even still, he didn’t think he’d ever seen a girl as pretty as you. Except… Well, he didn’t want to dwell on her right now. He should focus on getting you out of here, not the shape of your eyes or the way loose strands of your hair fell in wisps around your face.
“I don’t know…” You said, looking down and extending your foot a little, wincing as you did. “I fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.”
If you were afraid, you didn’t show it. He couldn’t detect any traces of fear from you, not the acrid tang of it at the back of his throat, nor the sound of an elevated heartbeat. “Can you stand?” He made no move to help you.
Your fingers tangled in the grass before you pushed yourself upwards, wobbling when you did. You took one limping step forward, towards him—not what he wanted—before you let out a hiss of pain. “I don’t think I can walk on it. It hurts too much.”
Already, Steve could see that it was beginning to swell. He bit his tongue. Even if he helped you back to the main road, supporting your weight, you probably wouldn’t be able to drive. And it was going to get dark soon, at least here in the forest. The trees blocked out so much light that it would seem like nighttime before long. He had a decision to make, and he wasn’t pleased about it, not one bit.
It was time to see how stupid you actually were.
“I can wrap it for you, if you let me help you back to my cabin.” Even though he was offering help, his tone was short, more of a bark than a sincere offer.
But you only smiled at him, expression sunny enough to make up for the fading light. “Oh, would you? That would be great, thanks. Oh, could you just grab my camera for me? I dropped it when I fell, but I think it’s okay.” You pointed at the grass. That must have been the glinting object he’d seen.
He stepped closer to you to pick up the camera, and you took it from him gratefully, slipping the strap over your neck. You really weren’t afraid at all. It was like you had no sense for danger. He could be a murderer for all you knew, bringing you back to a cabin fitted with a dungeon to keep you in. But here you were, optimistic as anything. You made him think of a dumb bunny, one who would be so focused on a delicious patch of foliage that it wouldn’t notice the predator standing right behind it with its teeth bared. But there was nothing Steve could do about it now, as he slipped an arm around your waist to help you walk. He did his best to ignore how thin and flimsy the fabric of your dress was as you limped alongside him. It would have been easier to just hoist you up in his arms—you were tiny, compared to him—but that was a line he refused to cross.
There might have been no path to Steve’s cabin, but he knew the way so well, he could remember exactly when to sidestep hidden holes dug by animals or tricky thickets that could have caught on your dress. “So, you must be the guy that lives here, right? What’s your name?” You asked, staring up at him quizzically.
He avoided your gaze. He didn’t want to be friendly with you. He wanted to send you on your way, as soon as possible. He didn’t answer, hoping you’d drop it. But you poked at his side with nimble fingers, as if he was a good friend. “I’ll tell you mine first,” you added, taking his silence as him playing coy.
He was about to refute it, to tell you that he didn’t care what your name was, because he’d never see you again once he sent you packing, but you said it anyway, and it stuck to his brain like wet paper. Like your name was important. It didn’t matter, he thought, trying to dismiss it. But still, it echoed like a sweet song in his ears. “So, yours?” That time he did make the mistake of looking down at you, catching you batting your lashes and flashing him a toothy grin.
“It’s Steve,” he said, teeth gritted.
“Steve,” you repeated. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He held back a snort of disbelief. You might have told him your name, but you were still very much a dumb bunny to him. You let out a soft gasp then, looking forward. The cabin was in view.
It was nothing special, Steve thought. It was made from trees he’d cut himself, which he thought was evident. The roof was uneven, the shingles varying shades of brown. The door had a gap at the bottom, which let in bugs in the summer, and bits of snow in the winter. The water tank was tucked away at the back. The chimney jutted out like an unseemly splinter. But it was home, as dishevelled as it was.
The wind whistled, blowing your hair across your face and rattling the trees. Steve could taste it then, the impending storm. And when it stormed, the paths in and around the forest tended to flood. His arm around you tightened in frustration. You were now probably going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours.
“Wait, stop…” You halted as you said it, letting go of Steve and grabbing at your camera. “The lighting’s not great, but… I can fix it in post. I need to capture this.”
You held your camera up, adjusting the settings, before snapping a few photos. He watched you with a slight grimace. He didn’t particularly like that you were capturing his private space on camera, but he doubted you’d share them around. You’d probably look at them later and decide that it was an ugly little house not worth remembering. When you were satisfied, you let the camera hang against your chest again and snaked your arm back around Steve, allowing him to lead you to the door.
It swung open with ease, and you were already in the matchbox living room. The ceilings were a little low. Steve maybe had six inches between him and the light fixture, a yellow tinted shade that did nothing to brighten up the room and everything to sallow it. The couch was really a futon of checkered red and cream. The side table was little more than a slant of wood fitted over an empty barrel. There was no television, just a hand crank radio. Puzzles that had never been completed were in their boxes, shoved onto the first two shelves of the scratched bookcase. The rug was an old throw blanket. Steve didn’t even have a table and chairs, the space was so small.
He deposited you on the futon and took the three steps down the tiniest hallway in the world, to the bathroom that resembled the size of one you’d find in an airplane. The first aid kit was a battered green tin that he’d hung on the door, which he grabbed now in one big hand. Its contents clattered together as he walked back to you. You’d scooted yourself to one corner of the futon and swung both of your legs up onto the other end.
“Those shoes look like deathtraps.” He muttered, flicking open the tin’s clasps and settling it on the side table.
“But they’re cute.” You said, admiring your impractical footwear.
“The wildlife doesn’t really give a crap about ‘cute’. Take it off.”
You did as ordered, reaching to start undoing what seemed to be a very complicated series of twists and loops. Once the sorry excuse for a shoe was gone from your foot, Steve’s hands hovered over your ankle. “May I?”
You nodded. “Go ahead.”
He was gentle as he assessed the damage. It was probably a sprain. Definitely swollen, but it wasn’t the worst injury he’d seen. Still, it would probably do you well to keep the pressure off. It wasn’t long before he was wrapping your ankle, his movements methodical and practiced. He was no stranger to injury. It had taken him quite awhile to adjust to living out here, and he still suffered the forest’s bite on occasion. When he finished with you, he closed the tin. “Feel alright?”
You wiggled your toes in answer. “Better, I think. Thanks.”
Upon standing, Steve chanced a glance outside. It was already much darker, but the storm clouds over head had certainly hastened the day’s end. He was sure he’d hear rain falling in the next hour. “Look, uh,” he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck, “you’re probably going to be stuck here overnight. Storms like this tend to wash out the paths.”
And then, because he couldn’t resist: “Do you not check the weather before journeying out into the wild? Well, no, I guess not… Not if you’d also wear such ridiculous clothes to come out here.”
It was mean, but he’d been meaner to other hikers. And it didn’t seem to have any effect on you, anyway. “It was sunny when I left,” you said brightly. You seemed to be totally at peace with staying in a stranger’s home overnight. He wondered if you’d also hit your head when you’d fallen.
“I’m going to make something to eat,” he said begrudgingly. It was a bit early, but he needed to be away from you for a minute. Even if ‘being away’ meant standing ten feet to the left, in the kitchen. “It’s not gonna be anything fancy though.” He warned, eyeing you.
You only smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve had my fair share of gas station hot dogs. Can’t be worse than that!” And then you became wildly interested in your camera, going through the photos you’d taken.
Steve could only shake his head at your delusional nature and duck through the archway and into the kitchen.
It really was nothing fancy. Chicken soup, the kind that came from a can. Steve had stocked up the last time he’d been anywhere close to a store. Heating it on the stove had taken less time than he’d hoped for, and then he was sitting beside you on the futon. It was almost comical, really. You, a tiny bird of a girl, sitting primly next to him, a bear of a man. His bowl looked more like a cup in his hands.
You’d both sat in silence for the first few minutes, but it wasn’t long before you started babbling away. He had a feeling that you were something of a talker. “You must know these woods like that back of your hand, right?”
He glanced at you sidelong. “Yes.”
You wriggled in your seat like you were an excited puppy. If you weren’t careful, you were going to be wearing your dinner on your dress. “Okay, so tell me this: I keep hearing about this lone wolf that lives around here. Have you ever seen it? Is it true?”
Steve’s spoon tapped against the side of the bowl when his hand jerked in surprise. He felt his shoulders go stiff as soon as you’d said wolf. “I’ve never seen it,” he said carefully. It was technically true.
“Hmm,” you hummed, food forgotten. “You’ve never seen it, but you’ve heard of it?”
He was irritated that you seemed so enthralled. “Not really. Don’t interact with people much.”
“Oh, really?” Your eyes were wide, dumbfounded. “Well, I’ve heard that its sort of become like a symbol of safety for the hikers in town. Apparently whenever someone gets lost here, the wolf finds them and leads them back to the trails. Isn’t that cool?”
The wolf wasn’t a hero. It was a killer. He was a killer. “You know that wolves are dangerous wild animals, not cute puppies, right?”
You shrugged, an easy smile on your face. “I know. But this wolf can’t be all bad. Otherwise, it would have taken a few chunks out of the hikers, don’t you think? I wonder why it doesn’t have a pack. It’s sort of sad.” You tapped your spoon against your mouth in thought. “Anyway, that’s why I came out here. I wanted to find it and take its photo. I’ve never done wildlife photography before.”
At this, Steve couldn’t help the incredulous look he gave you. “So, you just decided to come out here with no preparations, no knowledge of the forest, and full intentions to come face to face with an animal that could and would kill you if given the chance? Did you even tell anyone you were doing this?”
You shook your head with a frown. “Well, no. I’m new to town. Who would I tell?”
“Are you stupid? If that wasn’t bad enough, you’re sitting next to a total stranger. I could murder you, you know, and you’re acting like you don’t even care. Do you have a death wish?”
“…I have pepper spray.” You patted around at your hip and pulled a spray can shorter than your spoon out of your pocket.
Oh my God, Steve thought. I’ve officially seen it all. He put his empty bowl on the side table and grabbed yours from you in one swift movement. Then he grabbed both of your wrists together in one big hand. He shook you, anger sparking in his eyes. “Your self-preservation skills are shit. Look how easy it would be for me to hurt you.” He plucked the spray can from your grasp and let it roll across the rug. He was waiting for fear to enter the equation, but you continued to look at him openly.
“If you were going to do that, you would have by now.” You sounded disgustingly earnest. He let go of your wrists like he’d been burned, and you gestured to your bandaged ankle. “I mean, look. I’m in a vulnerable state and I don’t know my way around, but you brought me here, wrapped my foot, and made me dinner. Why would I be scared?”
“Unbelievable.” Steve stood from the couch, rubbing a hand over his beard.
You blinked at him owlishly. “Can I have my bowl back, please? I wasn’t finished.”
It took everything he had not to fling it at you before he stalked off to his bedroom, the door rattling on his hinges after he shut it behind him.
You quite liked the cabin. It was tiny, but it was charming. You especially liked the little wooden figurines dotted around the place, no bigger than your hand. You’d already spotted a bear, a fox, and a deer. You assumed Steve had made them himself. No internet was definitely a choice that you yourself would never make, but you supposed it was probably quite freeing not to fall victim to doom scrolling or silly online dramas. You settled back on the futon once you’d finished eating, looking through your photos again. Some were a little too blurry and out of focus for your taste, but others had great potential. Three birds on a branch, mid-song. Some of the faraway shots of the deer were pretty stunning. Different flowers and berries you’d seen, things you didn’t know the name of. You would bet that Steve did. Maybe you could ask him about them in the morning. Maybe you could convince him to tell you the best trails to take to put yourself in the wolf's path.
You tugged the afghan blanket from the back of the couch over your legs, tucking its ends under your thighs as you got more comfortable. your ankle didn’t hurt too badly when you were sitting still. You were sure you'd be fine to drive tomorrow. the softest patter of rain started to ping off the roof. The window behind the couch only showed pitch black and your reflection. Your braids had become loose and dishevelled, so you removed the elastics keeping them together and shook out your hair, settling deeper into the checkered cushion.
You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have, because when you opened your eyes, pale gray light filtered through the window. But it wasn’t the window you’d been looking through the night before. This was a different one, because you weren’t in the living room anymore. Instead, you were sitting up, your fingers finding a coverlet in dark green over a bed that looked like it had been hand made. The wood was polished and clean, but you’d never seen a headboard with such beautiful carvings. You traced your fingertip over the swirling design. You were in Steve’s room. a heavy jacket hung on the back of the door. The closet was just a pole suspended onto one of the walls, the clothing sparse. Other than that, the room was empty, which was probably for the better, because you were pretty sure that if you leaned to the right a little more, you’d be able to touch the wall. The cabin really was tiny, just big enough to maneuver around but not enough to have more than one person living in it. Steve was taking the bachelor life up to the next level, you thought. He must have carried you in here sometime last night.
You stretched your arms over your head and yawned before carefully rotating your ankle, assessing the pain. It still hurt, but it didn’t feel nearly as bad as it had when you’d first fallen. Your dress was rumpled when you stood. Your walk was less of a hop this morning as you gingerly put your weight on your foot. Your steps were quiet enough that you were able to make it to the living room without disturbing Steve.
He looked uncomfortable there on the futon, curled up. He was far too big to sleep there, and you thought the angle at which he’d stuffed himself onto it would probably give him a sore neck at the very least. Even in sleep, he wore a perpetual frown, his brows drawn close, but it was more lax than you’d seen during his waking hours. After he’d stomped off to his room, you hadn’t seen him for the rest of the night. But now, you looked at his unruly mop of hair, his scruffy beard. His shoulders stretched the dark gray cotton of his t-shirt. He might have looked a little more like a beast than a man, but you thought he was handsome anyway. His lashes were long, longer than yours. His eyes were closed now, but their stormy blue shade when he’d been glaring at you yesterday reminded you of a tumultuous sea.
A floorboard creaked under your next step, and those stormy eyes fluttered open, his frown deepening. He focused on you immediately, heaving himself to sitting. “How’s the ankle?” His voice was rough with sleep as he rubbed at his neck.
“’S’okay,” you held it up for emphasis, balancing on your good foot. “I think I’ll be fine.” You looked around the small space. “Did you really sleep out here?”
He stared at the floor. “…Yeah.”
“I could have stayed out here. I’m smaller than you. Probably would have been more comfortable in your own bed.”
He shrugged, discomfort passing across his face. “Not right to take the bed when a woman’s got nowhere else to sleep.”
You were surprised by his old-fashioned chivalry. Contrary to what he’d said, you weren’t stupid. You knew you were a stray interloper in his home, and that he’d already done much more than he needed to. It was one thing to patch you up, but to feed you and let you sleep in his bed, too?
“Well, thanks. That was sweet of you.”
He grunted noncommittally before standing. You swore you heard his joints pop when he stretched. “It stopped raining a little after one in the morning. If you’re lucky, the bigger paths shouldn't be too bad.” He picked up your sandals by their long laces and held them out to you.
You were a little taken aback by his haste to get going, but you laced up your shoes anyway. “You don’t happen to have a dirt bike stashed away or something, do you?” It would certainly make the trek back faster, at least.
“No.” he said, voice dry.
Steve turned for the door and pulled it open without a second glance, and you scooped your camera up from the side table before following. You emerged into the weak sunlight, the grass wet on your toes as you trailed behind him. “Watch for branches and roots,” he tossed the warning over his shoulder. “And holes in the ground.”
You did your best to put your feet where he did. His boots left impressions on the grass. You couldn’t move all that fast lest you upset your ankle, but eventually, you made it back onto the path. It was a bit muddy from the rain, but you guessed the narrower ones were worse. “I’ll walk you about halfway, but then you’re on your own. Just because I know some of the forks in the path could be blocked off by fallen trees.”
It had taken everything in Steve to not just pick you up and carry you to your car. His strides were twice as long as yours, and you kept getting distracted, wanting to take pictures of fat dew drops on the leaves, or moss that looked “much greener than it did yesterday”. It was infuriating.
But finally, he got you to where he felt confident you could make it back. He’d been assessing your movements the entire time, and while you were still limping a little bit, it had turned out to be a less severe strain than he’d thought. When he’d stopped, letting you walk ahead, it had taken you a minute to notice he wasn’t following along anymore. You’d stopped short and turned back to look at him curiously. “Oh, are we halfway?”
“Yes,” he’d said gruffly. “don’t get distracted. Go back to your car and drive home. Got it?” He didn’t care if he was being bossy—he still thought you’d been out of your mind to come out here dressed like that in the first place.
You’d given him a half-smile and a thumbs up. “Okay.”
He stayed right there on the path and watched you until you were almost out of sight, but then…
“Hey!” Steve barked your name. You froze where you’d crouched down to snap a quick photo of something, caught. “Go back to your damned car!”
Another, more sheepish smile was directed his way before you stood and walked on. The white of your dress disappeared into the trees and Steve shook his head. Silly little bunny of a girl. At least he wasn’t likely to see you again.
He saw you again.
Steve was actually astounded that you’d remembered how to get to his cabin. When he’d smelled you that time, he’d just stepped out of the shower. His bathroom window had been open to let out the steam, a dark towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets spilling from his hair. He thought he’d imagined your scent. He stopped in front of his fogged up mirror and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to confirm that he was wrong, that all he could smell was the forest.
But no, it was your sweet scent wafting through the air.
He all but forgot about the state he was in when he stalked through the cabin to the front door, wrenching it open. And there you were in shorts and a flowy tank top, your camera looped around your neck like the last time. You waved as you picked your way though the grass, and he caught sight of what looked to be platform sneakers on your feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you, I’m looking for that wolf. But I thought I’d come and say hello first.”
You didn’t bat an eye as you raked your gaze up and down his form and Steve was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Go home.” He bit out.
“No way! I was just stopping by for a quick visit. Then I’ll go check out one of the other trails and see what I can find. I know there’s supposed to be a waterfall and an outlook somewhere around here. If I can’t find the wolf, I’ll settle for those today. Can I come in? I’m a little thirsty.” You had the audacity to give him a hopeful look.
“I don’t want you here.” He couldn’t keep tiptoeing around his rule. It wasn’t safe for humans to be around him, and certainly not one that lacked self-preservation skills in a way he’d never seen before.
“Please? I forgot my water bottle in the car.” You folded you hands together like you were praying.
Didn’t you get it? He didn’t mean he wasn't feeling social today. He meant he didn’t want to see you ever. “No. Get lost.”
“But I—”
“Listen, because I’m only gonna say it once: I’m not looking for and I don’t need a friend. So, stop coming by here, don’t ask me to come in or for a tour or to look for this damned wolf. Am I clear?”
“Well, someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed today. Fine, I’ll leave you alone. I was gonna show you some of the shots I took, but I guess it can wait.”
I guess it can wait. Steve was incensed. There would be no waiting. He had just told you never to come back. “You dumb bunny. I’m a great show with my crossbow. I don’t think you want to find yourself in my crosshairs. Do you get it now? Stay off my damned property and go back to your car and drive your ass back to town.”
You put your hands up in a defensive gesture, though your expression didn’t seem to beget any true understanding of his threat. “Okay, I hear you.”
But did you, though?
You finally turned and walked a few steps. He knew you were going to do exactly what you said and go trekking around a forest that you didn’t know and obviously weren’t capable of navigating well, but Steve didn’t want to put himself in your proximity anymore than he had to. He needed you to take the hint and go. But… “Hold on.”
You stopped, looking over your shoulder with what could only be described as a devious smile. He disappeared into the cabin for a second before returning to the door. “Take this. I don’t want to see you here again.”
He tossed a bottle of water in your direction, and you caught it, just barely. “Thank you, Steve. Have a good day! Oh, and your towel is slipping.”
You’d already turned away started walking back into the forest when he clutched at his towel, feeling his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He supposed he should feel lucky that he’d been able to scent you, because he had a feeling that you would have just invited yourself in, otherwise. He probably shouldn’t have helped you, that first time.
Like an unwelcome stray, you kept coming back. Any hope Steve had had that you would grow bored of your quest and go back to town, keep doing whatever sort of photography you tended to specialize in, dwindled upon his third encounter with you. Your attire was still as ridiculous as always: plaid shorts and a thin tank top, but at least you’d had the common sense to bring your own water this time. And he could smell sunscreen on your skin, for once. But you’d ambled up to the cabin yet again, this time while he’d been clearing some creepers from around the door.
When he’d paused, shears squeaking in protest, and looked at you over his shoulder, you’d grinned and said, “So, no wolf yet, but I think I’m getting the hang of the paths now! I only fell in a blackberry bush once this time.” That explained the purplish smudges on your shirt and your legs.
“As opposed to…?”
Your smile turned sheepish. “I may or may not have become quite familiar with the types of berries that grow around here last time. Anyway, do you want to see the photos I took this time around? I got the cutest shots of a mother fox and her babies.”
Steve straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and pushing his hair back from his damp temples. “Think I told you before, bunny, that I’m not interested in what you’re here for and I don’t care to look.”
You shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, I’ll win you over soon enough, Steve. I don’t know how you haven’t gone crazy out here all by yourself yet.”
He shifted on his feet. “The silence can be nice.”
“Well yes, it can be, sometimes. But all the time? I think I would have given all the trees names and personalities by now, if I was you.”
And from then on, he kept seeing you against his will, a couple of times a week. You always had a cheery disposition, even if you were scratched to hell and dusty from crawling through bushes. Even if you had twigs in your hair and cuts on your palms. Even if you’d upset a hornet’s nest and ran like hell, banging frantically on the cabin’s door to be let in.
Steve had continued to try and get you to leave him alone, trying for mean, threatening, and even downright douchey, but every single attempt had been futile. Eventually, as he’d disinfected one of the stings on your arm, he’d just muttered, “If you’re gonna keep coming around here, can you at least dress for it? No more of whatever this is,” he gestured to your skirt, which seemed to be entirely made of lace and frills, and your boots which were definitely more fashion than fortitude.
You made a face. “But all the hiking gear is so ugly.”
“So you’d rather be fashionable and dead than safe and alive?”
You let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, fine. I’ll go to the store and get the same things that literally everyone in town has.”
And you did. That was really the surprising part—that for once, you’d listened. Anything else Steve had to say had fallen on deaf ears. Sure, a lot of what you showed up in was pink, as if the colour would make it less ugly somehow, and you’d replaced the laces of your new boots with literal lace, but at least you were wearing pants that covered your bare legs and you’d picked up a bag, albeit small, and put some honest to god equipment in it.
It was a strange thing, to realize that he was getting used to you. Though Steve still never greeted you in a way that screamed ‘friendly’, he had come to expect your scent in the air, the first sign that you were coming, and then your steps, still clumsy, through the underbrush. You had still been unsuccessful in your quest, and Steve planned to keep it that way. As far as he was concerned, you’d never get a photo of the wolf. But you hadn’t let it deter you. He was beginning to realize that despite your ditzy, lackadaisical nature, you were also quite resilient. He had absolutely no idea how he’d be able to convince you to stop trampling through the forest during the colder months. He had no desire to fish you out of the frozen lake or pull you from a snowdrift.
But despite you pushing your way into his life, interrupting his solitary confinement, Steve did begin to enjoy your visits. He’d never make it known lest you try to bridge the perilous gap of friendship even more ferociously, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when you announced yourself. Especially when you brought food.
The thing was, Steve was very used to his diet by now. He’d stock up on canned food once or twice a year from the general store furthest from town, but the rest of his food stores consisted of things he’d hunted and prepped himself. Like he’d told you, he was very good with his crossbow. And it helped to know what plants were edible around here. You likely hadn’t noticed the very meager garden around back—you’d never been able to explore around his cabin too much, because he knew you were there. You hadn’t seen the tiny cross with his late wife’s name staked into the ground, either.
But there you were one of those times, standing in a patch of sunlight and holding a pale purple box in your hands. He could smell its contents even before you opened it. “There’s this bakery that just opened up in town called Furiously Good Eats and their specialty item today was cherry pie.” You looked Steve up and down. “Probably been a while since you’ve had one of those, huh?”
“If you think food is gonna get me to like you…” but he stepped aside anyway, and you flounced right in, beelining for the kitchen and its single butcher’s block counter, where you placed the box with flourish.
You scoffed as you popped open the lid. “Please, you already like me. I’m very loveable, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” He pulled out two plates.
“It’s true. Voted ‘Most Loveable’ in my senior year of high school.” The knife you chose to use was really for cutting meat, but Steve found himself lacking any sorts of dainty pastry utensils.
Cherry filling oozed out onto the plate when you handed it to him, and you sucked your finger into your mouth thoughtfully. “Don’t suppose you have any ice cream, do you?”
At his blank look, you turned back to the pie and cut off your own slice. You both stayed standing in the kitchen, balancing your plates in one hand and forks in the other. The first bite flooded Steve’s tastebuds like nothing he’d experienced in recent years.
It was, in no uncertain terms, the perfect pie. The crust was flaky and light, the filling tart and sweet at the same time. But you were right—vanilla ice cream probably would have been a great pairing. Still, Steve wolfed down the rest of his piece in three bites and then looked hungrily at yours as you took more dainty, slow ones. Wordlessly, you slid the box closer to him. “The rest is yours,” you said, covering your mouth with a hand as you chewed. “I’m just sampling the goods.”
He was already cutting a second slice before you’d finished speaking.
The bakery deliveries, as delicious as they were, were something of a bittersweet phenomenon to Steve. All the things you’d brought so far happened to be exactly the types of desserts he liked, and he had no idea how you’d figured him out so easily without him having to say anything. But they also all reminded him of his wife. He could picture her in their first apartment together, though the memory seemed to have a fuzzy vignette over it now. He remembered her nimble fingers rolling out dough, or dusting cake with powdered sugar. He remembered how she’d laugh and slap his hand away when he tried to sneak a cookie from a cooling batch. It was hard not to associate all the things you’d bring him with her. He just couldn’t override those memories with ones of you. Not even when you’d brought eclairs and eaten yours so messily that you’d smeared cream on your nose and a little bit in your hair. As much as it was a nice gesture, it made Steve want to shut you out again. He hadn’t yet, and he couldn’t figure out why. There was no future here, not for you. You’d get tired of the woods eventually. You’d make friends in town at some point. There really wouldn’t be a reason to keep visiting him—he certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to be hospitable to you. He’d tried to drive you out.
But the fact of the matter was, he had come out here, uprooted his life and moved into the wilderness, because he didn’t think he deserved companionship. Not anymore, not after what happened, what he did. And he would probably do it again. He didn’t trust himself to get close to anybody, lest he put them directly in harm’s way. In his way. But he’d been allowing himself this small, selfish act, to let you into his cabin and into his life like you were one single flower, blooming in the sun amidst dead, blackened weeds. And now he wasn’t sure if he could pluck you from your bed of grass and tear your petals away without hurting himself in the process. Maybe that was part of his penance, to take a good thing and sully it. To not get to enjoy things for too long. Why should he enjoy something when his wife couldn’t luxuriate in anything? No sun on her skin, no taste of cherry pie.
And though all those thoughts kept churning through his head like a choppy river, every time you skipped through the grass to the cabin, you’d smile at him and chatter away, and he’d let you stay a little longer, and he’d begrudgingly ask you questions that would keep you talking endlessly. And for a single second, he’d almost forget.
The wolf was very elusive, you thought. You wondered if it was more nocturnal than you’d originally imagined. You’d believed that it must come out during the day, must have built a home somewhere near one of the paths, because how else would it lead so many hikers back when they’d lost their way? But now you’d exhausted every single one. It had been weeks of searching in between your regular photography sessions with clients, and you’d still seen no sign of it.
You didn’t mind that much, not one to let frustrations get the better of you. And really, you thought it would have been worse to see it right away and come back with a crappy shot. Instead, you’d used the time to practice your wildlife photography, figure out the best way to edit and enhance each one to bring out the best parts of the picture. And you’d taken plenty of photos of other animals, in the meantime.
But your favourite animal to photograph was Steve. He didn’t know, you were sure. He never wanted to look at your photos anyway. But your camera was now full of candid shots of him, as well. The ones you’d take before announcing yourself were good. You had one of him in profile, looking up at the sky. Another of him chopping wood. Another where the leaves had made different shadows across his brow, but the sun had still picked out the precise blue of his eyes. You had one of him standing in his kitchen with his back to you, and you’d traced the shape of his shoulders with your finger afterward, when you’d uploaded it to your computer. Yes, you had many, many photos of him that you’d taken somewhat in secret. You’d taken pictures of his wooden figurines too, random things in his cabin, to disguise the obvious sounds of your camera’s shutter going off, and he’d become so used to the sound and your idle photography that he’d stopped looking at you sharply every time he heard it. It was what made it so easy to sneakily take pictures of him.
You remembered what you’d thought the first day. Steve really was handsome. You assumed that he had to know that fact, but you’d shied away from saying it, in case he took it badly. You were usually free with compliments, something you’d learned to get comfortable with after having many clients that were insecure in front of the camera. It would take nothing at all for you to tell him, but you knew that you’d already pushed his boundaries a lot since coming to know him. So instead, you’d just admire his broad frame, his strong hands, and a mouth that seemed allergic to smiling.
You still neglected to check the weather. That was something you only did when you had an outdoor shoot planned with paying clients. You had to ensure that conditions were good for those meetings, but otherwise, you tended to just look out the window upon waking up and then see where the rest of the day took you. You didn’t mind a little rain every now and then. The only person consistently annoyed by your lack of planning ahead was Steve. You’d had to stay twice more in his cabin overnight since the first time. The summer storms were ramping up, but they never seemed to come when all the weather warnings predicted, in your defence. You thought it was fun, actually. You’d mentioned as much to Steve, had told him it felt like camping. You’d asked him if he could build a fire outside for the full experience, but he’d declined with a look of annoyance. It was no bother, because the next time, you bugged him until he set up his fireplace, and then pulled a bag of marshmallows and some skewers out of your bag and had a delightful time playacting what you believed a real camping experience to be.
You still enjoyed the comforts of your apartment, of course. You couldn’t imagine roughing it every single day like Steve did, nor did you want to try it. You liked waking up and making coffee with your fancy coffee maker. You liked flopping back into the white, puffy comforter on your bed and turning on a movie, the projector on your ceiling painting the wall with rom-coms. You liked standing in front of your stove and poking at an omelette with your spatula, music playing from your phone. You wondered if Steve had ever liked those sorts of things too, or if the great outdoors had always held the appeal over how most of the modern world liked to live. You could sort of picture it, if you tried. Him standing in your kitchen, which was small, but looked huge compared to his. He’d be able to sleep on your leather couch with much more space than his own futon. You thought about how a picture would look if he stood in front of the windows in your living room, the floor to ceiling view of the town below. One of your espresso cups would look absolutely ridiculous in his big hands.
You didn’t think he’d agree if you invited him back with you. You’d thought about it a few times, considered asking him in a teasing, lighthearted way to come back to town with you and help you pick out more practical hiking things like he’d wanted you to get. You would sweeten the deal with cannolis from the bakery. But you had a feeling he’d say no. You were friends, despite his protests, but you didn’t want to push in a way that made him shut down. It had already been a bit of a journey to get to the point you were at now. You didn’t want to do anything to ruin it. You knew that your positive attitude could only get you so far. But maybe one day, you’d be able to offer, and you’d feel confident that he would say yes, and lock up his cabin, and fold himself into your little car. And then you’d get that picture of him at your window. Yes, you thought. One day, you would.
So far, your visits, by the grace of some higher force, hadn’t coincided with Steve’s transformations. They’d been close, a couple of days before at most, and Steve knew he was acting much moodier and more combative on those days than usual, but you still took it in stride, visited for a little while, and then left.
The moon’s cycle acted like an hourglass. Steve could see the grains of sand slipping through like blinking stars every single night. He felt the most like his old self on a new moon, the beguiling white eye in the sky hidden from view. But as that eye began to slowly open from a crescent to a half circle, closer to a full, round ball of light, Steve would feel the need to change wanting to burst through his skin. He had a little bit of control over it, just barely, but it was easier to throw himself to the moon’s mercy and get it over with when she demanded it, rather than try to plan ahead.
The primal need to hunt, to rip and tear and shred, to run until he couldn’t anymore, was what he tried to bury the most. Especially when you were around. He knew what it could look like if someone got too close. He knew it disturbingly well. And he’d woken up countless nights since meeting you, his skin dripping with sweat, his lungs feeling like they’d burst, the image of you torn to pieces dissolving in his head like sugar in water, but they’d be there all the same. Peggy had morphed into you some time ago. Instead of a horrible memory, it was a potential future, one he’d been trying to prevent. It was the reason he had been so adamant at keeping you away, at first. He didn’t believe he was able to be rehabilitated. And he didn’t want to risk your life trying to figure it out. But he’d been convincing himself that it was fine to let you get close when the moon was at rest. He’d already thought of an easy lie to tell if you came by when his transformation was near—he’d tell you he was going to go hunting deeper in the forest for a few days, that he wouldn’t be home. He would convince you that you would not enjoy tagging along. But he hadn’t had to spin that lie yet, and he’d let you drift closer and closer as the summer drew to a close.
He was not expecting to see you when the moon next cast its weary gaze on him. Your visits were usually every three or four days, spaced apart between your work and appointments. You’d never visited back-to-back before. Steve had let his guard down, awaiting the change with a patience that felt alien, the relief that you wouldn’t be returning until well after in the back of his mind.
The panic that kickstarted his pulse when he scented you could have sent him into cardiac arrest. He’d only seen you two days ago—he should have been safe for another two, he’d predicted. The comedown wasn’t as bad as it used to be, especially when he offered himself to the moon right when it was full, rather than trying to put it off. He knew without a doubt that his transformation would be that night. He’d been scenting the air all day, tasting rain. He knew the forest would go silent with the first clap of thunder that night, and he’d be free to weave through the trees with no obstacles.
But there was your scent, as clear as if it was a visible thing in the air. And he could smell chocolate, too. With frustration, he felt his body quiver. Of course, being ravenous for the hunt was not the only thing he felt hungry for, most times. And a beautiful human woman being in his proximity would serve no purpose other than to make him hungrier.
His backpack was half-assembled by the door, leaning against the panelling. He usually packed light and stowed the bag somewhere safe for him to circle back to near the transformation’s end. He tried to rein in his panic as you got closer. He had no idea what his face was doing when he opened the door and stared at you from the threshold. He was trying for his usual irritation, but he didn’t think he was quite achieving it. “What are you doing here? I saw you the day before last.”
You smiled, holding up what he’d come to know as one of the bakery’s trademark lilac pastry boxes. “I know, but I passed by their window on the way home from an appointment today and I just couldn’t resist. Chocolate and strawberry filled croissants.”
You were wearing jeans and a t-shirt and surprisingly sensible shoes today. He was silently thankful, because he wasn’t sure if he could have handled you in one of your strappy sundresses today of all days. The forest had already gone quiet with the promise of an impending storm. You were close enough now that your scent was almost overpowering. It made him want to sink his teeth into your skin. What was worse was that he didn’t know if he wanted to inflict pleasure or pain. “Its going to storm.” He said.
It was both a reprimand to you, and a bleak reminder to him. A storm, like all others, meant the paths would flood. And that meant you were staying. Tonight of all nights, that was more or less a death sentence. But you, none the wiser, stopped in front of him and pried the box open, holding the lid up so that he could take a croissant. “That’s okay. The futon and I are becoming pretty good friends.”
With another stab of panic, Steve wished he could send you away. But like mother nature herself could feel his rising anguish, the sky opened up and the downpour hit in the blink of an eye, and you snapped the box closed and scurried past him into the cabin like a mouse going back to its hole in the wall.
“You should be proud of me—I started packing pajamas in my bag for moments like this.” You said, letting your backpack slide to the floor next to his. “Oh, are you going somewhere?”
Through gritted teeth, he bit out, “I was planning to go hunting. And you wouldn’t need to pack pajamas if you would just check the damn weather report.”
But like always, you only shrugged and sat down on the futon, before patting the space beside you. “Do you want a croissant or not, because I didn’t eat lunch and I have no qualms about having yours too.”
Sitting next to you would be too much temptation right now, so instead he just leaned over the back of the couch and snatched his from the box, his forearm brushing the sleeve of your shirt. He shuddered at the contact, as small as it was, and retreated to the kitchen. He ate over the sink, crumbs falling into the basin, staring stormily out the window at the pelting rain.
If you were going to be here tonight, he needed to go out as soon as possible without you catching on.
There was no way around it: Steve was on edge. There was no telling if tonight would be the night that he’d lose what little control he had and add another life to his ledger. He just had to hold on long enough to get far away from you. His plan was to turn in early, to convince you to do the same, and then sneak out when you were asleep. Ridiculous to have to sneak out of his own home, but it was all he could think to do.
He’d been fighting the urge to pace between the kitchen and living space, too aware of your presence, too aware that you might ask questions about why he was more tense than usual. But so far, you’d just been playing around with your camera. “Oh, I brought my laptop with me this time, too. I know you don’t have wi-fi but at least I can edit some of my stuff tonight.” You reached over the back of the couch and dug around in your bag for a moment before pulling out a slim silver laptop, most of its surface covered in stickers. You looked over at him as it booted up. “Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?” he sounded brisk, distracted.
“The internet. And cable. That sort of stuff.”
“I have my radio.”
You made a face, one he saw out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, but I’ve heard the one station you tend to pick up around here, and I think I’d rather sit in total silence than listen to that.” You paused then, and he heard the stroke of your fingers on your keyboard as you typed in your password. “Or have you been an outdoorsy type since you were a little kid?”
“I used to be a movie critic, actually,” Steve said absently, frowning at the weather outside. He wanted it to get dark already.
“What, really?”
The surprise in your voice was what made him realize what he’d just revealed about himself. Shit. He’d been pretty good at redirecting conversation to have you focused on mostly talking about yourself. He hadn’t given you that many details on his adult life. Almost all of his memories had been tied to her. “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping you’d drop the subject.
“What was your favourite?”
“My favourite what?”
“Your favourite movie, silly. I assume that you had to start somewhere, right?”
He paused for a long moment, debating on if he should make you drop it or not. He was already agitated as it was. But he decided on a scrubbed down version of the truth. “Star Wars.”
He saw a look of excitement and disbelief pass over your face. It might have been the wrong thing to say. “A New Hope, specifically. None of the current crap.”
“It’s not crap!” you said, indignant, but he had the sinking feeling that you were more thrilled than upset. “The Force Awakens was awesome.” Then you were babbling on in defence of it.
It was almost enough to settle Steve’s nerves. Almost. But then you waved an arm and it wafted your scent into his orbit again, and he had to hold his breath and close his eyes until the need to overwhelm your space had passed. He tuned back in to you saying, “Next time I’ll download some of them and we can watch together. Bet it’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them.”
It had been a long time. Not since before he’d become what he now was. He’d seen them enough times growing up that he could recall the story backwards and forwards. He could remember every little detail, could play it on the backs of his eyelids at night when he couldn’t sleep. Could remember the exact cadences of some line deliveries. But they’d always been movies he’d watched alone, never with anyone else, never with Peggy either. As he was feeling right now, it spelled a recipe for disaster. He’d just want to bury his head against your neck and leave marks there instead of pay attention to a plot that had kept his attention for years, upon every rewatch.
He looked outside again. The barest edges of the sky that he could see above the treeline were just beginning to darken. All he had to do was try and wait it out. He really hoped that he could. He didn’t want to know the exact shade of your blood.
If Steve had waited just a little bit longer, he might have managed it. As soon as it had been reasonable, he’d feigned sleepiness and gone straight to his bedroom, even though the urge to transform felt like an itch under his skin. He’d also lied about a headache to keep you from asking him too many questions. Even with the door closed, your scent burned his lungs like you were laying right beside him. He wanted to rip into you so very badly that he’d torn at his comforter with how tightly he’d been gripping it.
Steve had laid there in agony while he’d waited for you to fall asleep. He’d heard you power down your laptop, tiptoe into the bathroom to change, and then softly step back to the futon. He’d heard the rustle of your clothes and the afghan and the creak of the wooden frame as you’d gotten comfortable. He had listened for your breathing, heard it deepen eventually, each puff of air getting slower and more even.
He should have waited longer, made sure. But instead, he’d crossed through the cabin and grabbed the strap of his backpack. He had made sure to be as quiet as he could, but something must have been just loud enough to rouse you.
It would be something he’d wonder about later. But he heard a mumbled, sleep-thickened, “Steve? Where are you going?”
His shoulders went tight under his t-shirt. The room was dark, but he could still see you sitting up, your hair already a mess from snuggling down into the cushion, as you looked at him from over the back of the couch. “Just… out.”
“Out where?” Oh, no. You were waking up too quickly, too aware of him. “Did it stop raining?”
It had, a while ago. So much for this big storm he’d expected. He definitely could have turned you away earlier. But it was too late for that now. He felt the change coming in a ripple under his skin, like a rising tide.
He bit down hard on his lip before saying, “I forgot to check a trap earlier. I’m going now.”
It was another lie, but it was all he could think of.
Usually, you went with whatever he said, but something had alerted to you, made you realize it was different this time. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I should come with you.”
At that, he stood straight up, almost crushing the doorknob in his hand. “No. you don’t need to do that. And you don’t know your way around. You’d only hinder me.”
But you were pushing yourself to stand. He caught the long outline of your bare legs, the afghan huddled around your shoulders. He needed to go, now. “Okay, maybe I don’t know the way perfectly yet, but I don’t know, I just… I don’t think you should go out in the dark, alone. What if you get hurt or something? Shouldn’t I come with you so I can get help if that happens?”
“It’s fine, bunny. I’ve been alone long before you and I’ll be alone again.”
You rounded the side of the futon and stopped in front of him. “But you don’t have to be alone. I’m right here.”
“Drop it.”
You tilted your head, chin up, defiant. He’d never seen you wear that expression before. It was a terrible time for you to trot it out. “No.”
He was just going to have to leave you here, then. He could outrun you. It wouldn’t be hard. It was just a matter of how far he could get before it happened.
Steve turned away from you, swinging his bag onto his shoulders, and wrenched open the door. Your fingers were gentle on his arm when you touched him, but you may as well have stabbed at him with a hot poker, with the way he whirled on you, teeth bared, and roared in your face, “Leave it!”
He could feel it in his spine first—he always did. Opening the door had let in a spill of moonlight, and he was standing right in it. He was bounding off in a dead sprint immediately. He just had to go. He had to go, he had to go, he had to go.
You knew that Steve was in great shape, but you were still caught off guard by how swift he was.
He’d been acting erratic ever since you’d shown up today. He’d always been a little cold towards you, even on the best days, but it was something you liked about him. Despite his coldness, you always felt warm when you were with him. It was why you kept coming back. And when you’d passed by the bakery, you’d thought of him. It was hard not to. He’d never told you if he enjoyed any of the things you brought for him to try, but you knew that he did. The speed at which he scarfed food down was always impressive. And if Steve really didn’t like your company, you were sure he could have made good on his threat and met you at the door with his crossbow, but he never had. Despite what he might think, you and he were friends, and if he thought that screaming in your face would change it, he was wrong. Instead, you’d had the steadily rising feeling that something was wrong. You just didn’t know what. When he’d gone to bed early, talking about a headache, you’d thought that maybe that was all it had been. You’d had a migraine or two before, and it had always sucked immensely, especially without any over the counter medicine, of which he had none. But deep down, you’d had a feeling that it was something more. He hadn’t gotten near you the entire time you’d been there. And sure, Steve was the kind of guy who kept a healthy distance between you, but not so much that he wouldn’t even sit on the same couch as you.
The way he’d just torn out of the cabin confirmed that yes, something was definitely wrong. As much as you annoyed him sometimes, Steve had never gotten in your face like that. There’d been some sort of animalistic fear in his eyes, something you’d never seen from him before, and then he’d twisted from your light touch like he’d been burned.
He was already a blur in the moonlight by the time you’d started to follow. It wasn’t even something you’d consciously decided on, but before you knew it, the slick grass was tickling your bare feet. The air was clean and cold in your lungs as you raced after him. It was pure luck that you didn’t trip over any stray tree roots, though wet leaves caressed you as you blew past. You were lucky that he came to a stop fairly quickly, or you would have lost him. You’d only been chasing after him for a couple of minutes before he flung his backpack against a tree with a solid thwack! and fell to his hands and knees.
With the way his body was heaving, you thought he was going to throw up. You stayed about ten feet away, wanting to comfort him but keeping your distance, just in case. If you’d had the presence of mind to grab your own bag, you would have been able to use your satellite phone to call for help.
What happened next was something you didn’t think you’d ever be able to believe if you hadn’t seen it yourself.
With a great shudder, right under the moon’s spotlight, the back of Steve’s shirt ripped in a jagged line down the back. His muscles rippled with effort. And then right before your very eyes, he stopped being Steve.
He became a wolf, instead.
Dark fur sprouted so quickly, it seemed to happen in a blink. A strangled cry from his throat became a guttural, tortured howl. The sound of it seemed to echo through the entire forest. A flock of birds erupted into the sky in fear. When you looked away from them and back to the forest floor, your eyes met that of a snarling beast’s.
He bared his teeth at you, canines glinting. He was a study in shades of black, as dark as it was. The moon might have provided some light, but he was awash in night. So, this was why you’d never been able to stumble upon the wolf. You’d been sharing pastries with him the whole time, instead.
A growl started low in his throat. You saw his tail—he had a tail!—swish once, agitated. He hadn’t come any closer yet. You got the feeling he was trying to scare you off. He was going to be disappointed.
You sank to the ground, ignoring the wet seeping through your pajamas. You held both hands out. “It’s okay. I’m not afraid. It’s okay.”
He tossed his head, snapped at the air. You stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. You had a feeling he was displeased. But still, you stared each other down. Slowly, you noticed the fur that had been standing on end around his shoulders had started to go flat. He dug the claws of his front paws into the earth with a whine, tossing his head again, and then he prowled forward. He kept his head bowed, ears flattened against his skull. He stopped in front of you a little ways away, but close enough that you could just about feel his breath, warm compared to the chill in the air.
You weren’t running away. Stupid bunny, stupid girl. He wanted you to be afraid, to finally realize what he’d been telling you all along: that he was dangerous, a wild animal. That he had the capacity to hurt, to maim, to kill. But the insatiable urge to tear you limb from limb, confusingly, wasn’t there. He thought that getting closer to you might make you come to your senses. But when he stopped in front of you, tail tucked, a whimper escaping his jaws, you only lifted a steady hand and touched his fur, right at the side of his neck.
Tonight was the first time someone had touched him in years.
You’d done it before, when you’d tried to stop him from leaving. And you were doing it again now, ignoring the fact that he was no longer a human, only an animal.
He’d touched you, the first time he’d met you. When he’d wrapped your ankle, carried you to bed. But he’d refrained after that. And it had all been above board, had been born out of necessity, not want. But now, you stared at him, unblinking, and softly stroked at his fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to weep.
He leaned into the touch, another quiet whine escaping his throat as your fingers moved. But you couldn’t stay out here all night. And he needed to run, to hunt, to satisfy the bloodthirsty urge that had usually surfaced by now. He stood, shaking your hand off, and walked past you, flicking you with his tail, before looking over his shoulder to see if you were coming. But you stayed put. Another flick didn’t do anything to spur you forward. Were you really not getting the memo? He padded back to you and nosed at your ribs, but it only served to make you giggle.
With an exasperated huff, he walked to the edge of the small clearing you were in and looked back again, letting out another whine.
You’d brought your knees up to your chest, your arms encircling them. “I’m not going back to the cabin without you. And I have a feeling you’ll leave me there as soon as I get to the door. I’m staying.”
Of course you’d say that. He shouldn’t have been that surprised, since you hadn’t run screaming bloody murder upon seeing his transformation. He had half a mind to grab your shirt between his teeth and pull, forcing you to move unless you wanted it to rip, but he had a feeling that you’d just let it happen. It seemed you were at an impasse. He could already imagine the headache he’d have tomorrow when he was human again, the number of questions you’d lob his way. He also had a feeling that he’d never get rid of you, now. You were too curious to learn this about him and simply move on.
He could have left you there and gone about his usual routine, but he couldn’t bear the thought of you stumbling through the dark on your own back to the cabin. Worse, you might try to follow him. So instead, he came back to you and sat by your side, and you stroked his fur again, in the shared silence of the woods.
It didn’t take very long for your eyelids to grow heavy. The grass was still damp, but you curled up on it anyway. You fell asleep right there on the forest floor. He curled around you, unable to stand the idea of you shivering and cold, pressing his body against your back.
He hadn’t smelled any fear on you before, not when he’d yelled in your face, not when he’d ran away, and not when he’d become a wolf right in front of you. He couldn’t smell it now. You just settled more, and he let himself breathe in your scent. It hadn’t triggered him to tear you apart, not like he’d been so sure it would. Not like his first night as a wolf. It was a strange thing. He didn’t want to think about it, to imagine that his fears had all been in his head. They couldn’t be, or he would still have a wife. He wouldn’t be here with you. But all he felt at that precise moment was the need to protect you, to keep you in his sight. To keep you warm and safe under the open night sky.
It was only you, him, and the clear white moon. It was foreign to have no anxieties on a night like this, and they hadn’t left him, not completely. But he rested his head on his paws, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert, and let himself believe, just for a little while, that things might work out.
When you woke up, it was to sunlight streaming across your face, and birdsong. Eyes still closed, you frowned, your nose wrinkling. You shifted your arm and felt grass coming away with it. Lifting your head a little, you opened your eyes and took in the hundreds of shades of green surrounding you. You’d slept outside.
You’d slept outside, because…
You remembered at the same time that you became aware of warmth at your back and over your waist. You glanced down your body and saw the corded muscle of Steve’s arm, loose over your hip, his palm spanning your stomach. The warmth you felt was him, pressed to your spine. He stirred when you shifted.
He was human again, already? You looked up at the sky. Well, the moon was gone, so you supposed it made sense. But what did you know about wolves? Or werewolves, for that matter? You started to turn to face him but stopped short at the first glimpse of his legs, never mind his torso. Right. He was completely naked.
He seemed to realize it at the same time as you, his arm disappearing from you. “There’s extra clothes in my backpack, if you go get them,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You crawled away on your hands and knees to the bag, still where it had landed when he’d thrown it, and pulled out pants and a shirt before closing your eyes and blindly shoving them in his direction. You listened to the rustle of fabrics and the zip of his fly before he said, “I’m decent.”
Peeling your eyes open, you gave him a once over. He was still the same Steve that you’d gotten used to. Still tall and broad, hair dishevelled and long—though yours probably didn’t look much better—a familiar worried frown on his face. He held out a hand to you, which you took, and he pulled you up. “I think it’s time we had a conversation.” He stooped to pick up his bag before turning and striding away, not waiting for you.
Who would have thought he’d be more chivalrous as a wolf?
At least you followed this time, picking your way through the grass. He kept an eye on you in case you slipped. It was a wonder that you didn’t have any cuts across the soles of your feet. For once, you were staying quiet. He wondered if you were marvelling at the sequence of events, too, or if you were just thinking up questions to bombard him with. Knowing you, it was probably the latter.
With the cabin in sight, he ushered you in ahead of him. “Why don’t you go take a shower?” he offered, closing the door behind him. “Water takes a bit to heat up, but you slept on the ground all night.”
“Okay. That sounds like a good idea.” You shuffled off after grabbing your bag and disappeared into the bathroom.
Steve let out a long sigh at your departure. He stood in the kitchen, hands resting heavily on the counter, and let his head hang down as he gathered his thoughts. What exactly could he tell you? The basics, he supposed. But then also, maybe to finally scare you straight, he’d tell you what had happened the first time. Explain to you why he lived out here in the first place. Tell you that while you might have survived last night, that didn’t mean there was any guarantee to survive future transformations. He could still rip you to shreds.
He must have been standing there awhile, lost in his own head, because it felt like it had only been a few minutes before he heard the bathroom door creak open, followed by your footsteps on the wood. The aroma you brought with you was a dizzying blend of your own and his. You had used his soap. Your scent would be all over his towel, too. You were dressed now in what you’d worn yesterday, but he just wanted to pull you close and nuzzle against the hollow of your throat, breathe you in, lick your skin. Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned against the counter. You mirrored him, pressing your back against his old fridge. It was only a little bit taller than you were.
“So… you’re the wolf I’ve been hearing so much about,” you finally said, your arms crossed. You tilted your head as you looked him up and down. “And you let me go on a wild goose chase trying to find you.”
You weren’t upset. Rather, your eyes were alight with interest.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I couldn’t exactly just tell you, could I?”
“I guess not,” you shrugged, “but maybe you could have pretended to lay some bait out or something. You didn’t have to tell me it was you.”
“Well, if I had my way, you never would have found out. I was waiting for you to get bored and give up. I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you.”
“Why is that?”
He waited for you to answer your own question with the obvious: it was dangerous. But instead, you only gazed at him, waiting for his answer.
So, he gave it to you.
Steve didn’t want to go into too much detail, but he thought he still managed to paint a pretty vivid picture. The truth was that yes, he had always been an outdoorsy type. He’d grown up hunting and fishing and hiking. He was familiar with the forests near where he’d used to live. He’d go on weekends alone or with friends. Peggy would never come. It just wasn’t her thing. She was more of a night in type of girl, and Steve had respected that. They both had their own hobbies that they could do alone.
Only one of his solo trips had gone badly. He still didn’t know exactly what had transpired, the events still muddied in his mind. He’d set up a tent like always. Slept for a bit. Been woken up by a noise. He didn’t usually camp in spots that other campers did. He preferred going off the beaten path. That had proven to be a mistake.
An animal attack. He had thought at first it was a bear, smelling the food he’d brought along. But it hadn’t been a bear. He’d never gotten a clear look, but he’d lost a lot of blood and been disoriented as hell when he’d come to. He’d dragged himself to a ranger’s hut and been taken to the hospital. Even the doctors hadn’t been sure. He’d been tested for rabies, amongst other things, and everything had come back clean. He was out in a couple of days.
Steve hadn’t even noticed anything was particularly wrong, at first. But the following month, when he’d decided to brave the outdoors again, Peggy had insisted on coming too. She was afraid of him going alone, after last time.
And so, they’d gone together, and Steve had ignored the itch of agitation in his gut, in his bones. He’d ignored the pull of going even deeper into the forest.
The transformation had taken him by so much surprise, he’d lost sight of what happened until the next morning, when he was human again.
He’d awoken with dried blood crusted on his skin and in his hair. Blood that wasn’t his. Blood that was Peggy’s.
She hadn’t been so lucky to survive such a vicious attack. And Steve had been so in denial, so confused, that he’d held her long after her body had gone cold. It had taken him a very long time to realize that he’d been her attacker.
He didn’t even remember spinning the lie, stammering it out to the rangers, then the officers, then the coroner. That he’d left her there to go hunting, come back to her dead. It was some sort of self-preservation instinct, he thought. And he couldn’t very well say that he had turned into a wild animal and done it himself. He would have been sent to a psychiatric facility. And then what would have happened if he transformed again? And again, and again, and again?
Instead, he’d very quietly packed up his life, moved a few states over, cutting off any friends and family, and built his own prison far away from people, where he couldn’t hurt them. And it had worked.
You listened to his explanation with a hand against your throat, taking it all in. He waited for your eyes to shutter, for you to make your way past him and out the door, to tell him you were going to report him for murder.
But you didn’t seem to grasp that he was giving you a very good reason to run away. When he finished talking, you stayed quiet, like you were mulling it over. Then, slowly, you unfolded your arms from yourself and leaned across the small space between you. Your hands came to rest on his arms. “Thank you for telling me, because I know it wasn’t easy.” He’d never heard you sound so hushed, so serious before.
Here it was, he thought, you’d tell him you understood and that you would stay away. But instead of that, you said, “But you didn’t hurt me. Things might have changed, Steve. You’ve been here by yourself for three years. That’s dozens of transformations. I know your first one was traumatic, but you didn’t know what was happening to you. You do now.”
“That was a fluke,” he said stubbornly. He wished you wouldn’t look at him so empathetically. “I don’t know what happened last night. It’s the first time I haven’t gone hunting as a wolf. I just couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you there on your own.”
“You could have,” you argued, though you were still completely calm. “You could have left me there. But you stayed and you didn’t hurt me. I’ve trusted you from day one, Steve. You’re not going to hurt me. I can stay away from you if you really want me to during full moons, but I think it would be better for you to get used to being around someone when the time comes.”
“Bunny, it’s not that simple. We can’t predict that it’s all gonna be fine from now on. I’m not willing to risk it.”
You sighed, leaning closer. For a horrible moment, he thought you were going to hug him. “I get why you chose to live this way. It’s noble. But I don’t believe that you’re a danger. At least not like you were your first time. I think you’ve had the time out here alone to learn who you are now, and how to handle it.” You were careful, considering, when you added, “How do you know without a doubt that you were the one that hurt Peggy? What if you’d been defending her? Isn’t that a possibility?”
He didn’t have an answer for you, even though you seemed very sure. It made him ache, your unwavering faith. If he hadn’t scared you off last night, hadn’t scared you off now, he didn’t think that anything would. Not until it was too late.
And even though he wanted you to be safe, he couldn’t control what you did. If you wanted to keep showing up after all he’d said, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop you. He’d just have to hope that eventually, you woke up and realized what you were risking by putting yourself in his path.
You started looking at the weather after that. But probably not in the way Steve had wanted. Rather, you were steering yourself toward him in ways that he couldn’t easily prevent. That meant showing up for every bad storm and staying the night and being there, refusing to leave when the full moon was going to be on display. You’d stuck with him for two more transformations. You’d let him leave when he’d wanted to, curling up in his bed with the curtain open to let the moonlight in, and trusted that he wouldn’t come back and tear you limb from limb. And he’d shuffle home in the morning, surprised to see you untouched under his comforter, editing your photos on your laptop. Because falling in love meant sticking by someone even when the odds were stacked against them, even if it was foolish.
Steve’s cabin really wasn’t meant for two people. Some days, it wasn’t even meant for someone of Steve’s size. But you’d started to add your own touches with each visit. Jars of wildflowers. On the nightstand, one of the windowsills, the side table. A shoddy wreath made of twigs, which you’d put on the door. It hung crookedly. The place had long since started to smell like you, as well. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, Steve had started to miss you quite desperately when you weren’t there, despite the danger. A bit of his old self had come back, by letting you in. He wasn’t so blunt. Wasn’t irritated when you dropped in. He’d started keeping things there for you at your request, like tea blends and a change of clothes.
You’d also grown very comfortable touching him. It was the only reason, selfish as it was, that he hadn’t pushed harder to make you leave. If he didn’t greet you at the door, if he was instead sitting on the futon carving a figurine, you’d lean over the back of it, resting your chin on his shoulder to watch for a minute before moving on to deposit whatever you’d brought with you. If he was at the stove, your fingers would clutch at the back of his shirt while you peered around him to see what he was making. You’d put your feet in his lap if you sat together, push at his arm when you laughed, trail your fingers over him if you were walking past. It was intoxicating. Little by little, he’d started to rely on you, to expect you to show up. He’d started to make space for you. It had become a vastly slippery slope, and Steve no longer had any footholds to stop himself from plummeting. He had also begun to find that he didn’t want to. Maybe it was time to bask in the free fall, instead.
Fall had arrived by now, but there were still a few days in mid-September that reached high temperatures by the afternoon. One such day had you floating through the door along with a sweet, warm breeze, and a sparkle in your eye that could only mean trouble.
“Steve, how do you feel about swimming?” you asked, but in an air that was much too casual to really be casual.
He glanced at you sidelong. “I could take it or leave it. Why…?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s going to get too cold to swim soon, and that great big lake isn’t too far from here… I know how to get there from the trails now. Do you wanna come with me?” You picked at invisible lint on your dress. Your trail-inappropriate attire made sense now. The red sundress screamed summertime.
“Bunny, I don’t have anything to swim in.” Steve said honestly, spreading his hands in apology. It was true. A swimsuit had been the absolute last thing on his mind when he’d been fleeing his old life. And any times in the past that had had him braving the lake had been when there was no one around to see him in other only other one he had: that of the birthday suit.
“That’s okay. You don’t need one.”
And now the gleam in your eyes made sense. “If you’re suggesting skinny dipping…” he began with a shake of his head. There was no way on god’s green earth that he would be able to handle you naked. Even less so if he was also naked.
You laughed then. “Aw, Steve, you’re so cute. No, you can wear shorts or your underwear or something. C’mon, please? It’ll be just us. I haven’t gone swimming in so long.”
Your pout should have been illegal. He may have been a literal dog once a month, but you put any semblance of puppy eyes he might have been capable of to shame. “Okay, fine.”
You clapped your hands together, bouncing up and down. “I’ll even leave my camera here, if you’re feeling shy. Wouldn’t want to make you blush,” you said with an exaggerated wink.
It was a fifteen minute walk from the cabin to the far side of the lake. The other side was far enough away that the small set of lake houses wouldn’t be able to spot you. It didn’t really matter, anyway. No one seemed to be on the water today.
You wasted no time at all unzipping your knee-high boots and pulling your dress up over your head, revealing a red and white bikini. Maybe Steve should have said no. He’d seen a lot of you on display before, in your other outfits, but he suddenly felt like he was being lecherous when he stared at you too long. He snapped his jaw shut, glad that you hadn’t seen his open mouth. He could have caught flies, the way he’d been gaping at you. You stared at him expectantly until he kicked off his own shoes and tugged at his shirt, before turning your back to him and tiptoeing your way down to the water’s edge.
His hands paused on the waistband of his shorts while he watched you wade in, until you looked back at him cheekily. “Hurry up!”
And hurry up, he did. He tugged his shorts down as quick as he could, then all but ran into the water. He didn’t want you to see he was beginning to sport a hard-on just from looking at you.
As soon as he was waist deep, you grinned and splashed a big wave of water at him with the back of your hand. “Okay, now come and get me,” you laughed, bobbing away through the water. You weren’t quite deep enough to start swimming yet.
“You want me to chase you?”
“Mhm. You might be faster on land but are you really faster on water?” The mischievous twinkle in your eye was back, and all Steve could do was allow himself to be snared in your web.
He let you take the lead for a little while. You seemed to take great satisfaction in letting him get almost close enough, his fingers skimming your arm, before you’d kick away and cut through the water with a shriek of laughter. It was a sound he still wasn’t quite used to hearing. Even less so, his own laugh, booming across the open space.
When he grew tired of chasing though, he surged forward with a strong push. It was very, very easy to scoop you into his arms while you giggled, your hands on his shoulders as you half-heartedly squirmed away, but he held you fast. His arms locked around your waist, holding you to him. You were slippery, but not so much that he couldn’t keep a firm grasp on you. You relented by tangling your fingers together at the nape of his neck. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get an eyeful of your chest. Not that he minded much.
“Don’t tell me you were going easy on me that whole time,” You were smiling when you complained.
“Okay. I wasn’t going easy on you the whole time.” He repeated it with a grin of his own.
It made you smile impossibly wider. He startled as you ran one of your hands over the back of his head, fingers through his hair. “Oh, I just knew that you were hiding a movie star smile. Very swoon worthy. And you’ve been keeping it a secret under all this facial hair.”
Your other hand came to his face, turning his jaw this way and that, and he let you. “You want me to shave it off?”
“No!” you said too quickly. “Maybe tidy it up a little, but no. don’t get rid of it. I like the rugged look.”
Steve raised his eyebrows at you. You were being honest—he could tell by the look on your face. It was strange to hear such a compliment. Before he’d been changed, he’d always kept to a more clean-cut sort of look. “And your hair, too. Keep it like this. You look very handsome.” Your fingers combed through the strands again.
Steve was suddenly very aware of your body being pressed against his. He shifted his arms, so that one of his hands covered the expanse of your back, your skin hot beneath his fingers. It took no effort for him to hold you like this, your feet nowhere near the sandy bottom of the lake. He’d always been strong, but his transformation had made him even stronger. “Steve?”
“Mmm?” He’d been looking at your mouth already when you’d said his name, saw your tongue move for the st, your teeth graze your lower lip for the v.
He wanted to kiss you. So badly it hurt like a bullet ricocheting between each of his ribs. He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t deserve you. You were too good, too pure, to full of joy to be sullied by his history. He could love you and not do anything about it, he thought. He could love you and continue to see you live. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck. “Steve?” you said his name again, and his eyes finally flickered up to yours. “Did you hear what I said?”
You’d said something other than his name? Now he was lost in your eyes. You seemed to see right through him. He might have called you stupid in the past, might have been callous and tried and push you away, but he knew you were more emotionally sensitive than you let on. You might not have done a very good job being concerned for your own well being, but you were pretty great about caring about his. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“It’s my turn to try to catch you now.” But the way you said it made him wonder if you’d actually asked him something else.
It was just as well, he thought. He should put distance between you. He needed to, before he did something that both of you might regret.
The next full moon was coming. It was bringing cold weather right alongside it. Steve knew that snow wouldn’t be far behind, and he also knew that it would get to a point where it really would be impossible for you to get out here, no matter how badly you wanted to. He’d have to make his one and only trip to the general store soon to stock up. He kept a running list throughout the year, and he’d learned from previous years up here what he would need more of, and what he could do without. He’d explained a little bit of his system to you already, when you’d sweetly asked if there was anything you could get for him that wasn’t available at the store that might be easier to find in town.
It was going to be hard to lose out on seeing you. He found himself entertaining your idea of getting him a satellite phone, too.
The day before he was due to shift, you came by like you had been. You had a jacket on for once. Hell must have frozen over already for you to be wearing one. But as much as Steve was happy to see you, some internal part of him lighting up like a sparkler, he thought that this was really a moon cycle you should have missed out on.
He’d already felt more agitated this time than he had the last few. He didn’t know if it was residual feelings over the upcoming loss of your regular presence, or something else. But he could feel it making the tendons in his hands and jaw jump. He felt it with the way the hair on his arms stood up at the faintest touch of your skin against his. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stick around for this one, bunny.”
You looked at him, puzzled. You’d just started to untie your shoes after following him in. Wind battered against the door. “Why? Is something different this time?”
“I don’t know.” He was fidgeting in the kitchen’s archway. “Yes, something is.”
“Well, all the more reason to stay. I want to help you figure it out.” You put a hand on his arm.
The contact burned. He stepped back from you instantly. You didn’t miss the reaction, and it made your frown deepen. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Steve touched his fingertips to his temples. “I’m worried I’m gonna hurt you. I feel really… wound up. I can’t explain it. Like anything could set me off. You should go, seriously.” He said the last part more firmly.
“I’m not going.” You said, equally firm.
“Bunny. I’m telling you that it’s not a good idea. You said you’d go if I asked. I’m asking.”
“No. You’re scared because you’re confused. That’s not a good reason. I’m here to help you, Steve.”
“Stop coming so close.” He bit out. You’d been taking very miniscule steps towards him, and he’d been matching them by moving backward. But he was about to run out of space. You weren’t even particularly close at the moment, but your scent was catching in the back of his throat like honey.
The realization came over him like a lightbulb turning on.
Lust. That was what was making him act out of order. He wanted to be all over you, which meant you had to go. Steve wanted to be on you, around you, inside you on a regular basis—he was sure that one of the things he’d gained after being bitten was an insane sex drive—but he’d always made do with his hand and a fantasy. Now, the fantasy was standing in front of him in a flimsy shirt and jeans that detailed every curve.
You held a hand up like you were trying to get close to a cornered, frightened animal, which in a way, you were. “Steve, it’s gonna be fine.”
“No, it’s not. You need to go. Would you just listen to me for once?”
“Can you just think rationally for a second? You’ve been completely fine the last few times.”
“God, you’re not listening.” He raked a hand through his hair, wanting to pace, to move, to go to you, to make you leave, to pull you close. “You’re driving me fuckin’ crazy, bunny.” He growled, exasperated.
You took another step. Your smell was all around him now. In his bones, in his skin. His lungs, his heart, his brain. It was too much. Especially with the way you looked at him, all soft eyes and compassion.
“God damn you.” he muttered, before any semblance of holding back withered away. He could no longer help himself when he closed the distance with one step of his long legs, pulling you into a kiss so fierce, it could have had teeth and claws of it’s own.
A tiny part of him felt guilty when he put his hands on your face, tilting your head up to his. In a perfect world, he would have asked your permission. Steve expected you to try and pull away at any second, to smack him and run away. But he also clung to you more tightly, pushing his tongue between your lips, eager to taste you, eager to claim.
It was the shock of his life to realize that you were eager, not repulsed. You jumped—literally—to meet him, your legs fitting around his waist like you’d been formed with him in mind. His hands slid from your face to the backs of your thighs.
He groaned into your mouth as your fingers scrabbled at the collar of his shirt, pulling so hard that he felt the back of it cutting into his neck. This was what he had wanted since before you knew the truth about him. It was a tiny, self-sacrificing reason as to why he’d wanted to push you away. Because you were a storm cloud he knew he wouldn’t mind chasing, if given the chance, in search of rain. And he didn’t think he was allowed rain.
You were intent on proving him wrong. Between scattered kisses, your mouth a bruise on his, you murmured, “Take me to your room now.”
He obeyed, walking blindly through the kitchen and down the tiny hall, careful not to bump your head on the ceiling. He’d had to pause right before the door, unwilling to let go of your for even a second to open it. It was even more difficult with you trailing kisses down one side of his neck, raking your nails across the other side. he hadn’t taken you for a biter, but he was pretty sure he’d find marks on his skin later.
The only reason he didn’t throw you down on the bed was because he didn’t want to break it, or you. But as soon as your back hit the dark green comforter, his hands were roaming across every inch of you. Your shirt was gone in a flurry of fabric. You actually ripped his collar in your haste to pull it over his head. Steve’s scalp stung from you tugging at his hair. Every time he nipped at your collarbone, laving his tongue over the bite afterwards, you’d pull on the strands and sigh. “More.” you moaned, tipping your head back as much as you could.
You needn’t have asked. For every bite you’d given him, Steve marked you with two. Your throat was already beginning to bloom with darker marks, like a haphazard necklace in the shape of his teeth. Even though Steve had fantasized about you many times, he’d never pictured taking you like this. His fingers pushed your bra strap off one shoulder. “Can I…” his lips brushed the curve of your breast.
“Why are you even asking? The answer is yes.” And before he could even do anything about it, you were reaching back behind you and unclasping it, flinging it away from your body like it was contaminated.
You were suddenly half-bare before him, and Steve couldn’t even stop to admire you. Later, he promised. Later, I’ll take my time. Right now, he couldn’t. Right now, he just had to feel every inch of you until he forget everything in the world except your taste and touch and scent.
Your sharp squeal changed to a whimper when he bit down gently on one of your nipples before smoothing his tongue over it and sucking, massaging your other breast with one of his large hands. “Oh, god,” you breathed. Your fingers had a vicelike grip on his hair, and he didn’t care.
Your other hand patted at his chest before travelling down his abdomen. It made him shiver. He’d never put on a belt, so you went straight to work on the button of his jeans. He did the same for you, peeling yours down by their belt loops. One popped loose from its stitching in his haste, before he was kicking is own off.
Your panties were soaked through at the center. The baby pink fabric did nothing to hide it at all, especially not when you parted your legs, biting your lip as you looked at him.
“Are you—”
You cut him off by pulling at the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t even think about asking me if I’m sure. I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for months.”
You weren’t shy at all about sticking your hand down the front and squeezing the base of his cock. “Do me now. Don’t make me wait anymore.”
“Jesus Christ, bunny.”
He almost saw nirvana just from the feeling of your hand around him. “Steve.”
“Fuck, okay.”
It seemed his shirt wasn’t the only thing that had finished being useful, because your panties met the same fate. He quite literally tore them from your hips. You both heard the soft rip of the fabric. You squeezed your hand around him again and he took a shuddering breath before cupping your pussy. His thumb rolled a lazy circle around your clit, just so he could see you squirm. Your legs jumped when you whined. “Now. Now, now, now. Please.”
His boxers were gone a second later, and he replaced your hand with his own, rubbing some of your slick over his cock. You only watched, your bottom lip red and plump between your teeth. “Are you really sure?” He asked—he couldn’t help it, even as he rubbed the head of his cock over your folds.
You sat up on your elbows then. “Do I need to be on top?” You said it like it was a threat, but really it sounded like a gift.
“Maybe next time.”
You had likely had some sort of retort on the tip of your tongue, but it dissolved into one loud, long groan, your eyes squeezing shut, as he pushed in. He’d only done the tip and already you were pulsing around him in a way that had him white-knuckling the bedspread next to your hip. “Not there yet,” He grunted, pushing deeper.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” You were chanting with your head thrown back, like you really were praying to a higher being.
Bottoming out was bliss like Steve had never felt before in his life. You were squeezing around him like you planned to keep him there for good. He pulled out nice and slow, relishing in the easy slide, before slamming back in so forcefully you jolted up the bed a little.
And then you were off to the races. His hips snapped against yours while his teeth landed on your neck. Your nails were ten tiny brands in his shoulders. He just wanted more of you, all of you. More of your noises, more of your reactions, your legs tight on his waist. He wanted to sear himself into your skin and it seemed like you were trying to do the same. You couldn’t stop touching him. Your hands kept moving from his shoulders to his ribs to his neck, like you couldn’t decide where to hold on, like you’d lost the ability to form an opinion.
But still, Steve wanted more.
He slowed down enough to pry your legs from him. He glanced up only to see confusion overtaking ecstasy. He supposed he was about to see how flexible you were.
He pulled out with a wet pop!, his cock smacking against his stomach. Your wetness was dripping off him and onto the bed. You whined out his name with a petulant look. “Why did you—”
“Trying something.”
He pulled your legs up to your chest before having you put your hands under your knees to keep them up, to keep you open. His dick twitched at the sight of you spread apart for him. He wanted to devour you. But he wanted to be inside you more. “Hold on for me, bunny. Atta girl.” Your eyes filled with tears when he entered you a second time. “Feels good?” He was panting, breath fanning across your mouth.
“S—so good, Steve.”
If he’d thought he was deep before, he’d been wrong. Now his cock was kissing your cervix with every thrust, and you couldn’t contain any of the noises you were making. You were loud, unashamed, and gorgeous. The tears in your eyes spilled, sliding down your temples, but he caught one on his tongue before it went too far. He couldn’t help it. He wanted everything you had to offer. You couldn’t hold onto him, folded in half as you were, and he cradled your face with one hand, the other holding him up. You tilted your cheek into his palm, nuzzling like a kitten.
It was that, and that alone, that had him saying, “I’m gonna come.” He had you in a position that exposed you to him completely, but it was the tenderness of your eyes that really did him in.
“Together?” you breathed.
“Mhm, together.”
It was with reluctance that he stopped touching your face to rub furious circles on your clit. You came a split second before he did, clenching down on him for all he was worth, and then he was spilling into you with a force he’d never known. Each squeeze from you sent another wave from him until you were both breathing so heavily, he thought one of you might pass out. He only stopped thumbing at your clit when you dropped one of your legs to weakly bat at his hand, and he settled it across your stomach, pressing down. You let out a small, choked cry. “Oh, fuck.”
“You’re so full.”
“Yeah…” There was no longer a thought behind those eyes of yours. “So full. So good.”
It made Steve smile, to see you so fucked out. He’d done that. He’d made you feel so good that you couldn’t even think anymore. And to think he’d wanted to turn you away for safety’s sake. He no longer felt any of the agitation that he had before, even as he looked at the uneven chain of hickeys across your throat. He’d definitely left impressions of his teeth in a couple of spots.
He kept his hand on your belly for a moment longer before pulling back and out. His cum spilled out of you in a steady drip. At least he finally had a use for his ripped shirt. He was gentle as he wiped you clean, then dropped it over the side of the bed. He could have gone again, he was sure, but you were clearly done for now. Instead, he settled next to you, pulling you close, curling around you like he’d done when he’d been a wolf. You both stared at the ceiling.
Finally, you’d returned to yourself enough that you murmured, “See? You didn’t hurt me. You need to trust yourself. Because I trust you.” Your speech was slurred.
But it was the first time Steve was convinced that maybe you had a point.
It was still hard for Steve to believe that you weren’t in any danger around him, but it was easier than he’d thought, too.
You talked about it at length the first couple of days after you’d slept together. You hadn’t really wanted to leave, and he hadn’t wanted you to. You were amazed that he’d never sought out any others like him. Neither of you believed that the wolf attack had been a normal wolf. There had to be more people suffering from his same problem. You thought that maybe it was time he tried. “I don’t even know where to look,” he admitted finally.
It was late at night, the window in the bedroom just slightly cracked open. You were both laying facing each other, his hand a gentle graze up and down your spine. Your fingers drummed against his chest. “I’m not suggesting you go right away, but maybe you need to go back to that forest. The one where you were bitten. That’s where it all started. If not there, then one near it. We know for sure that wolves like you were around at one point.” You smoothed your hand over his heart when you looked at him through your lashes. “I know that it might be traumatic for you. And I won’t come if you don’t want me to. But I think that’s the best place to start.”
He settled against his pillow and tucked you closer, your head fitting under his chin. “Maybe in the spring.”
He wasn’t ready to face it yet. And the harsh weather was going to be rolling in to stay soon, anyway. But maybe in the spring, he’d have wrestled with the idea for long enough to feel good about it. Your nose brushed against his throat, and you placed a kiss against his skin a moment later. “Whatever you decide, you know I’m with you every step of the way.”
It took a little persuading from you, but Steve agreed to come to town with you. Not just the edge of it, or the road just off the main one where the general store was. But right into town, where you lived and worked the most frequently. And he wasn’t just going for fun, either. It was a date.
He’d felt nervous like a teenager again. You’d come to get him, but he’d met you at the lot where you usually parked, not wanting you to venture all the way into the forest. You were wearing a dress he’d never seen before, this one an ocean blue slip of silk, peeking out under a wool coat. The bitter temperatures had already fallen into effect. Your hair fell in loose waves around your face, coming free from its clip. He suddenly felt very underdressed in his plaid button up and jeans, but they were the nicest of his clothes. He only got more nervous as you drove. “Should I have cleaned up more?” He asked, watching you.
Your tongue stuck out of the corner of your mouth as you frowned at the rearview mirror—you were trying to execute a somewhat dicey parallel park. But your eyes flicked to him for a brief moment, one of your hands leaving the wheel to touch his leg. “I told you never to shave the beard. I like the rugged look, remember? My wolfman.” That was accompanied with a sweet smile, and he felt a rush of heat not only to his face, but to his groin, too.
Once you were satisfied with your parking job, you turned to him, leaning across the console. Your fingertips danced over his jaw when you kissed him. “You ready to go in?”
The restaurant you had parked in front of was a study of dim lighting. He could see it through the window—the hanging lamps were made of mason jars. It was now or never, he supposed. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Steve was surprised it was going so well. There’d been a bit of fumbling around with the wine menu—he hadn’t had a drink in years—but the rest of it had been fairly simple, no over the top dishes in sight. And it hadn’t been too busy, either. The waiter kept to the shadows, only passing by your table once during the meal. And through the whole thing you’d kept your easy smile, your foot brushing against one of Steve’s ankles. The lighting might have been dim, but it didn’t dull the sparkle in your eyes.
As much as Steve was relieved that this outing hadn’t been a total disaster—a small part of him had been afraid you only worked together because of the seclusion—he didn’t feel ready to venture into town at will, not yet. He said as much to you when you asked. He wasn’t ready to abandon the cabin, either, even though it really was too small for both of you and didn’t have half the amenities he knew you’d prefer.
You looked at him over the table, your plate empty, and rested your knife and fork neatly across its surface. “Why don’t we compromise?”
He didn’t know what you meant, not right away. But after eating, you took him by the hand and got in the car. You drove him all the way through the town’s center before turning off one of the side roads. You drove for twenty minutes. It was the complete opposite side of town that you’d come from, the side he was most familiar with. The road itself was pretty bumpy, unpaved. But you stopped eventually at a circular driveway.
At first, Steve thought you were just taking him to the edge of town because you thought he’d be more comfortable there. But you got out and rounded the car to his side, until he climbed out to join you. You pulled him a little ways away, to a cluster of trees. “I’m not saying that it’s the perfect solution, but…”
You trailed off. That was when he saw, under the shade of some evergreens, a small stone cottage. It was bigger than his cabin all the way around, with rounded windows. Lavender and ivy had begun to creep up one of its sides. The pathway up to it was made of tiny pebbles. The lawn needed work. But the cottage was big enough for two without being overwhelming. It was far away from people, trees surrounding it. No, it wasn’t perfect. But Steve was moved by it all the same.
His stunned silence made you ramble. “I’m not saying this is the one, but I went looking around. There’re a few places like this one around here. Some are newer, some need a lot of TLC. But they have what we’d both want in a place.” You pulled your coat tighter around yourself. “It’s just a thought,” you added quickly. “I’m not trying to move too fast.”
He pulled you closer by your hips and kissed your forehead, then your mouth. “You can move as fast as you like, bunny. I’m with you.”
Winter had not splintered your relationship like Steve had feared, though it had been a real bitch to try and clear enough snow to let you through the forest and to the cabin. It was what made him finally unearth his rusty blue truck from where he’d hidden it under tarps and dead branches on a different trail. He’d been surprised it still worked. But it was easier for him to drive down to yours, to brave the town and stay at your apartment with you, than it was for you to come to him. And he found he didn’t mind staying in town so much when you were wrapped around him like a blanket. It was infinitely better when you’d come home after a shoot, shaking snow from your hair and your clothes and your boots, and he’d have dinner ready. Something simple, but less so than what he’d ever been able to put together at the cabin. And you’d eat on the couch, then tear his clothes off. Sometimes you didn’t even make it to the bed. Once, he was pretty sure the bakery across the street had seen you pressed against the window.
But afterwards, you would cuddle up against him in your bed, and put Star Wars on the projector, and you’d always fall asleep by the time the Millennium Falcon came into play.
By the following fall, you’d said goodbye to that apartment. You were waking up next to him in the countryside in an old farmhouse. It was half an hour from town, with wide open fields on either side, and a forest beyond. It needed a lot of work, but you’d revelled in taking all the before shots of it. The coffee table was blanketed by paint swatches. It was probably going to take a few years to finish. Steve had kept the cabin, though he really only stayed there in the summer months, now. He was still looking for answers about what had happened. But he hadn’t had a single accident. None of his transformations had recreated what had happened with Peggy. He was beginning to wonder if your theory was right.
He was just glad to be able to wake up next to you every morning and not have to feel fear and dread that he was going to hurt you. It was still in the back of his mind—it always would be, he suspected—but each passing day made him feel less and less afraid.
The part of the farmhouse you’d started on first, after getting the roof fixed, was the living room. The stone fireplace had been a joint effort to repair, but it fit in nicely with the burnt orange shade of the walls, the big leather couch, the cozy rug. The mantel was cut from a poplar tree, shaped by Steve and stained by you. One of his wooden figurines claimed the space on top. And right above it, in a simple black frame, was one of your photographs.
You’d gotten the picture you’d gone into the forest for. A wolf, your wolf with watchful eyes and a gleaming coat, standing on an overhang overlooking the lake. You’d decided not to put it in your portfolio.
Apparently a lot of people get dialogue punctuation wrong despite having an otherwise solid grasp of grammar, possibly because they’re used to writing essays rather than prose. I don’t wanna be the asshole who complains about writing errors and then doesn’t offer to help, so here are the basics summarized as simply as I could manage on my phone (“dialogue tag” just refers to phrases like “he said,” “she whispered,” “they asked”):
“For most dialogue, use a comma after the sentence and don’t capitalize the next word after the quotation mark,” she said.
“But what if you’re using a question mark rather than a period?” they asked.
“When using a dialogue tag, you never capitalize the word after the quotation mark unless it’s a proper noun!” she snapped.
“When breaking up a single sentence with a dialogue tag,” she said, “use commas.”
“This is a single sentence,” she said. “Now, this is a second stand-alone sentence, so there’s no comma after ‘she said.’”
“There’s no dialogue tag after this sentence, so end it with a period rather than a comma.” She frowned, suddenly concerned that the entire post was as unasked for as it was sanctimonious.
Content: alternate universe (Bucky doesn't have a vibranium left arm or super soldier serum), age gap (he is about 15 years older than the reader), skinny dipping, drinking/drunkenness, teasing, flirting, grumpy/sunshine trope, reader is described as being smaller than Bucky, suggestive comments, kissing, fade to black
Word Count: 8k
Synopsis: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.
Author's Note: I'm excited to share my contribution to Bucky's Dreamhouse collab with the awesome @stantastic-association. Many thanks to @miraclediviner for making this collaboration possible. You are ever the organizer and we all appreciate your hard work. Thank you to @buckybarnes82 for the beta read. ILY. I know nothing about being a park ranger. Don’t come after me. These are strictly ✨ vibes ✨
My Masterlist | Bucky’s Dreamhouse Masterlist
Read on AO3
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 15
I was promised no more rookies. No more having to mentor these bright-eyed newbies anymore. HR begged me to take on just one more this summer, so I caved. I meet the kid on Monday. I'd better get hazard pay.
Items of note: Southwest Trail full of stacked rock markers. Disassembled and returned to correct environment. Damn tourists.
After working your ass off earning your degree in conservation and ecology, you’re ready to put your skills to the test and hit the ground running at Buchanan National Park. Instead, you’re stuck in a summer-long training program with the world’s grumpiest man. And you forgot to pack your lunch. You usually have such great luck. Maybe you’ve reached your limit. All those late nights studying, early mornings running across campus to make your lab class, and countless “environmentally friendly” takeout coffee cups have culminated in this. Yes, the park offers stunning views and you don’t have to sit beneath fluorescent lights in a depressing cubicle all day, but your “mentor” leaves much to be desired. Ranger Barnes is the epitome of bitter coffee, furrowed brows, and snarky comments. Can too much fresh air make a person a cynic? You hope not. How can someone who spends all day every day out in the sunshine under blue skies have such a sour attitude? Was he born frowning? Is his face stuck that way? It’s beyond you. He’s worse than a bear in search of his first meal after a long hibernation. It’s only week two. How are you supposed to put up with this for nearly two months?
"Don't forget your logbook, Rookie," he grumbles as he shoves a protein bar and a few clementines in his pack. You watch him zip the bag with ease and set it on a nearby counter.
"Sure thing, Vet," you grumble back. Your nicknames are not at all contentious or uttered with malice. Not at all. Ha. "What's on the agenda today? Ooooh, are we going to yell at tourists for not following park rules? Maybe we’ll get to pick up X-rated litter at the campsites? Or–oh!–you'll even show me the firewatch station? The weather is going to be perfect today, you know."
"We'll see, kid," he mumbles, lacing up his hiking boots with a grunt.
You roll your eyes, tired of his incessant attitude and the unnecessary nickname. Kid. Blech. You're twenty-three, not a child. And if you had to guess, he's at least ten years older than you, maybe more, but still not old enough to call you a kid. You say your name in response, willing him to call you by it instead of the irritating moniker. He nods, but doesn’t apologize.
James "Bucky" Barnes has been a park ranger for nearly sixteen years, and he has the scars and stories to prove it. Newbies tend to romanticize the gig, and his personal mission is to beat the optimism out quickly and quietly—preferably over a Thermos of hot coffee on a cliff side. But you, optimistic little you, were having none of it. Like a wild stallion he just can’t break, you show up everyday with that damned smile plastered across your face, always always armed with some baked goods you've whipped up the night before and a random nature anecdote in the chamber. Today’s is about how direct sunlight on the skin can decrease cortisol levels in the body.
"I made banana bread," you say, pulling the wrapped loaf out of your backpack. “I forgot my lunch, so I’m stealing a piece for our break.”
Bucky smirks knowingly. Like clockwork. "Great. Bears are gonna love you today," he replies.
You scoff. "Don't pretend you don't eat up every last crumb at the end of your shift. I watched you lick the plate clean when I brought that blueberry cheesecake last week." It was amazing. You’d used blueberries from your home garden. They were perfectly round and juicy.
"I was hungry. We hiked all over the damn park that day!" He retorts with a huff.
Such a huffy, grumbly human. "You're probably just getting old," you reply with a shrug and a smirk. "Tiring out faster than you did in your prime. When do you qualify for Medicare again? You must be getting close.”
“Ha-ha,” Bucky faux laughs and grimaces, silently wincing at the idea of you thinking he's past his prime. He turns away from you toward the mirror above the utilitarian sink. The ranger's cabin near the entrance of the park serves as a break room/locker storage/First Aid area with an emergency eye wash station. His reflection shows a few shining grays highlighting his temples and chin. You're not wrong about him being older, but he doesn’t agree with being past his prime. In fact, he feels like he’s just cresting that hill. And he’s definitely not eligible for fucking Medicare anytime soon.
Teasing your pissy mentor has quickly become a highlight of your day, and you giggle under your breath as he inspects himself in the mirror with an appraising look. You change from your slip-on Birks to one of your favorite pairs of hiking socks: sky blue with jump-roping avocados. Bucky turns back toward you and subtly rolls his eyes at your ridiculous socks before throwing on his backpack.
“Do you ever have any fun? Or do you get your kicks from sucking it out of whatever room you happen to be in?" You ask as you pull on your boots with an oomph.
“Hmm,” he watches you and pretends to mull it over, scratching his fingers through the stubble on his chin. "The second one. Fun-sucking."
You send a tight-lipped frown his way as you lace up your boots and rearrange a few things in your pack. You always feel like a kid on the first day of school when you put it on–two thumbs through the loops as you smile enthusiastically at the beautiful day outside. You’re ready for whatever magic the park decides to show you today.
Bucky glances at the banana bread on the communal counter and back at your pack. "You're not going to bring more than a piece with you? Won’t you get hungry?"
"Did you not point out earlier that I'd be eaten alive by the rabid bears that inhabit the park if I take that out of the wrapping?"
He shakes his head. "Dramatic much?"
You click your tongue and smile. "Only because I know it gets under your skin, old man."
He makes a mental note to pack some extra food with his lunch tomorrow in case you forget again. Rolling his shoulders with a big sigh, he declares, "You're gonna kill me before I retire."
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 29
The Rookie is going to kill me. This job is going to break her heart. She's too optimistic, too impressionable. I need to have a serious talk about burnout and managing expectations.
Items of note: Picked up litter left by an unsanctioned campsite. At least they used protection. Insane banana bread. Buy better sun protection-do I look old?
An official summer kick-off party with the other rangers is not Bucky’s definition of fun, but you, little ball of incessant sunshine, assured him that it would be a great time, stating that it’s important for elderly people to get out of their homes and interact with others. It keeps the mind sharp and the hips groovin’. He’d rolled his eyes at that, but you peeped his mouth turned up slightly at the corner–a crack in his invisible shield.
“You never come to these things,” Alex, a fellow ranger, pokes at Bucky as you two sit on a wooden picnic bench under some string lights. The bar hosting the event is rustic with a touch of mountain-town charm that’s hard to pin down.
“Yeah, well, this one convinced me with her feminine trickery,” he huffs, scratching at the sweaty label on his bottle of Coors.
You laugh and roll your eyes. “The feminine trickery was the homemade tiramisu I brought on Thursday,” you inform Alex swiftly. “He has a sweet tooth. I simply played to his weakness. And now, Bucky, you get to relax and recharge to the sounds of cicadas and John Denver. Don’t forget to thank me!”
“Not happenin’,” he grunts as he takes a drink of beer.
Alex laughs and offers his drink up in cheers. You clink yours against it. “No, seriously,” he starts, “I haven’t seen Barnes at one of these work parties in… damn, have I ever seen you at one? So, whatever you’re doing, keep it up, new girl!” He waves you both off with a salute as he heads inside to the bar.
“See, I told you that people want you here,” you say, shifting your attention back to Bucky. “They look up to you, Vet.”
“It’s not that I think people don’t want me here,” he starts. “I guess I’m just more of a solo guy.”
“That’s called a loner, Bucky,” you say with a friendly wink. “Alone time is important. I don’t want you to think I’m knocking solitude, but being around people can be nice too.”
He nods like he agrees and notices your nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking?”
You look from him to your empty glass and back again. “A Sea Breeze.”
“Sea breeze?” He repeats for confirmation with a furrowed brow. “Now what the hell is that?”
You laugh at his antics and list the juicy ingredients in the cocktail. He stands up and motions for you to hand him your empty glass. “Here. I got your next fruity little drink, Rookie.”
“Okay,” you smile, giving him the glass. “But only if you get one too. Don’t be a fruity little drink hater, Bucky.”
He swishes around the remnants of the drink and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sugar.”
“Tastes even better,” you quip.
He narrows his eyes at you and notices where your tinted Chapstick has transferred to the glass. He lifts the same spot to his lips and takes a sip of the watered down drink. Your stomach heats at the intimate gesture. Or maybe it’s the alcohol.
“It’s sweet,” he says. “I’ll get one for myself if you take a shot of tequila with me.”
Your eyes widen in shock. “Bucky Barnes, resident loner and fun sucker, wants to do shots? Has Hell frozen over?”
“I don’t want to do shots,” he corrects with a raised brow. “I want to do one shot with the Rookie. You in?”
“I’m in.”
Bucky isn’t sure when one shot turned into three, but now the fireflies are starting to look a bit angelic, like little glowing halos floating around the purple night sky. “Hell did freeze over,” he chuckles. “There’s tiny angels everywhere.”
You smirk and laugh. “Bucky, are you drunk?”
“Mmm…” he thinks it over, looking at you with a slightly glazed expression. “Just a little buzzed. Don’t you have socks with fireflies on them?” He asks, looking under the picnic table. You snap your legs together.
“I’m wearing a dress, Bucky! Eyes up here.”
His face turns an even deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry. I was looking for your cute socks.”
“I’m wearing sandals, Ranger. No cute socks tonight.” You say the last part with a pointed look. Bucky never says things like that. He’s always extremely professional, albeit grumpy as fuck. Get a few drinks in the guy and all of a sudden he turns to pudding.
“I wasn’t trying to look up your dress,” he reiterates, clearly embarrassed.
“I know!” You assure him. “We’re colleagues.”
“Right,” he mutters, looking out at the slowly emptying parking lot.
Before you can dig more into whatever that exchange was, some more coworkers, Natalie and Anton, skip over with handfuls of tiny glasses… full of some type of clear liquid.
“A round on us!” Natalie practically shouts. She’s tipsy and adorable. Anton holds out a glass for you and Bucky.
“To say thank you for helping us with the Junior Ranger camping fiasco last week,” Anton adds, looking fairly sober. Ah, the Junior Ranger camping fiasco. Who knew that flushing a tampon was going to wreak havoc on the entire education cabin? What began as an instructional lecture about what to do if you encounter a bear turned into how to properly dispose of feminine products. Preteens.
You hold a hand up to the offered shot. “That’s so sweet, but I’m feeling good after a couple glasses of water. I can’t.”
“More for me!” Natalie says, downing your shot.
Bucky takes his, clinking it against Anton’s, and downs it. He hisses at the heat of the alcohol and mutters a thank you.
“See you guys at CPR training next month!” Anton shouts over his shoulder as they stagger back into the bar.
“CRP training… I forgot about that…” Bucky mutters, sitting down heavily on his side of the picnic table. He’s clearly drunk. You glance over at his truck and frown. You’re going to have to get him an Uber.
“Bucky? Are you okay with an Uber? I can reserve one for you. You can’t drive,” you say, reaching across the table to get his attention. He sways a bit and smiles.
“You can’t drive,” he chuckles.
“I’m fine to drive. I switched to water after we took a shot together,” you tell him as you pull up the rideshare app on your phone. “Eighty nine dollars? For economy? Christ…” You look up at him, but his eyes are already on you. He’s smiling and a small giggle-like sound erupts from his chest.
“Keys are in my pocket, Rookie,” he slurs. “Come get them.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Bucky. We can take my car. Just don’t throw up in it or you’re paying to get it detailed! We can pick up your truck in the morning.”
“Mmkay,” he agrees easily. “Whatever ya say, cutie patoots.”
“Good lord. Can you walk?” You ask with a grimace. You’re not sure you can support his weight back to your vehicle. He’s much broader and taller than you.
“I can walk,” he utters. “C’mon.”
You offer him a friendly arm, and he loops through yours. “Are you okay?”
“Mhmm.”
He manages to walk fairly steadily back to your Subaru. You help him fold his large body into the passenger seat and buckle him in. Alex walks up as you shut the car door. You offer him a weak smile. “Gotta get this one back to his place. Any idea where he lives?”
“Not a clue. He’s so private,” Alex says. “You sure you’re okay to drive and get him home?”
You tsk. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Drive safe.”
“You too.”
You get into the car and buckle up before turning to ask Bucky for his address, but he’s out cold.
“Damn it, Barnes!” You yell, but he doesn’t even stir. To your place it is.
The drive is quick and quiet since your driving companion is currently passed out with his mouth slightly ajar. You pull into your parking spot and thank God that you live on the first floor because you have no idea how you’d get this larger than life man up a flight of stairs.
“Bucky?” You ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt. No answer. You shake his arm. “Bucky?” You yell. “Ranger Barnes!” Louder this time.
“Huh?” He rouses, eyes slowly opening and taking in his surroundings. He looks around the unfamiliar car interior and then slowly turns to you. “Oh, hi sunshine.”
“Feeling more like an annoyed rain cloud right now,” you offer. “You’re going to sleep on my couch, okay?”
“Couch. Yeah.”
“Let’s go, old man.”
The state of your apartment is a work in progress to put it mildly. Half open boxes are strewn about. You moved here at the start of the summer, right after graduation, but you’d started at the park at the same time. Days have been long, so it’s been hard to keep momentum and your energy levels up to get fully unpacked.
“You’re messy,” Bucky says, looking around the place on unsteady legs.
“You are the bigger mess right now,” you snarl. “There’s the couch.”
He plops onto it quickly while you grab him a clean blanket and pillow. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch when you get back, just staring at your ceiling. You hand him the bed linens and stand back, crossing your arms.
“I’ll take you back to your truck in the morning,” you say.
“Mmkay,” he agrees with a sleepy voice as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.
“Night, Bucky.”
“Night angel lightning bug.”
You sigh and head to your bedroom. What a night.
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 8
She hasn't exiled me for her having to drive my drunk ass home after the work party. I'm such a dumbass. And I can't get the vanilla smell of the blanket she threw at me out of my nose. So warm. So her. God damn it.
Items of note: Soil samples today. Google what's in a Sea Breeze besides shame and regret.
The forecast is predicting a high in the mid-nineties today, so you packed your swimsuit in the hopes of taking a dip in the crystal clear lake you spotted a couple weeks ago. It’s secluded, clean, and deep enough to actually enjoy a swim in the cool water.
Bucky is in a better mood than usual today, and has honestly been more friendly overall since the night you let him couch surf. He was awkward as hell the next morning–all apologies and fancy takeout coffee. You assured him it was fine, and definitely didn’t bring up all the pet names he called you when he was out of his right mind. Maybe you remind him of an old flame, but you know it didn’t mean anything. It’s best to just keep trucking until you’re done with this summer training and finally, blissfully on your own. But today, you blame his good mood on your famous fruit salad. You brought it one day last week and it was devoured by lunchtime. You made a huge bowl for everyone again, but this time you made a separate, smaller one for Bucky without the kiwi. You noticed him picking the tiny green chunks out last time.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says as he forks another mouthful of the fruit into his mouth. Some juice dribbles down his lip and he licks it up. “I can just eat around them.”
You shrug. “It’s no trouble. Plus, maybe I only made you your own bowl to sweet talk you into finally showing me the firewatch tower. It’s called an ulterior motive, or you know… feminine trickery.”
He laughs genuinely before rolling his eyes and spearing a strawberry. “I know what an ulterior motive is. And I stand by the trickery sentiment.”
“So… firewatch tower?” You ask with pleading eyes. You can’t place why, but you’ve been drawn to the tower since your first shift. It has an otherworldly, slightly spooky aura to it, like anything could happen up there. Maybe you are just excited by heights.
“Maybe,” he replies. “If you behave.”
“Maybe?! I made a special bowl of fruit salad sans kiwi for you, Mr. Picky. Show me the tower!”
He laughs and washes his bowl in the sink before filling up two stainless steel bottles with ice water and putting them in his pack.
“Are you super thirsty today or something?” You ask, nodding toward his backpack. “Ooh, did you meet a milf at the bar and drink one too many Sea Breezes?”
“A milf? Jesus, no,” he says with a frown. “It’s going to be really hot today so we need to stay hydrated. I can carry more weight in my pack than you.”
Oh. He packed you an extra water bottle. How… thoughtful. He’s usually all survival of the fittest. “Well, thanks, but I can handle an extra bottle. You don’t have to–”
He tightens the straps of his pack and stands up straight, looking you in the eye while he cuts you off. “I had a former rookie pass out from heat stroke on a trail a few summers back. I don’t want that to happen again, especially…” he trails off before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re in C sect today and the Gator is in the shop for repairs, so we have a long trek on foot.”
“Okay, let me lace up my boots,” you say, quickly plopping down on the wooden bench.
Bucky notes your socks today: bananas wearing fedoras and carrying briefcases. “Where do you even find those?” He nods toward your feet–one sock on, one foot still bare. His eyes flit from the bright orange polish on your toes to your concentrated face. The tip of your tongue pokes out between your front teeth as you pull the other sock on.
“My cute socks?” You ask, wondering if he remembers calling them that.
“Sure, I guess.”
You laugh and nod, not sure if he’s playing it off or really doesn’t remember. “My brother gets me a pair for my birthday and Christmas every year. We like to get each other silly, but useful things.”
Bucky smiles. “So what do you get him?”
You pull on your boots and start lacing up. “He’s a lawyer so he has to wear ties and fancy clothes to work. I get him vintage cuff links, bow-ties, pocket squares… that kind of thing. I like to find them at thrift shops, estate sales, you know. The crazier the pattern or style, the better. It must run in our genes to like loud accessories. I once found a pair of cuff links that were tiny bottles of Yoohoo. He loves those."
Bucky chuckles. “How thoughtful. That’s a nice tradition.”
You finish tying your boots.
“C’mon, Rook. Let’s get going.”
After a few hours and miles in, you have to admit that Bucky was right–you are beyond thankful for that extra icy cold water bottle he packed this morning. It’s toasty outside, but thankfully nearly time for lunch. You’ve already finished your first bottle of water, and your throat thanks you as you drink from the second. You sit down on a bench under a covered shelter spot with a few picnic benches, relishing the shade as you check your watch.
Bucky sees you check the time. “We can break early and eat in the shade,” he says, starting to unzip his backpack more. There’s a line of sweat staining his shirt where the pack was sitting against his spine.
“Oh, thank goodness. I’m roasting,” you say. You sigh and look around, realizing exactly where you are. “Actually, I’m going to eat lunch in a bit. I want to walk down to that lake and take my break there if that’s okay.”
“Lac nu?” He asks with a smirk as he takes the lid off his lunch.
You tilt your head, confused. “Is that the name of the lake?” You suppose you hadn’t noticed a sign the last time you were in the area.
Bucky nods slowly, crunching into a carrot.
“Okay, well, I’m going to Lack New or whatever it’s called for my break. I’ll be back in an hour,” you say as you saunter off. He gets so weirdly quiet sometimes. He’s hard to read.
“Watch out for snakes,” he says loudly before he laughs under his breath. He watches you walk away as he bites into another carrot and his tongue. “Damn it!”
Bucky finishes his lunch quickly and picks up some nearby litter before checking his watch–still forty-five minutes before lunch is over. He always ate too fast from working up an appetite logging miles in the park. He fans himself with his logbook and undoes the top button of his brown uniform shirt.
“Ah, fuck it,” he grunts as he slings his pack over one shoulder and follows your path down to the small lake. He normally doesn’t swim in the park because he doesn’t want to interact with dumb tourists, but he doubts anyone will be down there but you. Even though you’re way more chipper than a normal human, you know how to appreciate the park’s beauty without ruining the ecosystem or leaving your mark behind.
The sunlight streams through the surface of the water into the lake below, painting sparkles across the rocky bottom as you swim beneath the clear veneer. The water is lukewarm and doing a magnificent job of cooling you off. You turn and start to float on your back, closing your eyes to the sun for several moments. When you move upright to start another lap, you let out a squeal at Bucky standing on the grassy lake shore.
He holds his hands up in defense with a small smirk. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You laugh out a sigh in relief that it’s just him. “It’s fine. Just glad I’m not getting axe murdered!” You say as you tread water, letting your head bob above the water. He looks from you to your discarded uniform shoved into your unzipped pack and back again.
“How’s the water?” He asks as he drops his backpack on the grass next to yours.
“It’s perfect, actually,” you smile, readjusting the strap of your swimsuit. “Are you coming in?”
His eyes follow your hand across your shoulder back down under the water. “Would you mind? I don’t have swim trunks, though, so maybe I’ll just put my feet in.”
“Oh, get in here. A little skinny dip never hurt anyone,” you tease with a laugh.
“Uh, okay. You’d better turn around unless you want a show.”
You spin around in the water and make a dramatic show of covering your eyes even though you’re facing the other direction. “Just social distance from me, old man.”
He huffs as he undresses quickly, tossing his clothing in a heap at his feet before wading into the lake. It is perfect. When he’s certain his manhood is hidden beneath the water he calls out to you. “Okay, I’m in. Just don’t look down.”
“Wait, are you seriously naked? I was just joking about skinny dipping!” You shout.
“Well, I seriously don’t have swim trunks, so…”
“Oh,” you say and swallow before spinning around and putting a bit more distance between your two bodies. You decide to trek forward with the conversation and ignore the elephant (Or was it more like a mouse? Stop, brain. Why are you thinking about it?) in the lake. “The water’s nice, huh?”
“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement. His hand comes up above his eyes to shade the sun from his vision as he looks at you. “You know it’s called Lac nu, right? Not Lack New.” He says the former with a French accent and the latter with a slightly offensive American South one.
“What are you talking about?” You ask, perplexed.
“This lake,” he starts, waving a pointer finger around the area. “It’s called Lac nu. It translates to Naked Lake.” He says the last part with a breathy laugh and flicks some water at you.
You snort and roll your eyes. “I guess I’m breaking the rules then?”
“I won’t tell,” he says with a playful wink.
“I think there’s probably a spot in the employee handbook about this,” you joke.
“Skinny dipping?” He asks.
“No, winking at me when you’re naked,” you say with a giggle.
He chuckles and dips lower into the water before dipping his head under to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, your eyes trace the beads of water racing down his neck.
“You’re in a good mood today,” you say, swimming in a circle around him, always keeping your eyes above the water. “What’s the occasion?”
Bucky lets out a sarcastic “ha-ha” and blows water droplets from his lips before dipping back under the water. You watch his eyes open under the surface and drop your jaw as he resurfaces.
“Did you just… sneak a peek?” You ask, pretending to be scandalized. You hold your arms around your body, covering your chest. “Did you just check out your controversially younger coworker? Your mentee?”
He splashes you with yet another eye roll. “First of all, I’m the naked one here. So if anyone should feel exposed, it’s me. Second of all, you’re not controversially younger than me. How old do you think I am, anyway?”
You rub your chin, pretending to think before mocking him. “First of all, Barnes, you’re not denying the checking out your coworker accusation. Second of all, I’m not guessing your age.” You huff, feeling like you’ve won.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says matter of factly. “I’m thirty-eight for the record.”
You size him up–the smattering of grays you’re met with day after day, the broad shoulders and beefy arms built by years in the park, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes when he flashes you a rare smile. “Yeah, I suppose thirty-eight checks out.”
“Now who’s doing the checking out?” He asks cheekily as he swims further into the lake. His back is to you now.
You notice the constellation of freckles across his tanned shoulders and the muscles there. The sun’s rays hit the water just so, shining through the lake. You follow the trail of light with your gaze under the surface, down the hard lines of his back to his…
That’s not a butt. That’s a–oh.
“Eyes up here, Rookie.”
You snap your eyes up to to his and your cheeks immediately heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–I-I wasn’t trying to…” Words escape you.
He laughs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Come on. Let’s get dressed and get back to work. I’ll go first so you can get dressed in private. Keep an eye out for water snakes, would ya?”
You gasp at the naughty joke and watch him get out of the water, his back to you. He climbs the small incline gracefully. You only notice your bottom lip between your teeth as he ducks behind a nearby bush to dry off and get dressed. You let go of the flesh and clear your throat, willing your body to calm down before you exit the lake. Why do you feel all tingly? Surely a brain eating amoeba has made its way into your ear canal and started its work. It’s definitely not your grumpy, graying, somewhat pessimistic coworker. Right?
“All clear,” he says with a wink as he trots up the hill fully dressed and out of sight. Your stomach flutters again. Oh no.
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 30
Lac nu is a hidden gem of the park, and I'm thankful for it today. It was nearly 90 degrees and served as a cool-off during our lunch break. Fuck, this logbook is turning into evidence. Must burn to ash when it's filled.
Items of note: Orange toes and swimsuit. Wet hair. Nature is beautiful, but she's stunning.
CPR training–not an aphrodisiac, just a standard practice, great knowledge to have in case of emergencies, absolutely not a turn-on. Ugh… until it’s his turn to do chest compressions.
You have definitely never listened to those breathy, suggestive audios of dudes doing push-ups to failure on Quinn. Not the ones where they’re practically moaning “baby girl” through your headphones while you get a little sweaty folding laundry. And you’re absolutely NOT thinking of how Bucky sounds like he’s doing those devious push-ups right now. He’s trying to save Hector’s life for crying out loud! Hector is the CPR dummy that you are slightly, weirdly jealous of right now. A lock of hair falls out of place across Bucky’s forehead as he keeps pressing on Hector’s chest. His arms–God, have they always been so veiny and muscular–are tensed from the compressions, and his face is flushed from the exertion. Your mind wanders to what other activities make the Ranger flush and you feel a blush creep up your neck. He’s like… old. What is wrong with you?
You hear your name and are pulled from your sexy trance. “Huh?”
“You’re up,” the instructor says.
Bucky takes his place next to you and nudges your shoulder. “Go! He’s literally dying.”
You huff and kneel down next to the dummy.
“To the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees,” the instructor says, nodding for you to begin. You start the compressions and count, growing tired by the end. No wonder Bucky was huffing and breathing a little more… well, just more than you’re used to when he was doing this. Why did his breathing sound hot? Are you ovulating? You mentally count back to your last period and shake your head. No, definitely not ovulating anymore. That must mean you actually think he’s hot. Your mind isn’t clouded by some cavewoman needs. These are your true, luteal phase thoughts. Oh no. You save Hector from the brink of death and take your place back by Bucky as a few other colleagues revive the dummy.
“Good work,” Bucky says with a wink. “You got a little tired at the end, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“You sounded a little breathy,” he adds to which you look up at him with irritation.
“So did you!"
“Did I?” He asks.
“Yes, you were all huh huh ugh heeehuhhhh ugh huh.” You imitate his breathing.
He smirks, holding back a laugh. “Do you want to run that by me again?”
“Oh, hush!” You say. The instructor glances up at the two of you. Damn, if looks could kill.
“Your face is red,” Bucky whispers, leaning down a bit to get his mouth closer to your ear.
“Yeah, well, I just did chest compressions. Besides, you’re sweaty.”
“I’m not sweaty,” he says.
“You’re… there’s a sheen,” you say, pointing to his face and circling the air around his head.
“A sheen?” He smirks.
“Yes, Bucky, a sheen.”
“Now it’s more pink than red,” he says, nodding at your face. “Now it’s the same color as it was when you saw that water snake in the lake.”
“Bucky!” You gasp. “I didn’t see anything.
“Mmm, I think you did. You blushed like you did.”
“Let it go, Barnes.”
“Oh, I’m never forgetting that, sunshine. Ever.”
You huff and cross your arms as the instructor stands and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s move on to First Aid.”
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 6
Hector is enemy number one. Why can't I stop thinking about her flushed face and the way she was breathing? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Items of note: So much July 4th garbage around the campsites. Disposed of properly and citations issued as needed. Be respectful, people.
“Guess where we’re going today?” Bucky asks with a genuine smile as you both start out on the main trail.
“Well, I’ve given up on the firewatch tower, so… maybe to clean up some campgrounds?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve given up too easily.”
Your eyes widen and you gasp. “You’re taking me?!”
“I’m taking you. It’s a long walk, so I’m glad you packed some extra trail mix.”
“Bucky!” You exclaim, jumping on the dirt trail. “I’m so excited! Thank you!” You hug him and he carefully wraps one arm around your waist to return the sentiment.
“You-you’re welcome, Rookie.”
You can hear something in his voice and break away, realizing that it’s kind of inappropriate to hug your coworker.
“Sorry,” you mutter, looping your thumbs through your backpack straps for something to focus on that’s not his muscle-y back.
“It’s fine,” he assures you. “You smell like oranges.”
You laugh. “I made orange juice this morning.”
“What? With real oranges?”
“Of course!” You say. “It’s way better that way.”
“You really are a ray of sunshine.”
“Thanks. You’re kind of a storm cloud, but we need some rain, so…”
He laughs and nods. “That’s actually why I figured now’s the perfect time to show you the tower. We’re technically in a drought at this point, so forest fires are more likely. It’s important that you know what to look for if you ever have to cover the tower. Usually they have special rangers for it, but if someone is out and you get called up, you have to know your shit.”
“Sounds good.”
You start your trek to the tower with a smile on your face, his spicy deodorant in your nose, and butterflies in your stomach.
When you’re about a quarter mile from the tower, the clouds start quickly rolling in.
“Did you check the weather today?” You ask Bucky, biting your lip nervously. You didn’t pack umbrellas or any rain gear.
“I-uh, it must have slipped my mind.” It’s your fault it slipped his mind. He was watching you pull on your ridiculous hiking socks-golfballs with moustaches and tees wearing high heels-and forgot to check the damn app.
The last four hundred yards to the tower are a mad, rain-soaked dash.
By the time you reach cover you’re both drenched, chilled, and your feet are covered in blisters from the rainwater squelching in your hiking boots. You didn’t expect to see the tower for the first time looking like a wet noodle while Bucky somehow looks like a wet Adonis. Unfair.
You carefully climb the slick stairs to the top and both heave a sigh of relief when you’re safely under the roof. Finally.
The clouds outside darken and the wind picks up, making the branches of the trees dance in a frantic rhythm. You watch from one of the many windows. It’s not just rain. It’s a full-on thunderstorm.
“Well, I don’t think you’re going to spot any rogue wildfires now,” Bucky says with a click of his tongue. He sits on a small cot in the corner and pulls his log book out of his pack.
“This is kind of beautiful, though,” you muse, watching the way the rain is coming down in sheets of silver.
“Nature is, yeah,” he says quietly and he uncaps his pen with his teeth and chews on the cap thoughtfully before the pen meets the page.
“What are you always writing in there?” You ask, nodding toward the weathered book.
“Observations.”
“I don’t write in mine enough then. You’re always jotting stuff down. Can I read it? Get an idea of what I should be documenting?” You walk toward him and he snaps the book shut. “No. It’s… you know… a Ranger’s logbook is personal.”
“C’mon,” you laugh. “How personal can soil samples be?”
“Extremely!”
“Fine, grumpy,” you say, too soaked and cold to fight him on it. “How long do you think this will last?”
He glances out the window with a shrug. “No clue. You cold?”
You nod, and he looks under the cot. He grunts as he pulls a heavy trunk upright and clicks open the latches. There’s an array of first aid supplies, tarps, blankets, a couple National Park Service sweatshirts in an ugly shade of moss green. He hands one to you. “You should take your top off.”
“Sorry?” You gasp.
“No!” He stammers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I mean you should take your wet shirt off before you put the dry sweatshirt on or else you’ll stay cold. I’m not looking.”
He turns around and looks out the opposite window with his arms crossed. By the time you’ve shed your shirt and cozied up in the dry, ugly sweatshirt he asks “You decent?”
“Yeah,” you say. He turns around too. At least you’re wearing matching ugly sweatshirts. In this fashion crime together.
“So, we’re kind of stuck up here for a bit, aren’t we?” You ask.
“Looks like it.”
"Okay, we could just play a game to pass the time, or volley questions back and forth to get to know each other better," you suggest. You feel like you only know the surface of this man, and you wonder if he’d let you crack him open a bit like the sky outside.
“Sure,” Bucky rifles through the drawers of the decrepit desk near the cot, searching for a pack of cards. Nothing. He slams the last drawer, and it's punctuated by a flash of lightning outside.
"Is it actually safe to be up here when there's lightning?" You ask, peering out the window at the raging storm.
He shrugs. "It's better than being on the ground of a literal forest. With trees."
You roll your eyes. "Fine. Questions it is. I'll go first. What's your favorite color?"
Bucky sits on the cot in the corner and leans his head against the wall. He shrugs. "I don't really have one."
"You don't - okay, nevermind. What's your favorite dessert?" You try again, leaning on the desk across the small room.
His lips quirk into a smile. "Don't get a big head about it, but that cheesecake you made."
"Aww, you love my goodies," you tease as his eyes widen and he snorts out a laugh. "Sorry, that sounded-"
"My turn," he says, cutting you off. "What's your favorite part of the park so far? I know you haven't seen everything, but…?"
You consider his question and look around at the tall trees, some at eye-level in the tall tower. There's a lot of things you like about the park - the way it's misty in the morning sometimes after a night rain, when the frogs in the pond by the Ranger cabin will quiet themselves if it gets too loud with human noise, how the light filters through the trees when the sun isn't directly overhead, when Bucky always asks if you have your logbook (even though you only use it for doodles of flora and noting down how often he sighs when he's particularly grumpy, and the way he's watching you right now). Whoops. You hope you don’t have to turn it in at the end of training.
"My favorite part of the park?" You repeat the question, eyes wide at your internal realization. "Having you as my mentor has been nice."
His eyes flit to yours, brow furrowed. "That doesn't count, plus I'm not that great. You don't have to say that-"
"I'm not saying anything I don't mean," you retort. A flash of lightning lights up the sky with a crack of thunder following not long after. It's not letting up, and you silently wonder how long you'll be taking refuge here. "But if you want me to pick something in nature, I guess I'd say just how big some of the tree roots are. Some of them are thicker than two people put together. It's incredible. You're kind of like a tree root, you know."
He scoffs. "Well, you keep bringing in sugary desserts and goodies."
You laugh and roll your eyes. "No! That's not what I mean. I'm not saying you're thick," you say with a giggle. He is terribly, deliciously thick, but in the best way. "I'm saying you remind me of the roots of a tree - stable, grounded, only searching for the good soil, one with the Earth. Strong. All that jazz."
“All that jazz,” he hums and nods his head, eyes moving to the storm outside. You peep a blush on his cheeks. "Like roots, okay."
"What would I be?" You ask, nudging his foot with yours. "And don't say anything about the muskrats."
He chuckles and assesses you before swallowing. He knows what he wants to say, but isn't sure if it's too much. He knows he got too flirty… too inappropriate at the lake the other day, and he needs to reel it in, but damn. He doesn't want to regret not saying how he feels.
"Okay, I have an answer," he says, voice a bit deeper than it was seconds ago. "Do you know how the sun hits the water at a certain angle and makes it shimmer? But with colors, like…" he searches for the right word, but you fill it in for him.
"Like a rainbow prism?" You offer.
"Yes, exactly like… a prism. Every color kind of dances across the surface. That's what you would be," he answers, running a hand through his beard like he's stressed.
Your chest heats at his answer. It almost sounds romantic if you didn't know better. "Why'd you pick that?" You ask eagerly. You swallow, trying to push down any expectations.
He clears his throat and decides to just go for it. "Because you came blazing into this park and into… my life… in color. Your whole persona is just like a rainbow I guess - your weird socks, your smile, your jokes, your orange toes, just you. You bring life into this place. Into my life, too. I wasn’t looking forward to one last mentee, but you… I’m just glad it was you.”
You close your mouth. It had fallen open during Bucky's short but effective declaration. "I-I'm not sure what to say," you start. "Which is a first for me."
He laughs and shrugs. "You don't have to say anything. You're done with training after this shift anyway."
"I'm done with training?" You repeat, blinking at him. "But I thought I had the rest of the week with you.
"No," he says, shaking his head. He pulls a crinkled and folded paper out of his shorts pocket. "I graduated you this morning. I guess I just wanted one more shift with you." He looks at his watch. "And the shift just officially ended, so you're a full-fledged Ranger now, sunshine."
"So you're not my supervisor anymore?" You clarify, pushing off the desk you're leaning on and taking a step toward him. Another crack of thunder intensifies the already heady air of the tower.
"Correct," he says, standing up. "Are you… happy about that?"
"Ecstatic, in fact," you say, taking another tentative step. He meets you in the middle and you breathe the same humid air for what feels like a full minute. His chest is heaving in symphony with yours. Eyes bounce from each other to your lips to his eyes and back again like a mating ritual.
"Why?" He breathes across your skin. His breath is minty and smells slightly of honeydew. "Because now you can do this?" He mutters as his lips brush against yours. You inhale sharply at the contact and your heart picks up its pace. The rain outside starts coming down in heavier sheets, soaking the deck surrounding the tower.
"Yeah," you answer weakly. All sense of reality has been turned on its head as his tongue slips easily into your mouth. Kissing Bucky is like dipping your toe into Lac nu, like picking the first ripe strawberry of the season off the vine, like sinking into fresh bedsheets dried on the line after a long day. It feels right. So right. It’s warm and light and perfect. He breaks away first and you can feel his smile.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an old man that first week,” he admits.
“You called me an angel lightning bug,” you mutter with a smile.
He looks at you with a quizzical brow. “Those Sea Breezes got to my head, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“Well, you know what they say… drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“You should kiss me again,” you whisper. “You taste like honeydew.”
His hands find the nape of your neck and his fingers comb through your damp hair as he pulls your mouth toward his. “You taste like mine.”
Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 15
Maybe I'll give her this logbook when I marry her annoying, perfect, sunshine and rainbows ass. Why the hell does the firewatch tower have a condom stash?
Items of note: Replenish the firewatch tower's condom stash.
Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x Mechanic!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn’t do favors. Everything has a price; that’s how he’s kept his garage and himself intact since the end of the world. Then there’s you, the rival mechanic down the road who refuses to take a single scrap of bread for a radiator flush. But when a freak storm destroys his workshop, Bucky's left with nowhere to go but your grease-stained bay and forced to face every choice he's never allowed himself to make.
Word count: 8.4k
Tags/warnings: apocalypse au; enemies to lovers; rivals to lovers; forced proximity; there was only one bed; sexual tension; end of the world setting; mentions of death (no graphic details); rough sex; unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world dudes, there's no condoms); dirty talk; pubic hair pulling; creampie; minor injuries; use of petname (Tinkerbell); no use of Y/N
Notes: here is my second entry for Bucky's Dreamhouse Collab at @stantastic-association 😊 i was so excited about getting to write a second fic and to work on something i absolutely love: apocalypse aus! this is definitely something i'd love to explore more in the future. again, a huge thank you to @miraclediviner for being the organizer of this amazing collab and keeping us all on our toes 🩵
Nobody knows who did it. What did it.
That’s the part that still keeps most people up at night, almost two decades later. Not the fallout itself, not the slow and methodical collapse of everything that had ever seemed permanent before. It’s just the not knowing. There was never a declaration of war or crackling broadcast announcing the end of the world, either caused from within or from outside. In the span of ninety-six hours, the sky turned the wrong color over six continents and then never turned blue again. A toxic event so massive that the world’s remaining scientists (the ones who survived the first winter, anyway) stopped using the word accident and started using the word deliberate in quiet voices, inside rooms with closed doors.
Scientists have stopped talking altogether, now. There aren’t enough of them left to argue about it.
What people know is this: it came both from the ground and the air. A toxicity that spread through the soil and the water and settled into pockets of the earth like it had always lived there. Now, twenty years in, the red zones are mapped. Loosely, in the only way you can really map things when you don’t have satellites anymore and most cartographers are self-taught. But this means people at least know where not to go, or where to go only for very small periods of time, before their skin starts falling off or blood begins coming out of every orifice.
Settlements share information between them through travelers, the typical chain of human whisper that quickly replaced the internet when the infrastructures went dark. That’s the thing about human resilience. Twenty years later, most people remember before, but they can still live in the now. People are alive, building things, trading things, hoarding things, loving, ruining things; just as they used to before, just with less electricity.
Out here on what used to be Route 9, the world has contracted to something you see as quite manageable. The settlement has maybe a hundred people on a good day; traders passing through inflate it, bad weeks with sickness or supply shortages shrink it. There’s a water system that works if two specific people maintain it. Also a rationing board that meets every Tuesday in what used to be a diner. Violence has no place anymore, most of the time, and that is held up only by the collective notion that you cannot afford to lose anyone else.
Funnily enough, for a small settlement, there are two garages right by the main road, sitting maybe a quarter mile apart.
On one of the edges sits your garage. The space itself is nothing pretty, just corrugated metal walls patched with whatever you could find; sheet aluminum, sections of fencing that used to keep someone’s dogs in and now keeps some of the wind out. Three hydraulic lifts, one fully functional, another one that works if you coax it, one that is mostly just parts used to repair the fully functional one. A workbench along the back wall so cluttered it’s developed its own ecosystem. A door that leads to a small room you would have called kitchen in another lifetime, and another one that reveals a small bed and some of your still-lasting clothes. The whole place smells of grease and metal.
But it’s yours. That’s enough.
You’re under a ‘94 Silverado, or what used to be one before someone had clearly taken a blowtorch to the undercarriage and called it a modification, when you hear boots on gravel. Unfortunately, you’ve come to recognize this exact sound all too quickly, because there’s only one person who will walk into your garage at nine in the morning as if everything about your existence is wrong.
Just so happens that his garage is a quarter mile up the road from yours.
Bucky Barnes.
His operation is bigger than yours, so is his space, and he’s been out here longer, which means he’s built up a stockpile of parts that most people would trade significant things to get their hands on. That is one of the big differences between the two of you even though, technically, you both provide the same services.
People go to him when they need something badly, and they go to you when they need something and don’t have much to give.
You’ve heard him call that a flaw. Heard him say it, actually, to your face, in that flat tone of assessment like it’s a weather report. You’re naive and weak, and running a charity shop in a world that’s gonna run you into the ground.
You roll out from under the truck and Bucky is standing just inside the entrance, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. There’s a smear of grease along his right forearm, which means he came here straight from his own work. That lack of ceremony, the assumption that whatever brought him here was worth interrupting your afternoon for, makes you grind your teeth before he’s even opened his mouth.
But he does open his mouth. And it makes the grinding worse.
“You took in the Reyes truck,” he says.
You sit up, dragging a rag off your workbench to wipe your hands, but it doesn’t do much. “Evidently,” you reply, even though you know he isn’t asking, not when said truck is right there.
“That’s a fuel injector problem.” You really hate the way he says it like he’s explaining it to you. “You don’t have the parts for a fuel injector problem.”
“I’m aware of what I have and don’t have in my own garage, Barnes.”
The look he gives you is not exactly condescending, more like a look of someone taking a situation apart to find where the inefficiency lives. You’ve seen him look like that at engines, but it’s slightly more irritating when he aims it at you.
“So you’re going to take their truck apart, figure out you can’t fix it, and send them away anyway. What exactly does that accomplish?”
“It accomplishes me knowing what’s wrong so I can find the parts.” You finally stand up mostly because you’re tired of looking up at him. “I told them two weeks, I’ll have it done.”
“With what?”
“That’s my problem.”
“Right,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. You know where this is going, and you hate that you know where this is going. “Because you’ll figure it out. You always figure it out, don’t you? What happens if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll tell them that and I won’t charge them for the time.” You fold your arms. “Which is more than you’d do.”
“I’d tell them upfront I couldn’t help them.” His voice doesn’t change, doesn’t sharpen. It’s the thing about Bucky Barnes that lives under your skin like a splinter you can’t find: he never raises his voice, never even wavers. “I wouldn’t let them drive an hour out here on bad fuel and leave with nothing. That’s not the generosity you think it is.”
You look at him for a long moment. At the set of his shoulders, at the lack of sentiment in his expression. You’ve thought, more than once and always against your will, that there might be something underneath all the cold architecture. Something that got buried so long ago he’s forgotten the shape of it. Equally against your will, you’ve imagined that maybe you’d like to find it. As it turns out, the apocalypse is incredibly lonely. People aren’t worried about relationships as much as they are worried about staying alive. The nights in your makeshift bedroom are cold. And Bucky is, despite his incredibly upset demeanor, very interesting to look at.
You try very hard not to think about that now.
“Is there something you actually need, or did you just come down here to audit my business model?”
Did the corner of his mouth just move?
“Heard you’ve got a plasma cutter.”
“I might have.”
“I’ll give you two gallons of diesel and a box of copper wire if I can borrow it. I’ll bring it back.”
The diesel alone is worth saying yes to, and you both know it. If Bucky was anyone else, you would borrow it without asking for anything in return. But he’s the only person currently alive who genuinely makes you want to pull hair out of your head.
“It’s in the back. Don’t move anything.”
And then you’re back on the ground, sliding under the Silverado, picking where you left off. The sound of him moving through your space, careful and irritatingly respectful of the warning you gave him, follows you under the truck. You stare up at the undercarriage and find a fault line in the exhaust coupling and think about absolutely nothing else.
This is how it goes. Has gone, for however long you’ve both shared this quarter mile of road. The settlement is small enough that avoiding each other would require effort neither of you are willing to put on, so instead, you collide and part ways.
People have noticed. Of course they would, when there isn’t much entertainment out here on the best of days. You ever gonna stop acting like cats in a bag? Old Ramona from the supply post asked you once, grinning her three-toothed grin at you across a pile of canned goods.
You paid for a can of tuna with half a liter of diesel and told her you didn’t know what she was talking about.
The truth, one that you hold at arm’s length, examine briefly, then put back down before it can take root, is that Bucky Barnes might be a selfish asshole, but at least he sees you. Sure, he acts like a spotlight when you’re trying to stand in shadow. His assessments of you are wrong, you maintain that, will maintain it until your last breath, but they’re specific. Like he knows where to aim to make you feel something.
And his eyes, the color of an ocean you don’t remember seeing anymore, have a habit of finding you in a crowd before you’ve found him. You’ve decided that’s just the instinct of a rival, knowing where the competition is. That’s all it is.
A week later, the sky gives warning, if you know how to read it.
Most people have learned to, the hard way. Animals go quiet first. There’s a weird shade of yellow-green that bleeds into the horizon, air pressure drops fast enough that your ears begin to pop. Then the wind picks up and changes direction twice in under a minute.
You closed the garage two hours before the first crack of thunder split the sky open. Bucky Barnes, on the other hand, did not close up early.
There’s a water pump coupling he’s been rebuilding for three days, and he’s at worst a few hours away from finishing when the storm makes its first real declaration. The sky simply opens a pressure valve it’s been holding shut for weeks and releases all the water at once, the kind of deluge that doesn’t fall as much as crash, hitting the corrugated roof of his garage like it holds a personal grudge.
But he keeps working, because he’s worked through worse.
What he hasn’t worked through is the sound that follows fifteen minutes later, a groan of metal pushed past its tolerance. He looks up from the coupling and has exactly enough time to register the shadow moving wrong across the ceiling before the eastern section of his room comes down.
Not all of it, but enough.
The support beam goes first, taking two sections of roofing with it, and the rain follows immediately. Half of his east wall buckles. The shelving unit that holds years of sorted, labeled, fought-for parts hits the floor in a single slide and the rain comes straight through the gap where his ceiling used to be, hitting the concrete hard enough to make it hard to think.
Bucky stands in the middle of it for a moment, lets the rain soak through his shirt, looking at the parts scattered and soaking, some of them already buried under debris. Years of work, of careful accumulation, trading and sourcing and never once letting himself be careless with any of it. All of it gone, or going.
Tonight, not much of it will be salvageable. Even less the following days. Bucky picks up the coupling, still on the bench, wraps it in the driest rag he can find and presses it into his jacket pocket. Then he stands at the threshold of what’s left of his east entrance and looks out at the road and thinks about his options.
The settlement’s main hall is farther. The road between here and there runs through a low section that will be flooding by now. Visibility is near zero. His truck could make it, probably, but probably is a word he’s learned not to bet his life on.
On the other hand, your garage is a quarter mile out. He’s noted the construction before, solid, better reinforced than it looks. You did something smart with the foundation drainage that he hadn’t thought to do and never mentioned to you, either. But he filed it away, because information is always useful.
This is why there’s a knock on your door a while later, almost inaudible under the storm. You’ve been in the back room lying on your cot, listening to the rain assault your roof and waiting to find out if the structural work from last spring was actually good enough. The ceiling is holding, for now.
You get out of your bed and take a lantern, pushing through to the garage floor. Through the small smeared window in the door you can see nothing but dark and rain, until lightining splits the sky sideways and you manage to see the outline of a person. Broad shoulders. Standing very straight as if not even killer weather could affect his posture.
You open the door.
The wind tries to take it out of your hand and you hold on. Bucky is standing in the rain looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Completely soaked through, dark hair plastered flat. His eyes meet yours and something complicated moves through them for exactly one second before it’s gone.
He says nothing. Which tells you, more than any words he could have used, exactly how bad it is.
So you step back to let him in before closing the door again, leaving the storm outside where it belongs. He stands just inside, dripping, unmoving.
“East wall came down,” he says. Not to you exactly, kind of just to the room.
“How much?”
“Half of it. A part of the ceiling, too.”
You look at him for a moment. At the careful neutrality of his face, as if you’re attempting to see the length of the damage of the storm on him.
“Look, I don’t have much. But there's a bed in the back room," you hear yourself say, with the tone of someone being dragged toward a conclusion against their will. Which you are. “It’s not big, but it’s not the floor.”
“I’m fine on the floor.”
You’re still looking at him, dripping on your floor, jacket dark and heavy with water, that expression that gives absolutely nothing way. And you are… you’re practical. That’s the thing you keep coming back to. You are a practical person.
“The floor is concrete,” you say.
“I know what floors are made of.”
“It’s going to be forty degrees in here by morning.”
“I’m not taking your bed.”
You stare at him for a long moment, he stares back. In the dim light coming from your lantern you think, unfortunately not for the first time and with the usual accompanying irritation, that it is genuinely unfair to look the way he looks.
“I’m not offering you my bed,” you finally say with slight exhasperation. “I’m offering you half of it. You stay on your side and we don’t make it into anything, and in the morning you get up and we never discuss that this happened.”
“I’ll take the floor,” he repeats.
“Barnes.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s forty degrees.”
“Then I’ll sleep in my jacket.”
You close your eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of your nose with two fingers. “You are the most unnecessarily difficult person I have ever encountered in two decades of a very difficult world.”
“Thank you.”
“Absolutely not a compliment.”
“I know.”
Five seconds. That’s about as long as you stand there before you turn and walk through the door to the bedroom because this is your garage, your space, and you don’t have to stand in the cold arguing with a man who has apparently decided that frostbite is preferable to sharing a mattress with you. You pull the blanket on your side, and you lie down and stare at the ceiling while the storm rages on.
Bucky follows a moment later only to lay down on the cold floor. You hear him shift positions, then again, then shuffle of clothes, and for a while, silence. You’d like to say that means he’s found a way to be comfortable, but you realize it means he’s just decided not to move out of sheer stubbornness when you hear him exhale sharply, biting the cold through his teeth.
So you sit up.
“Get in the bed, Barnes.”
First silence, then: “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying on the concrete in wet clothes.”
“I’ve taken them off.”
A different type of silence falls over the room, because you don’t know what to say to that. Then you can hear him getting up, the economy of motion with minimal noise, and his shadow fills the doorway. Whenever lightning strikes, the silhouette of him is clear. The clothes are indeed off. You see definition of muscle, biceps, stomach, and you do a genuinely impressive job at not acknowledging that you can very clearly see all of it.
“… Can I take the side of the bed?” He finally asks, and you can hear it in his tone that the words feel punched out of him, a crack on his wall that is making him share some weakness for once. He doesn’t like it.
“If you’re weird about it, I will make your life very hard.”
For a reason you don’t recognize, that makes him chuckle. “You already make my life very hard.”
“Harder, then.”
Bucky stares at the bed. At the expanse of empty space on the right side that you’ve left without meaning to make it obvious you’ve left it. Finally he crosses the remaining space and lies down on top of the covers, not under them, which is going to defeat the purpose of this somewhat. On his back, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling just like you were before.
With a conformed sigh, you lie back down and look at your own section of the ceiling again.
“There’s a line. We don’t—”
“Yes, you’ve said.” Too quiet, too final, like he doesn’t want to entertain the discussion anymore. You’re unsure why that bothers you, but it does.
Outside, the storm hasn’t let up. It never does, these days, and you wonder in silence how long this one will take to subside. How much damage it has caused. If you’ve lost anyone. The all-consuming thoughts don’t linger for long as you close your eyes, letting sleep drift over you until—
“Tinkerbell,” he says.
Oh. Fuck off. You know that nickname. Of course you do, it’s been used against you for months now, since the first time he said it, knowing perfectly well it would drive you up the walls. Because, as usual, he knows exactly where to push, like a finger always pressing against an open wound. Tinkerbell. Because you thinker, and because you’ve got, his words, ‘this whole thing where you think everything’s going to work out if you’re just nice enough about it’.
Every single time he’s used that name, you’ve asked him to stop, and of course, he never did.
“Don’t.” You warn.
“Just checking you were still awake.”
“Go to sleep, Barnes.”
And of course after he goes quiet, his breathing evens out before yours does. Because apparently, even though his garage was the one destroyed, you’re now the one with your night upside down.
Still, unexpectedly, the night goes on without hassle. Bucky sleeps, so do you, even if less hours than he does, and he mostly keeps to his side of the bed. And you say mostly, because there is a time when you feel an arm snake around your waist for half a second, for which you freeze, and then he lets go and turns on his side. Likely dreaming, or just deep in sleep. You ignore it. It’s nothing, it’s always been nothing.
The morning after, on the other hand, doesn’t move as softly.
You’ve woken up before Bucky, and are now at the stove coaxing the grain coffee into something drinkable when he comes through the door rolling his left shoulder into place, metal arm glinting faintly. The storm still rages on; you’ve looked out the windows, tried to get some semblance of what’s going on outside, but the rain is so heavy and clouds so dark you can barely get a glimpse even though it is morning time.
When Bucky walks past you, you hand him a cup of coffee as courtesy even without being asked, because it’s cold and he’s now walking around in just his shoes and some old blankets he found in your bedroom which he has decided to wrap around his body for some notion of decency. He takes the cup with a nod, and whispers a hoarse ‘Thanks, Tinkerbell’.
You point at him. “I’m asking you, sincerely, to stop.”
“Mm.” He drinks the coffee as he hums, and that mm contains multitudes of meanings, none of them apologetic.
“It’s condescending.”
“… It’s a nickname.”
“It’s a condescending nickname that implies I’m… what, delusional? Some kind of —”
“Dreamer,” he interrupts quickly. “Convinced that believing in something hard enough makes it real.” Over the rim of the cup, his eyes look at you and something in them isn’t the mockery you had been expecting. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Right. “You implied it was a bad thing.”
“I implied it was naive.”
“Which you think is a bad thing.”
He considers those words with infuriating calm. “I think it’s a dangerous thing.”
You take your cup of coffee and go back to your workbench, which is the dignified response. The undignified response would be to keep arguing, which is what he wants and what you won’t give to him.
By noon the sky looks like bruised iron, and the rain hasn’t loosened its grip on anything. You stand at the small smeared window with your second cup of grain coffee and watch the road disappear under a film of moving water. Bucky joins you, whispers about how it’ll be two days before you can even go outside again. Because there’s no point in softening it, you tell him two days is the least they can expect.
And by late afternoon, you drag out the hand-crank radio that lives on the second shelf of your workbench, under a canvas tarp and three spare gaskets. It’s a good unit, salvaged and well-maintained, and you’ve kept it carefully because it was expected that a freak storm like this would happen any day now, and communications would be even harder than they already usually are.
You set it on the workbench and try the settlement’s usual frequency first. All you get back is static. Then the backup frequency. More static. You try the lower band, adjust the squelch, fine-tune the frequency and finally get back a faint carrier wave that sounds promising for approximately four seconds before it dissolves back into noise.
Defeatedly, you set the handset down.
“No idea whether the antenna’s broken or if it’s just the storm breaking the communication. Either way, it’s not working.”
You look at the radio, even though it doesn’t offer any solutions. The quarter mile road between your garage and Bucky’s lost one might as well be a hundred miles right now, and the only other person on this stretch is standing four feet away from you and making it his ongoing project to be as upsetting as possible.
From that moment, and until the dam breaks, two weeks pass by.
First few days are almost manageable. You establish a rhythm without discussing it, find him some clothes that somehow fit him so he doesn’t walk around your garage all day wrapped around on your blankets or dressed in still half-damp clothes. The radio gets checked every morning and every evening, and every time it gives you back the same answer.
Nothing.
But whatever silence you get from the rest of the settlement while the freak storm keeps going outside your metal walls is not worse than what comes from sharing a small space for longer than half a minute with Bucky Barnes: the fights.
Small ones, at first. Bucky reorganizes your tools without asking when he tries to work on the Reyes truck to distract himself. You leave the lantern burning longer than, in his opinion, is necessary, which he delivers as a flat observation about fuel consumption, and you receive it as criticism of your judgment.
By day five, you’ve officially graduated to the kind of fights that have real heat in them, that would have had either of you slamming the front door and leaving if the world wasn’t ending for the second time right outside. Bucky has a special quality to him, one that allows him to say one thing and mean about four others, which is something you can never quite get used to, because every fight feels like you’re fighting the whole war, not just the battle. Days go by like that, and eventually you learn that he goes quiet rather than loud when he’s genuinely angry, that if you catch it at the right angle it’s actually closer to grief than to indignation. You, on the other hand, argue the loudest when the pain hits harder; volume is your tell, the way you fold your arms like you’ve already started wondering if he’s right about something he says and won’t forgive yourself for it.
You were never meant to share this much time together. It becomes clearer than ever twelve days in, when food becomes the new problem.
Since the storm’s second day, you’ve been carefully rationing the food. Well, you’ve always kind of done it, anyway, especially in moments where access to new resources is difficult. It never even crossed your mind that you’d have to split rations with Bucky Barnes, but here you are now, on day twelve, measuring out the last of the dried lentils into two equal portions when he looks at what you’re doing and says, in the most matter-of-fact voice, that you should take a larger portion for yourself.
“I’m splitting it evenly,” you say.
“You’ve been burning more energy.” He responds, already turning away like this has been decided in his mind. “You’ve been more active. Maintaining the drainage just this morning, and I heard you still working on the truck last night after I went to bed. Take the larger portion.”
You don’t move the pot or the spoons already on the bowls. “We split evenly. That’s how I do things.”
“That’s how you do things when you’ve got enough to be generous with. This,” he nods at the pot, “is not enough to be generous with.”
“I’m not being generous, I’m being fair.”
“You’d rather both of us be equally hungry than admit that equal isn’t always the right answer.”
“And you’d rather calculate everything down to who deserves what instead of just treating people decently.”
“Decent doesn’t keep people alive.”
“I’m trying to keep us human, but clearly that’s a lost cause because you’ve stopped being that a long time ago.”
The silence that follows feels like it’s the wrong shape. You’ve said worse to each other in the last twelve days. You’re certain you’ve said worse things to each other ever since you met, in fact. Yet this one still lands differently, and you know it because you see the half second before his face closes off completely, giving up on the fight for the time being.
“Right.”
That’s it, two words, flat. Bucky picks up his bowl and takes it to the far end of the workbench, sits with his back to you and doesn’t say anything else while you stand there, with your bowl in your hands. The words you said are already curdling in the air. You’ve thought about versions of that sentence before, filed it under ‘things you’ve thought that probably aren’t true’ and kept it at a distance, where they couldn’t have a cruel effect. But you’ve said them out loud, now, and gave them meaning, even if you hadn’t intended to.
You both eat in silence, unseasoned lentils that are going thin, the kind of meal that keeps you alive without pretending to be anything more than that. And the words only come back to your garage after you and Bucky quickly wash your bowls and set them aside, guilt beginning to creep up under your skin. Which makes you angry, because you’re not the one who built walls around yourself and charged people full price to come near them.
“Barnes—”
“Leave it, Tinkerbell.”
You walk past the nickname as if it didn’t bother you anymore, even if it did. “I’m not leaving it, I said something—”"
“I said leave it.” He responds, not even looking at you as he walks back to the front and stands in front of the door window as if waiting for the storm to magically clear. “You’re not wrong.”
You exhale slowly. “I said it to hurt you. That’s different from saying it because it’s true.”
He turns around then, and you wish he hadn’t, because for the first time since you’ve met him you think you can see real vulnerability in his expression and it only makes the guilt eat at you even more. “Doesn’t matter why you said it. Doesn’t change how true it is.”
“It does matter.” Why are you pushing it? Maybe because you’re tired and hungry and you’ve had twelve days of this man in your space and you’re running out of ways to stay braced against him. “You’re not… what I said. That was me being angry.”
“You’re always angry.”
“You make me angry.”
Bucky walks toward you then, and you’re close enough that you’re not entirely sure how you got here. The garage is small, has always been small, but with a man the size of him walking in your direction in a space like this only makes it feel infinitely smaller.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you say, only to find yourself suddenly breathless.
“Like what, Tinkerbell?”
There’s an answer on the tip of your tongue, or near enough. “Like you’re trying to figure something out.”
“Maybe I am.”
You think, distantly, that you should step back, that stepping back is the most sensible thing to do. Except when you, you only find your waist hitting the workbench right behind you, while Bucky takes just as many steps forward in your direction. Neither of you will ever fully settle this, but one of you moves first, and the other doesn’t try to stop the motion; but his hand comes up and finds the side of your jaw with gentleness that is fully at odds with every interaction you’ve ever had with him. Like he’s been thinking about the exact placement for this, filing the thought away as useful information and he’s finally decided to use it.
What follows isn’t quite soft. You’d have been able to dismiss soft, reminding yourself that it was a moment of weakness. Instead, it feels like a relief. His other hand finds the edge of the workbench behind you, bracing, and finally he leans fully into you, lips meeting yours with a kind of anticipation you can barely figure out. You have one brief thought that you should probably think about this, that this is the kind of thing that changes everything happening around you permanently, but the thought goes somewhere else all too quickly.
It doesn’t feel the way first kisses usually are in old stories. Just months of friction finally catching fire, heat and teeth and a faint metallic taste you can’t even quite place. His hand stays at your jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to tilt your head exactly where he wants it while the other braces against the workbench so hard it creaks. And in the middle of it you kiss him back just as hard, angry at how good it feels, angrier that your body has apparently been waiting for this without your conscious consent.
Your fingers first in the front of his shirt and yank him closer, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat. Surrendering to you, or maybe steeling himself to take more, Bucky turns the kiss messy, open-mouthed, and cages you in as if trying to stop you from running, even though you didn’t actually want to. Every point of contact seems to be burning, the scrape of stubble against your skin, the press of his hips pinning you to the edge of the bench. His metal fingers slide into your hair and grip just tight enough to sting, but the pain at least helps with wasting away the guilt that had built up before.
You bite his lower lip and he retaliates by shoving a thick thigh between yours, forcing your legs apart, though forcing might not be the right word when you put up no fight at all. The pressure is all too filthy, exactly what you both need after months of circling each other like stray dogs.
“Still think I’m not human?” he mutters against your mouth.
"Shut up,” you snap, kissing him again to make sure he does.
Clothes come off in impatient jerks. His shirt hits the floor while you drag his belt open with one hand. Then he yanks your shirt up and over your head, barely being able to let go of your lips long enough to manage that. Teeth, tongue, biting down on your bottom lip and releasing only for you to chase after him again, and you don’t miss the way he smirks into the kiss like an idiot, because no matter what you said to him before, he’s winning this fight.
Without warning he spins you around, bending you forward over the workbench. Your palms slap against the scarred wood, tools rattling, but Bucky doesn’t flinch because he’s busy pressing a hand between your shoulder blades, holding you down exactly where he wants you, while the other yanks your pants and underwear down in one rough motion. He knew you wanted this from the way you kissed him. Yet nothing prepared him to the sight of your cunt dripping when it becomes fully exposed, the way he can see you glistening for him, warm and wet. A siren song calling out to him, and he’s only a man, weak. You hear the clink of his belt hitting the concrete a moment later, and then his hands, one flesh, one metal, settling on your hips, and the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
“You want this. Filthy, Tinkerbell,” he whispers into your ear, body covering yours. Then there’s the blunt head of his cock nudging against you, insistent, before he pushes in with one deep thrust. The stretch burns in the best way and you gasp, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bench as he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass. For one heartbeat, he doesn’t move. You hear him exhale, as if he’s steeling himself, maybe trying to stay grounded so this isn’t over embarrassingly quickly. Which is exactly why you decide to be a brat and grind your hips back against his, feeling the thick hair at the base of him brushing against your ass. The kind of dense hair he hasn’t bothered trimming in a while because razors are a luxury and no one is bothered about something like that when sex doesn’t happen anymore. It drags against your skin with every roll of hips, and even that small feeling makes your stomach tighten.
Bucky’s reaction is to snap his hips forward harder, burying himself to the hilt again and fucking you like he’s trying to prove a point. Every thrust is hard, rattling the tools on the bench and forcing broken moans out of your troat. The sharp heat of him behind you, inside you, is soothed just a bit when he wraps his metal arm around your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise and holding you exactly where he wants while his flesh hand slides greedily between your legs to part your soaked folds. He finds your own soft hair there, too, damp with your arousal, and he gets revenge on your previous stunt by curling his fingers around a patch of hair and tugging, not too hard, but hard enough that a jolt burns down your spine.
“Is this what you wanted, Tinkerbell? For us to fight so I’d fuck the attitude out of you?”
You try to answer, but it comes out strangled when he angles his hips differently and hits a spot you had forgotten existed, one that makes your vision spark white and your mind fuzzy. Instead, you push back against him, meeting every thrust.
“So tight,” he rasps against the back of your neck, fingers tugging lightly on your hair again and then moving lower once more to rub against your clit. “Haven’t felt a pussy this good in years.” His hips keep moving, slide of his cock making you burn from the inside out. The contrast of everything is overwhelming, a reality of two people who haven’t touched anyone like this in too long. He leans heavier over you, chest to your back, and you feel the full weight of him. Every time he bottoms out, a sharp spark of pleasure-pain shoots up your spine, and you chase it greedily, craving the way it blots out the hunger, the endless gray world outside these walls.
In a world so dark, pleasure truly feels like a commodity most people don’t have the money to pay for. So when the tightness in your stomach finally unravels, when you let out a sharp cry and finally come with his name on your mouth, walls clenching around his cock, it’s not lost on you that despite the storm outside, the fact that neither of you know who’s left on the other side of these garage walls, you are both incredibly lucky to be with each other in a moment this intimate. Even if it comes out of hate.
Because it does come out of hate, right?
Not long after, Bucky follows you, burying himself deep with only final trust as he spills inside of you, groaning your name (not Tinkerbell this time, which is something you can’t afford to dig into for too long in danger of finding some feeling you can’t deal with right now).
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, his. He braces himself on the workbench, lying over your back but not letting his weight crush you. Then, unexpected, lips pressed against the length of your spine, tracing the vertebrae as they show against skin. “You feel that? We’re both still alive. Still human, Tinkerbell.”
Those lips against your spine leave something behind, something you find no name for, but it settles on your bones either way.
And that something left behind makes a mark. That night, you wait until his breathing has slowed and evened before you go to bed. When you wake up, he’s already up, coffee made, tinkering at the workbench. The next night, same pattern but reversed, with you waking up at two in the morning and hearing him moving into the bedroom. You stay very still, eyes closed, pretending you don’t notice that neither of you go to bed anymore while the other is awake. Now, you’re two people taking turns occupying the living space you share, as if you both have extremely busy lives and just happen to have mismatched schedules. The already existing friction between the two of you has a new edge to it, a kind of tension that comes out as renewed arguments about the lantern or the radio checks.
But everything else remains the same. Expected.
Everything but the radio crackling to life on day sixteen.
You’re at the workbench when it happens, Bucky doing something to the Reyes truck. The burst of static is so sudden you both jump in surprise but just as quickly you’re snatching the headset to get the message.
—survivors pulled from the low section, on Route 9. Too many to move. Medical situation, need—hands if anyone can—
The voice is faint, breaking up badly, but real enough to cut through the silence and deliver the message. Or enough of it, at least. When you look at Bucky, he’s already setting down the wrench.
“I’m going,” you both say, at the exact same time.
“You’re not going,” Bucky says immediately after, way too quick for you to not be annoyed by it.
You’re ignoring him already, moving toward a bag you keep in a corner with a heavy coat and gear that you keep packed for situations exactly like this. Somewhere behind you, Bucky is already trying to find an argument that will actually work on you and coming up empty. You’re as movable as a concrete wall.
“We can’t both go,” you tell him, which is both not an answer to what he just said and also the practical truth. Someone has to stay with the garage, the water system that requires attention every thirty-six hours or the pressure coupling blows. “And we’re not going to waste time standing here and arguing about who it’s gonna be.”
Bucky, always the incredibly difficult person he is, doesn’t let you maintain this plan until you find a box of matches and do the only sensible thing: break two into different sizes and hold them out in your closed fist, eyes on his.
He takes the long one. And neither of you say anything else about it.
You're gone for three days.
Bucky promised to take care of your garage, so he does, patching a section of your east wall, finishing the Reyes truck, fuel injector rebuilt from parts he’d carried in his jacket pocket without mentioning it. Checks the radio every two hours for updates, even though he tells himself it’s just due diligence and nothing else. Continues sleeping in your bed, occupying both sides now, because there’s no one else to schedule around while you’re gone, and then wakes up too early in the morning just to listen to the rain.
On the morning of day three, with no word and the storm still deciding whether it’s finished with this part of the world, Bucky sits on the workbench in your garage with his coffee and just stares at the floor. He’s starting to think the grey isn’t actually grey, wondering why grey is a color at all, who named it that, why does grey sound like such a grey word, slowly, and very unexpectedly, realizing that anything that has been flooding his mind for the past seventy-two hours has been an attempt from his brain to shut out all the thoughts about you. He can’t go out there; he made a promise he’d take care of your garage, and so he will honor it, because a man in this world has nothing but his own word.
It’s already late afternoon when the storm takes a turn and grudgingly begins to let up. Not the kind of letting up that means the whole world is about to go back to what it was before, but the kind that means it has exhausted itself, finally, same way large and difficult things always do. Rain goes from crashing, to falling, to water drizzling.
And the storm leaving brings something back. You.
Bucky’s off the workbench and racing to the door the minute he hears commotion outside. You’re in the doorway, coat dark and heavy with water, hair plastered flat, a cut above your left eyebrow that has been deal with but not quite dealt with, another cut on your left hand wrapped in a dirty cloth. You have mud up to your knees and you're holding your empty kit in one hand, which means you used most of what you had.
"The road's passable. Low section’s still soft but you can get through if you don't stop,” you say finally. “Fourteen pulled out. Three we couldn't.”
You're standing upright. Both of you note this, he thinks, in the same moment. That you’re not falling to your knees despite the weight of everything on your shoulders.
“I thought I was going to lose you out there.” The words come out before he’s thought about letting them. That’s not his usual modus operandi, he never really says things before he has decided to say them, but apparently three days in your garage, staring at the grey floor, have done something to the mechanism that governs that.
You just blink at him. “Barnes, I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine. You’re standing in front of me, I can see that you’re fine. But I’m telling you what the last seventy-two hours were.” He stops. And when he starts speaking again, this time, it’s a decision. “I love you, and I thought I was going to lose you.”
The garage goes very quiet.
“What?”
Bucky holds your gaze, and his expression does something that looks like he’s about to either break or let go. “I said I love you, and I thought—”
“I—” You close your mouth. Open it again. “… What?"
“Tinkerbell, if you make me say I love you one more time I’m going to lose it.”
“Stop calling me that.”
That’s what makes his face finally shift from a confessional state to the beginning of absolute disbelief.
“That’s your takeaway.” He says flatly, definitely not a question. “From what I just said, that’s the part you landed on.”
“Barnes, I’ve been asking you to stop calling me that for months.”
“I just told you I love you.”
“I know what you just told me—”
“Well, do you? Because you’re standing there talking about a fucking nickname.”
“Because the nickname is the thing I know how to deal with right now!”
That stops him, stops you both, actually, the admission louder than you’d meant it to be, bouncing off the corrugated walls. Three days. Fourteen people pulled out of the low section, three you couldn’t. A cut above your eyebrow that will definitely scar, every single mile of the road back here you spent not letting yourself think about what was waiting, or what you wanted to be waiting.
“Barnes,” you say, quieter now.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to need you to…” A pause, because the words are scrambling in your brain and you’re struggling to keep up. “I’ve been out there for three days and I’m covered in mud and I’m so tired I can barely think, and you’re standing there saying things that are going to require me to think, so I need you to… just give me a second.”
Unexpectedly, Bucky doesn’t say anything, and gives you the second you ask for. Gives you more seconds, too. In that time, you look at his ocean-colored eyes, how they don’t move away even as you just stare at him, through him. Your mind reels, recognizes the things you kept locked away behind a little door, the ones you told yourself meant nothing.
“I’m exhausted,” you whisper, not quite sure if that’s a warning or a plea for kindness.
“I know.”
“So if I say something back to you right now, you have to understand it’s under very specific circumstances—”
“I’ll take it,” he says with no hesitation. “Whatever conditions you need to put on it, I’ll take it.”
The storm has stopped. Outside, for the first time in weeks, there is something approaching silence, just the drip of water falling from the roof edge. And you, finding it hard to fight your own thoughts when exhaustion has taken over you, cross the distance still keeping you apart. You stop close enough to see the work of the three days on him too, the dark circles under his eyes, and you put your hand, the one not wrapped in cloth, flat against the centre of his chest.
“Me too.”
Bucky looks down at your hand and then back up at your face. “You don’t have to say it out of obligation or something.”
“I’m not.” You press your hand a little flatter, feel his heartbeat steadier than yours. “This is the version I know how to say right now. I mean it, but it’s all I got.”
The feeling comes before anything else, before you process it, before you continue or he response: his hand over yours on his chest, metal cool against flesh.
“That’s more than enough, Tinkerbell.”
In a final demonstration of vulnerability, you lean your forehead against his shoulder because your body is finally registering three days of work and the road home, and he lets you, one hand over yours and the other coming up to the back of your head, very gently brushing over your hair.
“You’re gonna let me look at that eyebrow, and your hand,” he says, turning his face to press his lips to your temple. “And I’m gonna make shitty coffee that you’re gonna drink because you need to warm up.”
“I will,” you answer, no fight left in you.
Nothing in this garage needs to be solved tonight. You’re both still alive, here, on this quarter mile of road, opening a door that had been previously closed.
Turns out that's exactly enough to start something new with.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
wordcount: 12.2k
a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
main masterlist
synopsis:
A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”
“Very selfish of you, James.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.
He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”
You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”
“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
“You ladies are unbelievable—”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”
Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”
“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
“You could get us all in trouble.”
“You’re only thinking for yourself.”
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”
“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”
“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
“All finished—”
“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”
You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”
“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”
You truly didn’t know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”
“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queen’s favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”
Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”
“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”
I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”
“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”
“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”
The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.
“Move along, Sergeant.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”
“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”
“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”
“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”
“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.
“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”
“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.
“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.
“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”
“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.
“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
“Do you think he finds me charming?”
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.
“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.
“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
“… For how long?”
“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.
“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”
You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.
“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”
Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”
“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.
“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”
“Hey!”
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
“James—”
“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.
“James, calm down—”
“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
“You broke bread with the boy?”
You didn’t dare to speak.
“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.
“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”
Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”
Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”
“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”
He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.
“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.
“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”
Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”
Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”
Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”
“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”
Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.
“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”
Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.
“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”
You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”
“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.
“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”
“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”
“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”
“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”
Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”
The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.
“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”
“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”
“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
“So perfect,” he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”
He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
“Right,” you whimpered.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”
“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”
“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”
“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”
“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”
“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.
“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”
Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
“Nat!”
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.
“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”
“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”
“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”
“Barnes!”
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”
“Bucky—”
“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”
“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.
Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”
He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promise—and more.
Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
summary: born the quiet, overlooked sister, you’ve learned to survive in the shadows—until a ball places you before duke bucky barnes, war-scarred, steel-armed, and whispered about by all of london. the ton declares you ill-matched, but in stolen quiet and candlelit corners, you discover a love that makes you feel seen at last.
authors note: i love the regency era and i loveeee this trope. the concept of duke barnes saving me from my family that doesn't understand me has melted me in an absolute puddle!! please note, in this fic, it is understood that the Queen grants each home with a "name". Ashford is the name of readers home and to make the story flow better in my head, is often called upon as such!
----------
The first thing your mother does, every time she looks at you, is count.
Not with her fingers—not so crudely. With her eyes. With the faint pause between breath and greeting. With the way her gaze passes over your sisters first, as if she must take inventory of what she is proud of before she can bear to acknowledge what she is not.
Arabella—oldest, already married and radiant in it, a hostess in the making with a laugh that never trembles.
Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.
Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.
Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.
Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.
And then you.
Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.
You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.
You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.
But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.
So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.
You read.
In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.
Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.
Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.
Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.
“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”
“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.
“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”
You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?
Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.
Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”
“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.
“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”
Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”
Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”
Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.
Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.
Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”
Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”
Daphne laughs, sweet and light.
Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.
“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.
Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.
And you follow, as you always do.
The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.
The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.
Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.
You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.
“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.
You straighten.
A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.
Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.
And then you see him.
He is not bright.
He is not easy.
He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.
The first thing people notice is his arm.
Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.
The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.
Duke.
War-torn.
Scarred.
A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.
You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.
But you don’t.
Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.
As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.
His eyes find you across the room.
They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.
His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.
Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.
As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.
You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.
But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.
You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.
It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.
The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.
A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.
A library.
Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.
You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.
The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.
You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.
Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.
“You’re hiding.”
The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.
He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.
He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.
“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.
His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”
“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.
He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.
“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”
You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”
He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”
You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”
His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”
“Yes.”
“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”
The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.
“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”
You blink. “Good?”
“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”
The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.
You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”
His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.
You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.
But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.
He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”
You swallow. “I’m sorry.”
He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”
It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.
You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.
He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”
There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.
You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”
His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”
Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.
“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”
You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”
His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.
“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”
“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”
You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”
His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.
“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.
You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.
But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.
You give it. Quietly.
He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.
“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”
You almost smile. “Bucky.”
The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.
He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.
“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.
“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”
His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”
You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.
But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.
So you sit.
You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.
You begin to read.
At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.
He simply lets you exist.
When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.
He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.
“What?” you ask, flustered.
He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”
“Different?”
“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”
You swallow. “It’s easier.”
He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”
Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.
Before you can answer, the door opens.
Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.
“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”
Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.
You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”
Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.
“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”
Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.
“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.
Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”
You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”
Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?
You nod, barely.
Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”
The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.
Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.
“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”
Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”
Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.
Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”
Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”
Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”
You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.
But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.
“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”
Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”
Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”
The room goes very still.
Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”
“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”
Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”
Your feet feel rooted.
Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.
But he stays.
So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.
“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.
But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.
Metal, cool and careful.
Not grasping. Not claiming.
Just… there.
A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.
Your breath catches.
His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”
You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.
After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.
They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.
But now, they talk about you too.
Because the Duke of Barnes calls.
He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.
Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.
Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.
Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”
Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”
Your stomach twists. “Mama—”
“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”
You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”
Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”
Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”
Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”
You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.
Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.
Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”
“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.
Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”
Seraphina straightens, hopeful.
Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”
The room goes silent.
Your father does not contradict her.
Your sisters do not protest.
Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.
You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.
You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.
You take refuge where you always do—in a book.
But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.
Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.
He does not stop.
Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.
So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.
Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.
Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.
You sit where you are told.
And then he enters.
In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.
Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”
He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.
Your breath catches.
Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.
“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.
“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.
“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”
His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”
Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”
The room freezes.
Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”
Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.
Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”
Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.
Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.
“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”
Seraphina’s smile falters.
Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”
Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”
The air goes thin.
Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—
Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”
“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”
Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”
“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”
Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.
Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.
You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.
And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.
Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”
“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”
The word her lands like thunder.
Your sisters stare.
Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.
Your mother turns her gaze to you.
It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.
“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.
Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.
He waits.
For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.
Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.
You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.
You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.
And then you realize something terrifying.
Perhaps you are done trying not to.
You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”
Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.
Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.
“As you wish,” he murmurs.
Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.
He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.
He brings you books.
The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.
“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”
“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”
“It is still an impropriety.”
He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”
Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.
You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.
Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.
He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.
At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.
And every time you do, he notices.
“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.
Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”
You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.
His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”
Your chest tightens. “And now?”
He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”
You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.
He goes very still.
Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.
The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.
Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”
Your breath catches.
You reach out.
Your fingertips meet cool steel.
It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.
Survival.
A body refusing to be ended.
A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.
You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.
Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”
“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”
His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.
Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.
“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”
His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.
“So do you,” he says.
It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.
It is your family.
It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”
Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.
“Your hair is too plain.”
“Your laugh is too quiet.”
“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”
One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.
“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”
“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.
“Broken men,” she spits.
Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”
“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”
You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.
“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”
Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”
For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.
Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”
You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.
But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.
“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”
You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”
She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.
But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.
Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”
And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.
The next ball you attend is not yours.
It is Seraphina’s—a smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashford’s. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.
“He must prove himself,” she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.
Bucky arrives late.
When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.
You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.
“There he is,” Cordelia whispers.
You look.
Bucky’s gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.
When he reaches you, he bows. “Miss Ashford.”
Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. “Your Grace.”
He doesn’t flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. “Would you grant me this dance?”
A hush seems to fall around you—not because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.
Your mother’s fingers dig into your arm. “You must consider—”
“I have,” you say, and you step forward.
Bucky’s metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.
You place your gloved hand in it.
His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.
He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the ton’s gaze like needles.
The music begins.
Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.
“You alright?” he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.
You swallow. “They’re staring.”
“I know,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You do.
And the ballroom blurs.
Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointment—just a person worth holding.
“Good,” he murmurs, as if praising bravery you don’t feel.
Halfway through the dance, you hear it—a sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.
“She must be desperate.”
Another: “No one else would have her.”
Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.
Bucky’s hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. “Hey,” he murmurs.
You blink rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, humiliated. “I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. “Not for existing.”
You swallow hard. “They’re right,” you whisper, the old poison rising. “No one else would—”
His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in him—not wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.
“They’re not right,” he says quietly. “And if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”
Your breath catches. “The rest of your—”
His gaze holds yours. “If you’ll let me.”
The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted again—not because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.
Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.
Seraphina’s lips are pressed into a thin line.
Imogen looks disgusted.
Daphne looks conflicted.
Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.
And you—
You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve been afraid to approach your whole life.
Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.
Instead, he turns to face the room.
The ton leans in, hungry.
He bows to you first, respectful.
Then he turns his gaze—cold, calm—toward your mother.
“Lady Ashford,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “May I speak with you.”
Your mother’s smile is rigid. “Now?”
“Now,” he says.
Whispers erupt.
He doesn’t wait for her to approve. He leads her—not by force, but by presence—toward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.
You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.
You cannot hear every word, but you see your mother’s expression change—anger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.
You see your father’s shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.
Then Bucky turns.
He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.
He stops in front of you.
“You told me once,” he says quietly, “that people talk no matter where you stand.”
Your throat tightens. “Yes.”
He nods. “Then stand with me.”
The simplicity of it steals your breath.
He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.
And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:
“I intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.”
The room erupts.
Your mother makes a sound—half gasp, half protest.
Seraphina’s face goes red.
Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.
Daphne’s mouth falls open.
Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.
Arabella’s eyes shine with something like pride.
Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.
He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t claim. He asks—with his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.
“Will you?” he murmurs.
Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.
You think of your mother’s disappointment, your father’s silence, your sisters’ cruelty.
You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.
You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.
And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.
Love is not a performance.
Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.
You take a breath.
Then you step forward.
“Yes,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “I will.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.
He bows over your hand—not for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.
When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.
The engagement is a storm.
Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.
Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.
He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.
Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your “luck,” as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, “I didn’t know you could be… chosen,” and you realize she never believed you could be either.
Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, “He looks at you like you’re his whole world,” as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.
And Arabella—Arabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Your throat tightens. “For what?”
“For not noticing sooner,” she admits, eyes glossy. “For letting Mama and the others make you feel small.” She swallows. “I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t see what it cost you.”
You blink, stunned. “Arabella…”
She shakes her head. “He sees you,” she says, and the words are soft, aching. “And I’m glad. I’m glad you found someone who does.”
You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if she’s been holding guilt for years.
On your wedding day, the world is still loud.
There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.
But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.
He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.
About you.
About doing this right.
As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.
His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.
You take it anyway.
You do not flinch.
You do not hide.
And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.
Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escape—not into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.
Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.
He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like he’s guarding you from the world.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You smile, small. “I should be asking you that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.
“You look…” You search for the word.
He tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Like you can breathe,” you whisper.
His gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits. “Because you’re here.”
Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.
You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like it’s a kindness he still doesn’t fully trust.
“You know,” you whisper, “they’ll still talk.”
He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. “Let them,” he says, voice steady. “They can spend their lives whispering. We’ll spend ours living.”
You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “I don’t know how to be… loud.”
His mouth tilts, gentle. “Then don’t be.” He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with it—cool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. “I didn’t fall in love with loud.”
Your breath catches. “You—”
“I did,” he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. “In that library, when you read like you weren’t afraid to exist. I’ve been done for ever since.”
A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “That’s not how courtship works.”
“It is for me,” he murmurs.
He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.
You don’t.
His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.
“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” he whispers.
You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.
“I won’t,” you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.
Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.
But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.
You are chosen.
And in Bucky Barnes’s careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.
pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
wc: +9.4k
summary: Your friends arranged a blind date for you. The problem? It's been so long since the last date you had that you're spiraling. Enter, the owner's son of the bookstore you work at, Bucky Barnes, a reformed playboy who offers to help you with his dating advice.
What can go wrong? It's not as if you had been crushing on him for longer than you would want to admit.
warnings/tags: +18 MDNI. bookstore au, no use of y/n, fluff, smut, friends to lovers, blind date, bucky is a nepobaby, the pitt crossover? Mel King and Cassie McKay are your friends... yes, from The Pitt, oh, and the date is with Frank Langdon, sue me. Dating inexperience, requited unrequited love, secret crush, falling in love, reader overthinks, reader has hair, jealous bucky barnes, Alpine, p in v, oral sex (f), missionary position, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, petnames
a/n: I know I'm late, but school was kicking my ass, but here it is! Enjoy! beta read by @w1nter-fairy and @buckysdecaflove
part of elixirs arcade writing event - @elixirfromthestars
elixirs hold 'em: high card
Bookstore AU + Person A arranges for random Person B to call them during a date as an escape call - they fall in love. One of them is very romantically experienced, while the other one is not.
THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. If you're a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with this work, you will be blocked !!
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
The distinct smell of books flooded your senses as you stepped into the bookstore that Monday morning, holding a take-out cup of coffee from the nearby coffee shop. It was comforting, as it had been since the first time you walked in, and as it had been this past year working there. Barnes' Book Corner was an old establishment, owned by the same family for generations.
As always, the weight on your shoulders lifted, relaxing your posture as you took a deep breath. It was strange how your workplace was also a place that could be the source of your comfort, a place where you could find solace.
It had been a miracle that you had seen the job offer poster just as the owner's son was putting it up against the front window. The moment you entered the bookstore, you were convinced that the universe worked in mysterious ways, because there was no other place you would rather work in.
Bucky Barnes, the owner’s son, was the one in charge of interviewing you, since he was the one who was currently managing while his parents prepared for their retirement. To your surprise, after you answered a few questions, he hired you on the spot, confirming the serendipity of the whole situation.
From there, one shift after another, your friendship with him bloomed. Bucky was a very fascinating individual, especially once you went past his reputation and his usual brooding exterior. He was a few years older than you, but your school days overlapped enough for you to learn that Bucky was a playboy, always on dates, with a girl under his arm during the frat parties.
Your shifts went by between pleasant conversations and attending to customers, Bucky being a constant across your days. However, said friendship had rarely left the confines of the bookstore. Being in charge wasn't something he took lightly, so he poured his soul into his job, which translated into extra hours and zero social life outside the job.
It also helped that Bucky was a sight for sore eyes. Sharp jaw, devastating smile, piercing blue eyes that could fight the sea from their beauty. More than once, you had found yourself ogling at him as he worked around, carrying boxes that made him flex his biceps and reach the top shelves, making his shirts ride up and flashing his skin. And his brain? God, he was smart and funny, always with a copy of a book near him, and ready to drop the most nerdiest comment possible.
Yeah, you may have had a crush on him years ago, and sometimes it came back from time to time, but who could blame you? He was magnetic. Handsome and charming. Dangerous combination.
“Morning, boss.” You said after stepping behind the counter, leaving your stuff in its usual spot.
“You’re early,” Bucky said over his shoulder without looking at you since he was putting up some books on the highest shelf.
“Wow, you said that as if that's a shocker.”
“It is.”
You made an exaggerated gasp, making him huff a laugh. “Excuse me? You're talking to the employee of the month, a title I'm holding since I started working here, mind you!” You pointed at the board were said title was over your smiling photo. “If I’m always late, I wouldn't have it!”
“Sweetheart,” he said, the nickname he always used with you. “Besides me, you're the only employee, and I can't have it since I’m — how did you call me the other day?” His smug smile made your heart flutter, but you decided to ignore it.
“A nepobaby.” You completed. “You’re so rude, I don't think I will give you the coffee I bought for you, I’ll have to drink it.” You said with a mournful tone, pulling the coffee closer to you.
That made him turn.
He narrowed his eyes at you, leaving the book in his hand back into the box. “Did you say coffee?”
You nodded.
“I bought it for the best boss in the world, but I don't see any of your parents here.” You shrugged as your eyes scanned the back of the store, as if waiting for his parents to materialize on the hall that led to the break room and back office.
“Is that from the coffee shop around the corner?” He said, nearly drooling, noticing the cup sleeve.
Another nod as you logged in to the computer at the front desk. He almost dropped the book in his hand as he placed it back into the book cart and rushed to the counter.
"You're an amazing person, have I told you that?" Bucky said, forearms resting over the counter as he leaned forward.
"Mmm, maybe." You said.
"You're the best employee of the year as well." He added, his eyes tracking the coffee cup as you moved it slightly in his direction.
You hovered your hand around the cup, "Enough for a raise?" You asked, raising a brow.
He hung his head forward, defeated. "You know I can't clear that yet," he lifted his head slightly and leaned even more, lowering his voice as if he was sharing a secret. "But I can put in a good word with my father."
You shrugged, "I know, I had to try. Drink it before it gets cold, it's your order." He raised a fist in victory when you placed his cup near his hand.
"What about you?" He said, closing his eyes as he got a whiff of the coffee scent. "You didn't buy a cup for yourself? We can always share."
"No need, I already drank mine there. I had an early breakfast with a couple of friends."
He scrunched his nose, "The good group you actually enjoy going out with or the one you haven't got the strength to drop and keep going with them even if they make you feel bad?"
You slowly turned to him with your jaw dropped, "That's it, give me that cup back!" You said, reaching your hand.
"No! It's mine!" He leaned back, raising his cup high so you couldn't grab it. You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the monitor, "I didn't lie, though." He mumbled against the cup once he brought it down.
You sighed, "The good group."
"Thank God. Last time you went out with them was what, after the wedding of one of them last year, right?" You stopped typing.
"Yeah? How do you even remember that?"
He shrugged, "You were stressing out the week prior about your dress, something about not being the right color in the preview, and you also asked for a day off, remember?"
"It was not my fault that they took the photo with bad lighting! The burgundy looked way darker than it should have."
"Believe me, even if it wasn't the right color, you still looked beautiful." He winked and turned around to return to his spot next to the cart, missing the way your skin flushed.
Maybe you do need to get laid.
Which reminded you of the conversation you had with your friends that morning. The reunion went as it always does: each one of you did a recap of the highlights of the last few months, quick jokes between anecdotes over a cup of coffee, and your breakfast election.
Looking back, the topic of your love life was going to be on the table by default. Both of your friends were happily married; one had two kids, while the other was newlywed and expecting. Kids and marriage shanninigangs were the main theme during their turns, so when both turned to you, the "single" sign was already hovering over your head in neon lights with bright arrows pointing at you.
"So what about you? Any cute guy coming to the bookstore?" Mel asked with a playful glint in her eyes, her eyebrows waggling as she rubbed a hand over her growing belly.
You narrowed your eyes over your cup, "Not really."
"Anyone that catched your eye? Any… coworkers perhaps?" Cassie asked, taking a bite of her pastry.
"I don't have any coworkers — well, Bucky… he's my boss, uhm, quasi-boss, more like my manager, if I'm being honest." You rambled as you took a piece out of your pastry with your fingers. "But no one special."
Cassie and Mel exchanged a look, while you obliviously continued eating as you stared out of the window.
"When was the last time you went out on a date?" Mel wondered. "Was it that date with Scott?"
You rolled your eyes, "Don't remind me of him. But yeah, I think so."
Cassie looked at you with her jaw dropped, "Girl, that was before my second pregnancy, and Harrison has 3!"
You winced.
"Wait, but that was the last date. Seriously, your last relationship was with Dylan?" Mel said with a frown, as if reciting the timeline of your lovelife would change the facts.
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, why are you acting as if you didn't know this?"
"I mean, I suspected it, but we rarely talk about your love life! Let alone your sex life!"
"Wow, we are not discussing my sex life." You side-eyed the crowded coffee shop, proper of the hour. "At least not in public and definitely not sober."
"Come on, girl, you are not the type that likes hookups, you're telling me you had slept with someone after Dylan?" You scrunched your nose. "You see my point?"
"I'm fine, I promise. I prefer it this way. I'm happy enjoying my single life and my toys."
Mel shook her head; her face reminded you of how she looked every time there was a debate in class. "Seriously? Haven't you wondered what it would be like? Having someone to share your life, someone who loves you and makes you laugh just as hard as they make you come."
Even Cassie choked on her drink at her words.
"Jesus Christ, I won't believe anything that comes out of your mouth. Hormones and your honeymoon phase glow are talking for you." You said with a fond smile.
Mel blushed, "Yeah, maybe you're right." She chuckled. "However, my point stands."
You rolled your eyes and focused again on your food. After a few moments in silence, Cassie reached her hand, placing it at the side of your plate, forcing you to look up at her.
"What would you say about us arranging a blind date for you?" Cassie said, using the same tone she used when she tried to convince her children to eat some veggies.
"A blind date, really?" You narrowed your eyes at her.
"Yeah, who better to arrange it than your two best friends? We are both in happy marriages, so that's enough to make us more than qualified. We know what you like and what not. We can totally find you a great prospect."
"In what moment did my life become a season of Bridgerton?"
Mel cleared her throat and, holding her cup of tea high, she said with her best British impression: "Dearest gentle reader, you shall be the diamond of this season."
"Easy there, Lady Whistledown." You said, with tears in your eyes from laughter.
"So, what do you say?" Cassie said, laughter still bubbling in her voice.
You considered it for a second. You didn't lie about being happy, but you wouldn't lie that you haven't been wondering what it would be like to have someone. Getting back to your lonely apartment was getting bitterly sad.
"One date. And if it doesn't work out, you two will drop the cupid's work."
Mel squealed, clapping rapidly. "We promise. Oh my God, I can't wait!"
"We won't disappoint you," Cassie said with a bright smile, placing her hand over yours on the table and giving it a few taps. "Better start planning the wedding."
You rolled your eyes, taking a last bite of your pastry and getting up to order Bucky's coffee, knowing that he would kill you if he found out you had gone there and didn't get him something, leaving your friends scheming on the table.
・・・・・
Two days had passed when you got the message. Your shift had just started a few minutes ago, and surprisingly, Bucky hadn't arrived yet, so you were still waiting for him to bring the new arrivals boxes to the front of the store. Without much to do, you took your phone out, and the moment it unlocked, as if it was part of a prank from the universe, the notification popped up.
Mel
You have a date!
Next Saturday. 7 pm.
I'll text you the location.
You
???????
Cassie
He's great, you're gonna love him.
You
Okay??
Mel
He's so nice!
Just make sure to wear something pretty.
Show that curves, babe ;)
You let out a grunt of frustration. This was insane. You had thought they were going to forget, truly. Or struggle to the point that they themselves would tell you that they would give up, since the dating pool looked more and more pathetic nowadays. But two days? In two days, they found someone willing to have a blind date with you. You brought your hand to your mouth and started biting your nail — an old habit that you had thought you had left behind back in college.
A date.
A fucking date.
You hadn't dated in years. The last one had been a nightmare. And before that, you had been in a long-term relationship, where a 'date' consisted of watching a movie or having take-out in his dorm.
What if you fumble this date?
What if, because of your inexperience, you scare a perfect guy away?
"Why the fuck did I agree on this?" You mumbled, burying your head in your hands.
In that instant, the bell over the door chimed, announcing a customer, or so you thought.
"Who's ready for a blind date!" Bucky exclaimed, holding a bag with rolls of gift paper sticking out of it.
Your eyes widened, and your elbows that had been resting on the counter slipped, making you almost lose balance and almost hit yourself on the face. "What?"
Bucky raised the bag, brows knitting together at your reaction. “The dynamic that my mom insists on us doing? The blind date with a book? Did you forget?”
“Oh, yes, that, sorry — yeah, I remember.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes! I — What do you need me to do?”
“We need to wrap the books that are in that box on that table and write the clues on the front. Are you sure you're okay? You can take the day off if you need.” He sounded worried as he scanned your face.
“No!” You exclaimed, horrified, the last thing you needed was going back to your lonely apartment and spiraling alone. “I’m fine.”
He hummed, “I will act as if I believe you.” He approached the counter and leaned in. “But, just remember, you can trust me with whatever you need, okay? I’m your friend.”
You smiled at him and nodded, “Thank you, Bucky.”
He reciprocated your smile and, after tapping the counter, he strutted towards the table he had organized after hours the day before. “Come on, these books won't wrap themselves.”
You took the list of books with the preselected clues from the printer and joined him.
For the next hour, you fell into a system, while Bucky wrapped the books and placed a sticky note in the front so you could know what title it was, while you were in charge of writing the clues and drawing doodles as decoration on the front of each book.
It was probably the tenth time in less than an hour that you had written “Enemies to lovers” and "Fantasy romance," when Bucky called your name.
“Are you sure you're okay? You keep bouncing your leg, and I think you’re gonna rip the top of that pen if you keep biting it.”
Your leg froze mid-bounce.
Your mouth opened and then closed again.
After a sigh, you closed your eyes. “I’m gonna tell you, but please promise me you won't laugh.”
He left the book he was working on on the table, “Hit me.”
“My friends… they just texted me that they arranged a date for me.”
He blinked.
“A date?” He said slowly.
“Well, a blind date.” You pointed at the pile of books next to you. “Kinda ironic if you ask me.”
His eyes fell to the book in front of him and frowned.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing, nothing.” He shook his head. “I just… I’m trying to remember the last time you mentioned something about dating.”
“Well, you can keep digging, but to be honest, I think this is the first time we've touched this topic — at least on my end, I’ve heard many things about your dating life.” You chuckled, hoping that he would take the bait and forget your situation.
“You shouldn't believe rumours.” He squinted his nose.
“You forget we went to the same school,” you said, “Still, since I’ve been working here, I’ve seen you leave early for dates or like that time that girl came looking for you to give you back your wallet that you left in her house.”
He frowned. “That was before. I haven't gone on dates in 8 months.” He made an emphasis on the time passed.
“Oh, really? I haven't noticed.” You said and went back to scribbling on the book in your hands. You felt his eyes still on you, and sure enough, when you lifted your head, he was staring at you with his brows raised. “Shit, that sounded wrong. I mean that I truly hadn't noticed, that was not sarcasm. I do pay attention, it's not like I'm distracted while working, I’m just focused.” You rambled until he started laughing.
“God, you do overthink.”
“That's what my therapist said.” You shrugged while you felt your cheeks burning.
“Is that what is happening here? You overthinking the date?”
You exhaled, exhausted, “I'm overthinking everything. What should I wear? What should I even say? How much is too much? What's expected? I haven't been on a date in years, and before that, dates weren't something that I paid any mind to, and they definitely were far from decent, if I even could call them dates. None of my past boyfriends cared enough to take me on a real date.”
You squirmed, trying to push back the memories of the many times you cried yourself to sleep, thinking that you weren't enough for any of them.
“My friends care, and they say this guy is a great catch, so what if I fuck up? I don't have a problem being single, but… i just don't want to lose something that is good only because of a stupid, bad date.”You ranted.
“That’s… so much pressure.” He softened his voice, empathy written in his features.
“Yeah, imagine having to deal with it.”
A beat.
“You don't have to do it alone, you know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're worrying about going on a date, and here I am, someone who has gone to several dates. You can rant to me about what you're overthinking, and I can help you. Think of me like Yoda but for dating.”
“And I'll be your Jedi?”
His eyes glinted with enthusiasm.
“Yes! You're getting it!”
You snorted, “I don't know if you're insane for suggesting it or I’m even more insane for actually considering it.”
“Is that a yes?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
You sighed, “Fuck it, let’s do it. I don't have anything to lose.”
Bucky punched the air, “Yes!”
“Why are you so happy?” You chuckled, watching as he did a weird celebration dance.
“Can’t I be happy for helping a friend? Think of this as a payoff for the many times you have helped me out.”
“A raise would be nicer, though.” You muttered under your breath.
He stopped dancing and pointed at you. “I’m working on it!”
You rolled your eyes and pointed at the pile next to him. “Go back to work, those books won't wrap themselves.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He said, raising a hand to his head in the form of a salute.
Yeah… this might be a bad idea.
Later that day, you were eating your lunch when Bucky burst into the break room. He sat across from you and, with a smile that promised trouble. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankles as he stretched, and his hands remained threaded together over his stomach.
“Tell me more about you.” He said.
“I’m on my break.” You buried your fork in your plate and brought it to your mouth. "I don't function unless my break is done."
“And you need help. Part of being on a date is being comfortable talking about yourself and listening, so let's practice." He explained.
“Okay…” You looked down at your plate with a frown.
He raised his eyebrows expectantly, “I’m listening.”
You let out a deep breath. “I don't know. I suck at this.”
“Come on, tell me anything. For example, why did you decide to work here? We have never talked about that.”
“It’s stupid.” You mumbled.
“It's not, I promise.”
You locked eyes with him, debating yourself if you should tell him the truth or go with a simpler, less uncomfortable reason. But the more you looked into his blue eyes, the more you remembered who was in front of you — yes, your almost boss slash former crush, but also your friend.
So you went for the truth.
“When I was younger, my parents had a rough patch; there were always fights at home and… I don't know, I was old enough to get out of the house without their supervision, so I went out and walked around until one day I found this place, it was… quiet, peaceful. A safe place.” You said, looking down at your food. “I used to come here every day until they decided to divorce and my dad moved out.”
Your eyes burned, tears threatened to spill as you remembered exactly how you felt those years ago.
“So last year, I was on my way to an interview at a corporation. A boring desk job. Can you believe? And then as I was passing by, I saw you placing that sign.”
“That's why you had a job application with you,” Bucky mumbled. You raised your head to look at him, and when he realized he had said it out loud, he blushed. “Sorry.”
You let out a wet laugh. “Yeah, that's why. The moment I crossed that door… I felt exactly like I did back then. I felt safe, like I was coming back home. It was a no-brainer after that.”
His eyes softened, he reached towards you and placed his hand over your wrist. “I’m glad you found this place.”
You felt your throat tightening; the way he was looking at you was doing things for you that you didn't want to entertain with, so you looked away, removing your hand to pick up your bowl and lean back into your chair.
"Anyways, don't you think that's a topic for a second date, at least? A lot to unpack for a first date." You attempted to joke.
"It's your decision. If you feel comfortable about it, at the end of the day, it's a part of your life."
"I'll have it mind." You glanced at him, and for a second, you thought he was leaning in, but you heard the bell that announced a new customer, interrupting whatever he was thinking of doing.
He closed his eyes for a second, cursing under his breath, and then got up. "I'll go, you finish your lunch."
You nodded, and then he was gone.
The day passed by with more stolen moments whenever the flow of customers died down. He would approach you at the front desk whenever the customers left the shop or in case some were just looking around, and he didn't need to be placing more books or taking some out from the storage. In case you had switched places, he would find you wherever you were in the store and trail behind you as he asked questions.
Some were rapid-fired, especially when he saw someone approaching from the corner of his eye:
Cats or dogs?
Sunrise or sunset?
Sweet or savory?
Early bird or night owl?
If there was time, he made more open questions:
If you had a superpower, what would it be?
What would you do if you won the lottery?
Favorite song and album, and why?
“Okay, so let me see if I’m understanding, so he is going to marry another girl —” He said while you counted the till after he placed the closed sign.
“He wants to propose.” You corrected.
“Tomato, tomahto. He wants to propose, gifting her a star.” You nodded. “And the star is a girl.”
“Yup.”
“And he falls in love with her.”
“Eventually — it's a really good movie.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I don't know, there's something appealing to watch their journey together and how even if they annoy each other from the start, you see them fall in love without them realizing, or at least trying not to think about it.”
“So you're a romantic.” You expected to see a mocking expression, but instead, there was a look in his eyes that you could only think of as genuine curiosity.
“I guess you can say so.”
He hummed, and after he nodded to himself, he took his phone from the table and pocketed it.
“Bucky?” You narrowed your eyes at him. He was moving in silence, something he rarely did, let alone in the middle of a conversation.
"Do you mind closing tonight?" He said, reaching for his jacket behind the counter.
"Where are you going?"
"Unimportant." He put on his jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Unbelievable." You muttered. "And I fucking lost count." You groaned and started over.
・・・・・
It was early, you had just flipped the sign to OPEN just a few minutes ago, and now you were busy accommodating some books when you heard the door open.
“One second!” You called out, taking the last book of the cart and putting it in its place.
“Good morning.” Bucky was waiting for you next to the front desk, leaning against the wood.
“I thought you were a customer.” You said, rolling the book cart with you.
“It’s still early. Here, let's switch.” He turned back, took something from behind him, and walked towards you.
He took the cart and handed you a takeout cup, same one you had bought him the day before.
You inhaled the scent of fresh coffee and mentally scolded yourself for not taking a detour to buy your own cup.
“It's for you, by the way,” Bucky said as he rolled the cart away.
“What?”
“It's your order. Drink it.” He chuckled when he saw the confusion on your face. “What? Sweetheart, don't look at me as if I never do good things for you.”
Maybe it was because you had your guard down, but you flushed.
You didn't answer him; you hid your face and drank from the cup. Only one sip was enough for you to widen your eyes and look at him with surprise.
“It is my order!”
“Of course it is.” He said with a smile, placing the cart in its place and moving to continue the morning routine.
“How?” You took another sip and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of the beverage travel inside you.
“Remember that time, when my parents were here, and I volunteered to bring all of you coffee? Well, I didn't forget your order.”
“That was months ago. I had less than a month here.” You said with surprise.
He shrugged. "I pay attention."
Bucky walked towards the computer and began checking the emails, taking your place at the front desk.
"I see that."
"Oh, by the way, I saw the movie," Bucky said casually over his shoulder. “The one you mentioned was your favorite?”
“Really?”
He nodded, focused on the screen, “Good movie, I see why you like it. And you were right about them.” He turned to face you, “Their journey truly was appealing, but damn, the number of times I just wanted to shake some sense into them so they could see they had what they needed in front of them.” He made a gesture of strangling the air.
You chuckled. “Exactly!”
You kept talking about the movie and other hobbies while working; it felt natural talking with him. Even if during your first month you had tried to keep it professional, Bucky’s charm had been disarming.
You hadn't even received your first check when he was making you laugh and talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
Now, with this whole date situation, Bucky realized that there were many things he didn't know about you, and maybe it was selfish, but he was determined to know you — not his co-worker who could talk about him about the frequent customers, who could keep up with his humor and make him lose his composure while doing inventory and restocking — the real you, the one that lived outside the bookstore when you were out of the clock.
・・・・・
Three days before your date, while both of you were taking boxes out of the storage room, Bucky became bolder.
“Are you planning to have sex with him?” He said casually, holding the door open of the room with one hand and carrying a box with his metal arm so you could go through.
You almost dropped the box in your arms if it hadn't been because he was close enough to keep the box steady with his hand.
“Careful, you don't want to get injured so close to your date.” He said with a teasing smile.
“James Buchanan Barnes!” You scolded him.
He winced. “Full government name? Damn.”
“Why are you even making that question?”
“I swear I’m not a perv.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He snorted. “You mentioned when you were rambling about the date, remember?”
Your eyebrows jumped.
“Well, not explicitly.” He added after seeing your expression. “But you said you were worried about expectations, where the limits are. I thought you referred to that.”
You opened your mouth, but words got stuck in your throat.
“You really have a good memory.” You said instead, placing the box you were carrying on the counter to open it. You tried to use the box cutter, but you struggled to make it glide over the cardboard.
“And you're deflecting, I thought we agreed to be honest.” He approached, towering behind you. “Let me do it.” He said, hovering his hand over yours that was holding the box cutter.
Your breath hitched. He was too close; you could feel his breath fanning on the exposed skin at the side of your neck, and if you took half a step back, you would have his chest against your back.
Instead of taking the blade from your hand, he wrapped his hand over yours, applying enough pressure so the blade could cut through the material.
“We need to change the blade,” He mumbled, removing his hand and with it the box cutter. He put the blade next to the box but didn't move; instead, he placed that hand on the counter, half cagging you.
You gulped, suddenly feeling your mouth dry.
“I’m not deflecting.” You tried to make your voice steady, keeping your eyes trained on the box before you, trying your best not to move back.
He chuckled.
“Then answer.” His voice dropped, low and gravely.
You wetted your lips with a glide of your tongue. And in an attempt to appear nonchalant, you turned around, a decision that quickly made itself noted that it was a bad idea.
You had to tilt your head up to look at him. Suddenly, it felt as if the space between you had shrunk. It didn't help that his metal hand landed on the counter too, fully caging you.
“I — I think it will depend.” You choked.
“Of what?” His eyes scanned your face.
“If there's chemistry. And if he wants to.”
The muscle of his jaw jerked.
“What about you? Do you want to?”
“I don't know yet.” You whispered.
“Would you kiss him?” His eyes dropped for a second to your lips, and then went back to your eyes.
“If things led us there." It was the turn of your eyes to focus on his lips, "Sure.”
“If he had you in this position as I do, would you go for it? A kiss?” He asked when you looked back at his eyes.
“Probably.” There was that again, that glance at his lips.
He hummed, his eyes going back to your lips.
If it hadn't been because the counter was supporting you, you were sure that your knees would have given out.
And then he moved, turning around and going back to taking out boxes.
What the fuck was that?
Before your mind could spiral, he talked again, this time from a much safer distance.
“Whatever you let him do, remember that you're also in control. You can say no. Don't take any step if you don't feel comfortable. Don't give a fuck about his expectations.” Bucky said sternly.
“And if you feel that he's pressing you to do anything that you don't want to, or if you just don't want to be there anymore — you can always reach out to have an escape call.”
“My what?”
He said your name, stopping by the doorframe of the storage room. “Please tell me you have talked with your friends. They are arranging a blind date and not even offering to be your escape call?” He sounded offended.
“I’m confused.”
“You know, when you're on a date, and you want to leave because it's boring, uncomfortable, or you just don't want to be there anymore — a friend can call you.”
You shook your head.
“You should tell them.”
You fidgeted with your fingers.
“I can hear the gears inside your head turning. What's the issue?”
“They know this guy. I don't think I’d need an escape call. Besides, it's on a weekend, they're busy with their family plans.”
“Sweetheart, it doesn't matter if you're going on a date with the best bachelor around; you need to have a safety plan.” He said before getting inside the room.
You sighed. He was right.
"Would you do it?" You said.
"Can you repeat that? I didn't hear you." Bucky said, emerging from the room with two boxes in his arms.
"Would you be my escape call if I need it?"
His eyes softened, and he approached you, stopping right in front of you. "Of course, whatever you need."
You mirrored his smile, and, without thinking about it, you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him.
"Thank you, Bucky." You mumbled against his chest.
He reciprocated the hug, resting his head over yours.
"Not a problem. That's what friends are for."
・・・・・
Days with you, Bucky realized, passed by quickly. This arrangement had pulled you both much closer, so much that Bucky dreaded that it was going to be over soon — sure, you would still be friends like you had been since you started working with him, but he really hoped that the easiness and openness with which you had been interacting these past days would remain.
The day had finally arrived; tonight, you would have your date, and he would see if all the advice and practice had paid off. While Bucky did his morning run around the neighborhood, he realized something, a feeling that he had been having these past days, and had grown more frequent, appeared again, a pang in his chest whenever he thought about you being on a date with another man.
The feeling had come previously, building up softly, creeping until it became painful. Each time he noticed the glint in your eyes when you rambled about something that was on your mind, when you would laugh so hard that your whole body swayed and rested on his side, your smile… soon another man would be on the receiving end of it.
His mind went back again to that day that he had you caged against the counter; he had been so close to kissing you, and after your confession… thinking about this unknown man that would be close enough to do what he had stopped himself from doing, to think that he would be able of feel your lips against his, to touch you, and if he got lucky, he would be able to hear his name out of your lips as you came undone.
Jealousy.
Bucky Barnes was jealous.
He wished that you had a good time, purely because he knew you deserved nothing less than that. But a good time meant that you would like whoever was going to be sitting across from you during your date.
Bucky got to his apartment, his mind still building scenarios, and he got to his shower after checking that Alpine had her bowls of food and water full. Hours passed by with him trying to keep his mind occupied, until his phone rang.
"I need your help." You said the moment the facecall connected.
He could only see your face partly as you moved across your apartment. Bucky noticed that your hair was done; you had opted to let your hair down, making it flow with each movement you did — he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in the crook of your neck.
"Hello to you too, what do you need?" He said quickly. Internally cringing to himself at his earnestness.
He saw how you bit your lip, second-guessing your decision to call him in the first place.
Bucky called your name.
"I told you whatever you need, I'm here. Tell me what it is."
You sighed, placing the phone right in front of you so you could see him properly, still only showing your face.
"I just hung up a two-hour call with my friends, I did my hair, and went through my whole closet." You grunted. "I don't have any idea what to wear. Their only advice is cleavage and a miniskirt, but I'm not sure."
"You want me to drive you to the mall?" Bucky glanced at the clock on his wall, "If we hurry up, maybe you can find an outfit."
You chuckled, "I appreciated, but I do think I can make out something out of my clothes, but —" you wetted your lips with the tip of your tongue. "I called you because I want your opinion on my options… you're also a man, I could use your feedback."
"Of course, sweetheart, show me." He said, interrupting your rambling, especially since you were already flushing.
You smiled at him, and then the image became a blur as you placed the phone against something so he could see you from head to toe. He wondered if this was the same angle that you were using with your friends from the quickness with which you set it up.
"Okay, I think you'll be able to see the look." You mumbled as you stepped away from the phone and then spun around. "What do you think?"
You were wearing a white blouse, paired with a pencil skirt that hugged your curves.
He hummed, "Where is said date?"
"It's a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, not too fancy and not too casual." You said.
"Next outfit then, you look like you're on your way to a job interview."
You gasped, offended. "Is the skirt, right?"
He nodded. "Yep. Next, sweetheart."
You exhaled and then disappeared from the frame.
"Ready? This is the next option." You said, stepping in front of the phone.
Bucky had to stop himself from dropping his jaw and making his eyes go full-on cartoon heart eyes. This outfit was simple, but it was so… you. A black top, with a jacket over it, paired with a long skirt — a long skirt with a slit that went up to your thigh.
"Are you there?" You called out when you stopped spinning.
Bucky blinked and cleared his throat. "Yeah, still here, my connection buffered for a second." He lied. "I think that looks perfect. It's very you."
"You think so?" You leaned towards the phone and smiled; that, and the glint in your eyes, was disarming.
He nodded, "Excuse me for a second." He got up from his couch and went to the kitchen. As he served himself a glass of water, Alpine jumped to the counter and meowed at the phone.
"Is that you, Queen Alpine?" You said. "Long time no see, beautiful."
Bucky frowned, "Do you know my cat?"
"Your mom asked me to go feed her when you went out during your vacations." You explained.
"I thought she had done it." He said as he picked up the phone again and returned to his living room.
"She tried, but Alpine kept acting weird. She asked me to go with her, and it turns out your girl loves me. She let me pet her and ate while I was there."
“She’s smart.”
“That she is.” You agreed. “So, this option?”
“I like that one. But it's your choice.”
“Great, it's my pick too. I have to go, now that I know what I'm wearing, I can do my makeup.”
“Remember, if you need to get out of there, call me, no matter what time it is. I’ll be waiting. Text me when you arrive and get home too, please.”
“Will do. Thank you, Bucky.” You said and then sent him a kiss, “Talk to you later, bye!”
And then you were gone.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch.
Did it make him a bad person that he wished you had a bad date only so you could call him and hear your voice again?
At 6:55, his phone buzzed.
You
I’m here, apparently he's parking his car.
omg he's here
Bucky
Good luck
You left a heart on his message a beat later.
And so his torture began.
Bucky paced around the apartment without much direction. He went to his room and undid and did his bed again, he did his laundry, did the dishes, and started cleaning the apartment — all that with Alpine meowing at him from her spot on the window. Every few minutes, he put his phone out and stared at your text thread.
At 8 pm, he took the keys to his car out of the bowl near the door and put them in his pocket.
“If she needs me, I need to be able to get out quickly.” He said out loud, earning another meow from Alpine, even she could see through his bullshit.
That train of thought made him take a quick shower, change clothes, and put on his shoes.
He wondered if that guy made you laugh.
If he was letting you talk or interrupting you.
If he noticed whenever you wanted to keep talking about something or when you wanted to change topics.
If his eyes dropped to your lips, and if you did the same with his.
Bucky closed his eyes and groaned.
Why the fuck didn't he ask the name of the restaurant? Why didn't he offer to pick you up? Ah, yes, he didn't want to make you think he was a weirdo. Well, now Bucky was suffering the consequences of second-guessing.
By 9:30 pm, he wanted to cry because you hadn't called him yet, and that meant one thing: you were enjoying your date.
And if that was true, that meant that Bucky had lost his chance.
The truth was that Bucky had been harboring feelings for you for what felt like an eternity — even though it had only been less than a year since he had truly interacted with you; he had seen you before, of course, living near and having overlapping time at the same schools. But he was a coward. He liked what you two had, the easy-as-breathing type of friendship, a type of trust and reciprocated respect.
He tried to date other people, only to fully stop a few months ago, once he realized he felt like shit during and after each date. As if each attempt were a direct act of betrayal to you and to his feelings. He had convinced himself that having you as a friend was enough to make his heart stop aching, enough closeness to alleviate his yearning.
And it had been.
Until now.
He buried his face in his hands. He just hoped that this guy, whoever he was, would take care of you, love you the way you deserved.
It was close to ten pm when he gave up and decided to take his pity party to his bedroom. He would stay up until you texted him that you were safe and sound back in your home, but that didn't stop him from throwing himself on his bed and drowning himself in his misery.
He had already said good night to Alpine when he heard someone knocking on his door. Alpine perked her ears and let out a meow.
"Easy, Al, it's probably the neighbor," Bucky said, and then padded to the door.
He opened the door and froze the moment his eyes landed on the person outside.
You.
"Hi, do you mind if I come in?" You said, burying your hands inside the pockets of your jacket.
"Y-yeah, sure, of course, come in." He stuttered and moved aside.
He closed the door behind you.
You whistled, "This place looks and smells good." You said, looking around, then your eyes landed on Alpine. "Hi, Queen!"
Alpine meowed, jumping from her spot at the window and padding to you. You knelt on the floor and brushed your hand over her fur. "Such a pretty girl!"
Bucky was at lost of words, he blinked repeatedly.
Had he gone to sleep, and was this a dream?
"Totally real." You said, standing up and turning around with a smile on your face.
"Did I say it out loud?" Bucky asked.
You nodded, biting your lip and trying to muffle your laugh.
"How was your date?" Bucky wondered, after clearing his throat.
"The date was great, actually." You assured. "His name is Frank, he's a doctor, well, a pediatrician." You added.
"That's good." He croaked, rooted in his spot near the door.
"It is. He's a great guy." You sighed, and then you started pacing around the living room, your eyes scanning the room as you moved around. Bucky could only keep his eyes on you, still confused about what you were doing in his apartment. "The food was amazing. He was a good company too. Your advice helped a lot." You said the last part over your shoulder. "I really felt that the conversation flowed, I felt more confident too."
You turned to see him, and then slowly approached him. "But every single moment I kept thinking about something, and it didn't leave my mind since the moment I hung up our video call."
You stopped a few steps in front of him. "The whole time I kept thinking about another person. I kept comparing his questions to the way he would respond. The way he looked at me." You took a step forward until you had to lift your face to meet his eyes. "The way he made me feel."
"Who did you compare him to?" He whispered.
You tilted your head, a smile pulling the corners of your mouth. "I think you know."
"I — It will really help me if you say it out loud." He said, and you chuckled.
You took another step forward.
"I kept wishing that I was on a date with you." You said softly.
His breath hitched.
"I was wishing the same." He mumbled.
"Thank God, because if you didn't, this whole thing would have been so humiliating."
It was his time to chuckle. His eyes dropped to your lips and back to your eyes. "Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
Bucky lifted his hands and grabbed your face. The moment your lips touched, it was as if fireworks went off inside the room. He leaned into you, making you step back until the back of your thighs brushed the couch.
"Bucky," you whimpered against his mouth.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself down. Your breathing was ragged, as well as his.
"We shouldn't…" He choked out, with a pained look on his face, his control hanging by a thread.
"I want to." You said, reaching your hand to cup his cheek. He turned his face slightly, leaving a kiss in your palm and leaning into your touch. "I want you, and I need you, Bucky, only you."
He opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated, black pools of desire stared at you, and you were sure your eyes mirrored his need.
"Please." You begged with a whisper.
"Fuck." He cursed, the thread of control snapping like a twig.
And then he was on you. He kissed you, a possessive hand held you by your waist, pulling you to him as his tongue brushed your lip, asking for permission to deepen the kiss. Your hand traveled over his broad chest and slid under his shirt.
"I want to feel you." You whimpered. "Please."
"Not here. Come on." You thought he was going to move away to guide you, but instead, he braced an arm around your waist and the other under your knees and lifted you, carrying you towards his room.
With your hand, you guided his face back to you, joining your lips into another kiss as he walked blindly with you in his arms. You were lucky that he didn't bump into the wall or stumble during his path to his room. You assisted him, opening the door without breaking the kiss, and once you were inside and he had kicked the door closed, he let you go to lower you.
He removed his shirt, and you took off your jacket, and between kisses and giggles, the clothes pooled on the floor quickly until you were left in only your underwear, lying in the middle of the bed. He stared at you from the foot of the bed, and when he didn't join you in bed, you propped yourself on your elbows.
You felt heat flushing your skin as you realized he was staring at your uncoordinated underwear. The look on his face was pure hunger as he slowly approached. His hands found your ankles and slowly, oh, so slowly, crept up, leaving goosebumps in their way.
"You weren't planning this. Him having you like this." It wasn't a question. His voice was low and husky.
You shook your head.
"Good girl." He grinned and then, in a quick motion, grabbed you and pulled you down the bed. He held your legs open wide as he positioned himself between your legs and knelt on the floor.
You whined as he began kissing your thigh, getting closer and closer to your core, only to retreat and repeat the motion with your other thigh. "You look so beautiful like this. I've been wanting to do this the moment I saw that skirt on you." He said against your skin. "I thought of kissing every single inch of your skin, higher and higher," he left a kiss over your clothed cunt, "until I got here."
He looked up at you and rested his cheek against your thigh. "Would you let me taste you?"
You were panting as his hands traveled up and stopped at your underwear. You nodded, desperate.
"Use your words, baby." He said, and then let a playful bite in exposed skin.
You gasped. "Y-yes, yes, please."
He smiled and left a kiss on your thigh. "Good girl."
The moment his mouth latched onto your core, you moaned his name. His tongue drew circles around your clit, but his eyes remained on you, watching in awe every gasp and reaction his actions caused.
"Such a sweet pussy, and all mine." Your thighs closed around his head, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to your climax.
And then he stopped.
He moved away from you. When you lifted your head and looked at him, offended, you found him standing up and stroking his cock, a devil grin on his face.
"I wanna feel you coming around my cock, baby." He purred, dragging the tip of his cock between your folds, your slick mixed with his saliva, making him glide with ease.
"Please." You begged, mewling each time his tip brushed your clit.
"Please, what, sweetheart?"
"Put it inside, mmh."
"Do you want me to fuck you?" He cooed, "Make you mine inside out?"
"Yes, Bucky, yes."
He dragged his cock downwards and then pushed inside you, slowly, letting you accommodate him. "Fuck" He cursed, hanging his head low as he fought the urge to thrust inside you. "Relax, baby." With his thumb, he made tight circles around your clit.
"It's been so long," You said, struggling to take deep breaths as he pushed inside inch by inch.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm gonna take really good care of you."
Once he was buried to the hilt, he leaned to kiss you. You latched onto him, one hand on his back and the other on his nape. Slowly, he started grinding his hips; each stroke brought more and more pleasure, until you were clawing his back. His shallow thrusts grew more desperate until he was pistoning into you with force.
His lips traveled down, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your jaw and neck.
"Bucky," you moaned.
"That's it, baby, you're taking me so well." He groaned against your neck.
Your back arched, and you digged your nails into his back.
"I'm…mmph."
"Let go, baby, I got you."
You came with his name on your mouth, locking your legs around him.
"So beautiful, my beautiful, perfect girl." He praised you as he fucked you through your orgasm. "Shit, sweetheart, I need to pull out."
You shook your head. "Cum inside me, please." You pleaded.
"Sweetheart." He furrowed his eyebrows, pushing away his own orgasm by pure will.
"I'm on the pill. I need you, Bucky."
"Fuck." His control snapped like a twig, his rhythm became erratic as he came, and the overwhelming sensation pulled another orgasm out of you, your walls spasming around him. "That's it, baby, take it all. Good girl."
He stayed inside you until your heart stopped hammering in your chest. He collapsed over your body, leaving kisses all over your face that made you giggle.
"You know what this means, don't you?" Bucky asked, bracing his forearm next to your head so he could look you in the eyes.
"Tell me."
"We need to plan a date."
"A date?"
"Yes, baby, it's time that you have the proper date that you deserve." He said, and with his hand, brushed your hair away from your face. "What do you say?"
"I'll love that." You nodded and smiled at him.
"Perfect, you won't regret it."
He left another kiss on your cheek and then buried his face in the crook of your neck, half draped over your body.
"Bucky," you called.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I have a question." He pulled away again.
"Tell me."
"Since you'll be my date… that means that you can't be my escape call, right?"
He huffed a laugh, leaning his head and leaving a playful bite on your shoulder.
"Hey, careful! No wonder Alpine bites everything that crosses her way. She got it from her daddy." He nibbled at your skin again and then, in a quick motion, turned until he was on his back and you were on top of him.
"To answer your question, yes, I can't be your escape call."
"Buu, bummer. You'd better behave on our date then." You mumbled before kissing him.
"I don't know, sometimes misbehaving leads you to wonderful places." He said against your lips as his hand traveled down and grabbed your ass, making your hips jerk and grind over his thigh.
You squealed, "You're trouble, Bucky Barnes."
"So I had been told, but you'll get to love it."
"I think I already do." You whispered.
"Good," He cupped your cheek. "Because I already love you, too."
taglist: @nikkitabarnes @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @swimmingnightcolor @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @spidermanluvr444 @mathcat345 @singulartoast @erina00 @goldiegirl0312 (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts!
This was absolutely wonderful!! I loved the build up between them as friends into something more. I hope they get to live out a beautiful life together
౨ৎ Characters: Ski Instructor!Bucky x Snow Bunny!Reader
౨ৎ Word Count: <8.8K
౨ৎ Summary: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.
౨ৎ Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, strangers to lovers, instructor x student dynamics, pushing professional boundaries, grumpy x sunshine (kinda), mentions of alcohol consumption (not by reader), use of pet names (bunny, sweetheart), slow burn, praise (so much of it. Probably too much. I’m so sorry.), some fluff, consent king!Bucky, oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, aftercare. Reader is described as being clumsy at multiple points. Bucky doesn’t have a prosthetic arm, I couldn’t get it to work :(
౨ৎ A/N: Hi, Barbie! Excited to share my part of the @stantastic-association Bucky’s Dream House collab. A huge thank you to @miraclediviner for setting everything up! I haven’t skied in probably like 15 years at least (which makes me sound so old), so please forgive me for anything that might be wrong.
Main Masterlist || AO3 || Bucky’s Dream House Masterlist
Cool mountain air kisses your skin the moment the lodge doors open. With a deep breath, you plant both boots into the snow, closing your eyes for a brief moment to fully enjoy the crisp breeze and the faint warmth from the morning sun.
A fresh blanket of snow drapes across the ski village and surrounding trees, the mountaintop looming high above the treeline. It's not the Swiss Alps, but the stunning view and relaxing atmosphere is exactly what Alpine Ski Resort is known for.
Phone in hand, you aim the camera and adjust a few settings before taking a picture…until the sound of a throat clearing gets your attention, snapping you back to reality.
Spinning around, a pair of steel blue eyes, hidden beneath dark eyebrows and a black beanie, meet your surprised gaze. He's staring down at you, something akin to annoyance etched in his features. An air of self-importance radiates from him, and without uttering a single word, gives you the impression he doesn't mess around.
It's then you realize people are moving around you like the water of a rushing river, brushing by with barely audible grumbles, while you stand planted in the middle of the doorway like a boulder that refuses to move.
"Oh!" You wince, chin dipping and offering an apologetic smile. "Am I in the way? Sorry! Let me just…" You quickly step to the side, phone clutched carefully in your hand.
He doesn't speak, simply nodding once before heading toward another building. The large INSTRUCTOR patch on the back of his jacket is impossible to miss. As someone who works with the public, he seems…pleasant.
"Grumpy…"
"Who's grumpy?"
Your friend, Lana, pops up beside you, head tilted in curiosity as she tries to follow your gaze. The man has already gone inside.
You shake your head and shrug it off, hooking your arm with hers and beaming brightly. "No one. Shall we?"
Lana returns your smile and pulls you away from the lodge, footsteps falling into sync.
When the day began, being a nuisance was not on the itinerary. You hoped the doorway would be the last time you were in anyone's way.
Yet not even an hour later, you accidentally wander into a training area, too focused on an evergreen tree that had just the right amount of snow on its branches.
"Miss," a deep voice politely sounded from not ten feet away, "Please give us some space."
You glanced up just long enough to see the same man from earlier, his arms crossed over his chest, while a student who couldn't have been more than six wobbled down the small incline.
You rushed away without a word, heat creeping up your cheeks.
By noon, you nearly lose your footing outside the rental shop, arms flailing wildly with a squeak and phone flying through the air before you manage to catch yourself. When you finally spot your phone half buried in the snow, someone is already picking it up. Only—to your utter dismay—to be met with those blue eyes that are growing painfully familiar.
The phone is open to one of the pictures Lana took where your foot was kicked up behind you like a Genovian princess. His gaze glances down at it before he places the device in your outstretched hand, and he looks like he's trying to fight back a laugh—or maybe just stop his eyes from rolling out of his head.
You try to laugh it off, thanking him quickly for the phone, before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
By the time the sun dips a bit lower in the horizon and the après-ski parties begin, you're more than ready for a change of outfit and a stiff drink.
Warmth spreads quickly across your chilled skin as you enter the lodge, the fuzzy oversized coat you slipped on doing little to protect you against the cold evening air after changing out of the snowsuit and into something cute. Though the day had been sunny and warm, the moment the mountaintops began to hide the sun, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.
People are scattered throughout the lodge, some lounging on couches near a large fireplace while others gather around pool tables. Music is faint behind the chatter of guests. It's one of the calmer parties you've been too, but after the embarrassing day of the universe throwing curve balls in your direction, a relaxing night sounds perfect.
"I'm gonna find us a spot," Lana says, eyes already roaming the room for an empty seat. Then she points at you, eyebrows raised, adding, "Drinks?"
"Got it. Scotch on the rocks."
She gasps, eyes going wide, and you almost don't hear her protests when you start walking to the bar, a grin playing on your lips.
Sliding into an open spot at the bar, you wave the bartender down, nearly missing the loud sigh just off to the side.
"There is a line, you know."
Something about the deep voice sounds painfully familiar. A twinge of dread twists in your gut when you finally drag your gaze in the direction of the voice.
"I'm so sorry, I genuinely didn't even notice." You look at the man who spoke, eyes meeting his annoyed blue ones when it hits you—you've seen that hue far too many times today, and always when you're not at your best. Just behind him, there's a small line of patrons watching you; some annoyed, others too busy with wandering gazes to be angry.
Of course it happened again. Of course, despite the various bars and parties occurring all over the resort, the one you pushed Lana to go to for the quieter ambiance is the one where he would be.
"Aren't you that instructor guy I keep seeing today?"
He's changed, no longer in the standard issue red jacket and his perfectly styled hair no longer hidden under a beanie, but it's him. The crease in his brow deepens when confusion crosses his features briefly, then recognition flashes.
He sighs again. "Pink snowsuit."
You nod in silent confirmation, nose scrunching a bit. The way he said it does not bode well.
"You must absolutely hate me by now," you joke with a short laugh, leaning against the bar as casually as you can manage. "I swear I'm not doing it on purpose."
His eyes study you, and you swear curiosity appeared in them before indifference fills his voice. "Could've fooled me."
Lips pressed together and ignoring the inkling of offense tugging at you, you stand a bit straighter, forgetting about the line continuing to form behind him.
"Do you always think inconveniences are solely about you?"
"Considering you've spent all day being in the way and not even touching a pair of skis? Maybe a little."
Your lips part, brows shooting up into your hairline. "I—that's not—I was going to."
"Sure," he huffs.
He turns towards the bartender, effectively dismissing you as he orders his drink. The bartender gives him a nod, eyes flicking to you before getting to work. Chatter from the bar fills the tense silence. You don't move.
"Do you actually ski?," he finally asks, voice gruff. "Or are you just here for pictures?" His hand wraps around a glass of amber liquid as it's slid across the bar.
"I can ski! I was just…planning on doing it tomorrow. Today was recon day."
He lifts a single brow.
That's a lie.
You haven't skied since you were little, school field trips the only experience you've had. In fact, you're confident you'd land face first in the snow if you tried.
"Really?" He mutters with false intrigue, raising the glass to his lips. "I'd be surprised if you made it down the bunny hill without starting an avalanche. How many times did you nearly trip over your own boots today?" He watches you carefully over the rim of his glass, eyes twinkling. Is he amused by this?
"You don't even know me, sir," you retort, crossing your arms. "Skiing is like second nature to me."
Where the hell did that come from?
He smirks knowingly. "Prove me wrong."
You blink at him.
"What?"
"Prove me wrong. You said you're skiing tomorrow? Lucky for you, I just happen to have a free morning." He pauses, leaning forward. "Unless you'd rather stick to the camera."
Your eyes narrow, defiance growing with every second. This man doesn't know a single thing outside of your appearance and a bad day, yet something about the look in his eyes makes you want to dig in your heels.
"I don't just take pictures."
His expression doesn't change. Patience must be his biggest virtue as he takes another sip of his drink, silently waiting. Like he knows you're about to break.
A short scoff slips between your lips. "Fine. What time?"
The corner of his lips twitch, the glass in his hand finally lowering as he turns to fully face you.
"Eight. Think you can be up that early, bunny?"
Bunny. He says it like a taunt, as though you're supposed to be embarrassed that you enjoy cute outfits, snow, and the resort scene.
You force a smile, flashing your teeth and tilting your chin up.
"I have a name," you reply, offering it quickly before continuing, "I'll be there. And I'll look damn adorable, too, thank you very much."
Your feet are carrying you away from the bar before you even think about it, face warm, fists clenched with determination while the feeling of his gaze stays trained on the back of your head. The thought of drinks is long gone, and when you finally plop down on a couch next to Lana empty-handed, her expression shifts to confusion.
"Where's my cocktail?"
— — —
Morning comes far faster than you hope despite sleep evading you.
Tossing and turning didn't help. Neither did flipping the pillow to the cold side. You tried watching a bit of TV, grateful Lana has her own room so you don't bother her, but you ultimately end up pulling up instructional skiing videos on your phone—a futile attempt to reconnect with your memories of skiing as a kid. If you could do it then, you can do it now, right?
By the time your alarm goes off, the knot in your stomach that has been forming for hours is tighter than ever. Food is the last thing on your mind when you finish getting ready, but you shove a granola bar into your mouth anyway to ensure you have some sort of energy for the day ahead.
With one last glance in the mirror to ensure everything is perfect, you're out the door and tugging on your gloves before the sun has even fully risen.
You refuse to be late.
The rental shop is surprisingly busy this early. Gear is organized in perfect rows, employees are assisting guests in finding the perfect fit, and parents are doing their best to wrangle their kids into ski boots. One toddler manages to get a hold of a ski pole, swinging it around like a sword before their dad snatches it from their tiny fist. It's a brief, welcome distraction before a throat clears, pulling your attention to the employee behind the rental counter.
A few minutes later, you find yourself on a bench outside the shop, skis haphazardly laying on the ground as you fight to get the ski boots on your feet. The sun is no longer hiding below the horizon, casting bright rays that glitter across the fresh snow that must have fallen last night. Your fingers fidget with the buckles with no luck, becoming increasingly frustrated. How hard is it to put these things on?
"It's easier if you stand up."
Your heart drops. The voice is deep, a little rough from lack of use this early in the morning, but familiar enough to make you tense.
Eyes widening and gloved fingers freezing in place, you slowly look up to find the familiar deep blue irises staring down at you. A mix of amusement and annoyance dances in his eyes when he notices the skis on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudges them closer to where you're seated. He's wearing the same red jacket as yesterday, finally giving you a clear look at the front where the name Bucky is embroidered on his chest, just beneath the resort's logo.
"You actually made it," he grunts, eyes on you again, lips turning up almost imperceptibly. The slight raise of his brows beneath his beanie make him look mildly impressed. You're probably imagining it. "Are you sure you got enough beauty rest?"
"Of course I made it." Your focus returns to the matter at hand, trying to ignore his comment and the feeling of his eyes watching every little movement you make. "Maybe you should stop doubting me."
"Maybe," he responds slowly, dragging the word out, "but we haven't made it onto the slopes yet, bunny."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname he insists on using. When the buckles still don't easily lock in, you sigh, reluctantly standing and trying again. Sure enough, the buckles click tight without a problem. Of course they do.
Bucky doesn't give you a moment before he's adjusting his skis in his arms and turning away.
"Grab your gear, we'll start on the bunny hill."
You scramble to pick up your skis, immediately fumbling when one slips out of your grip and crashes back to the ground. Heat rushes to your cheeks before you're snatching it up again, rushing now to try and catch up with his long strides.
Only it's harder than you expect.
The boots are clunky and heavy, each step far more difficult than you remember. The skis knock against each other, clacking sounds ringing through the crisp air and only adding to the embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.
He glances back once.
A few steps later, he looks back again.
"You ski often?"
You hesitate. "Obviously."
He blinks. "Mm. Obviously."
You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face when he faces forward again, his pace finally slowing down enough for you to catch up. Bucky stays silent, but the feeling of his eyes on you is unmistakable. Watchful. A little judgemental.
The ski lift for the bunny hill finally comes into view, making the knot in your stomach twist painfully now that reality and exposure are on the precipice. There's only one way you can imagine this going; a face full of snow, dignity gone, and a certain ski instructor watching it all go down. Where's Lana when you need her?
Bucky's gaze flicks towards you again. Lingering. Waiting.
He stops just shy of the line, popping his skis on like it's nothing. Simple. Easy.
Until you try to do it, of course. Heel then toe? Toe then heel? Which way is the ski supposed to face?
Bucky stands there quietly watching as you spin in place trying to figure out how to get it on. The smirk is infuriating, but you're trying not to think of it when you finally get one ski on, the other following suit after a shuffle of your feet has you nearly losing your balance.
"Good job," he says with a nod, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Looks like the bar is starting high today."
"Don't you worry your grumpy head, Bucky." You wave him off, trying desperately to hang on to what little pride is still hanging on by a thread. "I'll blow that bar out of the water in no time."
By the time the two of you make it onto the lift—a miracle in itself after nearly running into the employee operating it when you forgot how to stop—nerves have settled fully into your bones. The sun is slowly warming the air, but the cold breeze blows straight through your coat. Or maybe it's the attitude coming from the world's most people-friendly instructor.
The silence is deafening for a few moments, long enough to feel deliberate. He shifts slightly in his seat before speaking.
"Make sure to keep your weight forward when we get off."
Your gaze, which has been focused on the pink knit fabric of your gloves, lifts to see him watching you carefully. There's something in his eyes you can't quite place.
"Yeah, forward. Got it."
His eyes narrow slightly, studying you. Silence fills the space once more.
You avert your gaze to the snow covered trees below, hoping he can't see the way your hands are shaking. The thought crosses your mind to snap a picture from this vantage point, but with your luck this weekend, it'll probably slip from your grip and bury itself in the snow to never be found again.
The lift arrives at the top, and you follow every move he makes as he prepares to dismount, scooting to the edge of the seat. When your skis brush the slick snow below, panic has you sucking in a sharp breath.
Bucky pushes off the seat with practiced ease, already gliding forward and leaving you alone. You don't hear him giving instructions, you simply lean forward and let gravity do the work.
To your surprise, it works.
You glide down towards him, arms out and wobbling only a little bit, before managing a successful stop directly in his path. His eyes flash with something like surprise—vanishing almost as quickly as it appears.
Your back straightens with a bit of pride, then—
"Don't get too excited," he mutters. "You still have to go downhill."
Your heart drops. He's right.
You glance over at the slope just a few feet away. It's not that steep—it is the bunny hill, after all—but the daunting task of staying balanced and sliding downhill without falling on your face or breaking something is suddenly hitting you like a punch to the gut.
All because of pride.
"No, of course," you mumble with a nod. Your throat tightens. "Downhill is the easy part."
A cool breeze brushes against skin that's becoming warmer by the second. Kids and parents ski by, heading down the hill like it's simple. Your fingers curl into tight fists in an attempt to hide the tremble threatening to expose your bluff.
Your eyes are glued to the line of skiers at the bottom, so you don't notice Bucky move closer.
"You don't know how to ski, do you?" His voice is low, warmer than you expected it to be with a hint of amusement. "I need you to be honest with me before I let you go down that hill."
Finally, slowly, you tear your gaze from the skiers to find his eyes in you. Always watching. There's concern there, a slight crease in his brow.
"I know how—"
He gives you a look.
You take a breath, shoulders slumping.
"I haven't skied since I was a kid."
Bucky rolls his shoulders. The concern in his eyes is replaced with amusement, and his lips flatten into a tight line like he's debating between scolding and laughing at your expense.
He settles on neither.
"Let's start with your stance," he instructs, adjusting his own and bouncing lightly on his knees. "Feet shoulder-width apart, not…whatever you're doing."
You blink at him in surprise. Every bone in your body would've bet on him leaving you stranded up here after lying about your abilities, not stepping in to help.
He nods once, silently encouraging you to follow his lead. "Try it. Stay loose or you'll go down."
With a sigh, you adjust your stance, but it still feels wrong. Unbalanced. Tight.
"Like this?"
Bucky looks at you, the corners of his lips twitching.
"…No."
You huff, heat crawling up your neck at his blunt assessment. "Excellent teaching skills, very encouraging." His lips pucker slightly and a muscle in his jaw ticks.
Looking down to avoid his gaze, you attempt to fix it, widening your stance and tucking your elbows in tighter.
"Stop," he grunts. Shaking his head, Bucky moves closer, closing most of the distance. His skis bump against yours. "Knees in."
You try again, overcorrecting so far it feels like gravity caught the hood of your coat and is giving one good pull. His hands shoot out, one landing on your elbow as the other finds the small of your back, catching you before your feet can slip out from under you.
Your heart skips a beat, though you're unsure if it's from the near fall or the sudden contact.
"Not that far." His voice is quiet, a little frustrated, but it almost sounds like he's holding back a laugh. "Shoulder-width," he reminds. His hands fall away, leaving you strangely aware of the space between you.
With a short nod, you find your balance, more aware now of where your knees are. It feels better already, steadier. He gives a grunt—something that almost sounds like approval.
"You're too tight. Loosen up a little," he instructs. "Fingers, elbows, knees…relax. When you go down the hill, you want to be loose. Work with gravity, not against it."
Relax. Got it. You can do that. With a roll of your shoulders, you loosen your fingers and give a small bounce of your knees.
He nods. "Okay, now show me a wedge."
You aim the front of the skis into a triangle, the stance needed to stop.
"Good," he says quickly. "That's perfect."
Oh.
Heat floods your cheeks fast—too fast.
The breeze picks up again just in time to use as a welcome distraction. You turn your face into it, and away from him, hoping to cool down despite the sun now beating down from a cloudless sky. If he notices your reaction, he doesn't say a word. Instead, he starts talking about the hill and how to go down safely, but you're not listening. Until—
"Earth to bunny."
Your gaze snaps back to him at the nickname, though the warmth accompanying it is new. "Sorry, did you say something?"
"Are you ready to go down? Can't stay up here forever."
Your stomach drops at the reminder. Of course, downhill. How could you forget? You swallow hard and brush him off with a dismissive wave of your hand. It's just skiing. Kids do it.
Bucky's eyes are on you, studying. Like he can see the false confidence waving in the air like a white flag.
He doesn't comment on it.
Instead, his voice remains low and steady, running through everything he just covered. You try to pay attention, but as you slowly approach the slope and the point of no return, the hill suddenly looks even more daunting than before. Steeper. Taller.
With a deep breath, and mustering all the courage you have, you begin the descent without waiting for him.
Something feels off immediately.
Gravity feels stronger. The skis feel like they're fighting to pull ahead.
You lean forward—but that suddenly feels like a mistake, and now you're moving faster. Your mind goes blank in the panic, the knowledge of how to stop or slow down flying out the window. The hill's slope feels as though it's pulling you uncontrollably down it.
Suddenly, Bucky's voice cuts through the noise closer than you expect. It doesn't register at first; too focused on watching your skis and the way they're pointing at two different angles.
"Eyes on me, bunny."
When your panicked gaze snaps up to see him moving in front of you, skiing backwards like it's the easiest thing in the world, something clicks.
He was ready.
His hands are outstretched, ready to grab you at a moment's notice.
"Heels out, slow down."
With your mind finally clearing, you adjust your skis until they're wedged, the speed immediately decreasing.
"There you go," he murmurs. "Just like that. You're doing great."
A breath.
It's not like you haven't heard it before. In fact, you've always thought yourself capable…with the unfortunate habit of not always paying attention when your phone is in your hand. But the way the words slip through his lips, warm with the slightest hint of pride, hits harder than it should.
When you finally reach the end of the slope and drift to a stop, Bucky backs off, and it somehow feels a moment too soon.
Everything feels a little strange. The sun is too bright, the air suddenly warm, the crowd nearby a little loud.
With a deep breath and a shake of your head, you force a smile and turn towards the line. "Come on, Bucky. Round two." His brows raise, but he doesn't argue, following your lead.
By the time you're on the lift, you're more determined than ever. It's you that pushes off first. It's you that moves toward that same edge, stopping just before the point of no return.
It's like riding a bike; the first time is a little rusty. Shaky. Every time you get back on, you get steadier and more confident.
Only, when you lean forward and start going down the hill full of confidence you shouldn't have yet, you realize quickly that staying slow can actually be difficult. The wedge isn't working quite the same. Panic starts, but you squash it down and correct. Except the adjustment is too much, and one ski bounces on an uneven dip, making you lose balance.
The world tips as your arms fly out instinctively to catch yourself, and you land in the snow with a soft whump, sending a puff of powder flying into the air.
Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears and making the world fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.
Then there's laughter. Deep but short, like it came out before he could stop it.
"Please let this be a stupid dream," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut.
Bucky comes to a stop next to you, still chuckling. "Round two, huh?"
"Please don't."
There's a pause, and you open an eye to peer up at him. The corner of his mouth is still twitching. Then he's crouching down, voice lowering as the crease in his brow deepens.
"Are you okay?" There's a shift in his tone, a softness that definitely wasn't there before.
You don't answer at first, too embarrassed. But then his hand finds your arm, touching it with a gentleness you didn't think he possessed. And it makes your gut do something funny.
"Seriously, are you hurt?"
The genuine concern laced in the deep timbre of his voice is a welcome surprise. It's warm. And professional, you remind yourself.
"I'm fine. I just decided to check the quality of the snow," you say, patting some of the fresh powder. "It's nice and…powdery."
A moment of silence passes where his incredibly blue eyes are narrowed and staring at you, holding eye contact a little too well. Finally, he hums, seemingly satisfied before standing and offering his hand.
You hesitate for a second before taking it and letting him pull you to your feet. Your pride is well and fully bruised at this point, confidence dipping low. Part of you hopes this will just end here. That he'll decide you're not worth the effort when he's not officially your instructor, that his challenge proved him right—
"Let's try again," he says simply, cutting your pity party short. No hint of teasing, no smirk. Encouragement.
It takes only a heartbeat before you're brushing off the snow and nodding. This time, when he starts offering instructions in a low, calm voice, you listen.
"Slow, control your speed."
"Heels out, bunny, you can do it."
When the wedge finally works, not perfect but enough to come to a full stop, a small smile tugs at his lips. "Good. That's better."
The next run comes easier.
So does the next.
It quickly becomes a pattern. He follows closely at your side, eyes analyzing everything you do. Every wrong move is followed by a gentle correction. Every adjustment is followed with some form of praise.
"That's it."
"Yes, there you go."
"Perfect, bunny, great form. Keep that."
And every time you get it right, you can feel it. Your chest tightens. Your breath catches. Your cheeks feel permanently warm, but maybe it's just the sun.
Several runs down the bunny hill in, mistakes are becoming minimal and you find yourself watching him instead of the run. Waiting. Listening. Until nothing comes at all, and disappointment unexpectedly tugs at your gut.
When the sun finally reaches the highest point in the sky, the two of you stop at the bottom of the hill for what feels like the millionth time. Your legs are tired, a little shaky from the exertion.
"You're getting it," he finally says. Bucky looks at his watch before squinting at the sun, a bead of sweat glistening on his hairline. He turns to meet your gaze. "That's it for today."
"Wait, what?"
He nods towards your legs before speaking. "Your legs are about to give out," he says matter-of-factly, "and I don't want to have to carry you down the mountain." The warmth is almost gone, replaced with the same teasing tone he had earlier this morning, but now there's a glint of something in his eye you can't quite name. Lingering. "Besides, I'm sure you'll need your strength for après-ski tonight."
You blink.
"Who says I'm going to après-ski after that?" you ask incredulously, placing your hands on your hips. His gaze drops to the way your knees wobble beneath you, the corners of his lips curling almost imperceptibly before his blue eyes meet yours once more.
His head tilts slightly. "Get a drink, bunny," he replies, voice lowering, "you earned it." He smirks before turning and leaving you standing at the end of the run alone.
— — —
The White Wolf Lodge is crawling with people when you and Lana finally step inside later that night, busier than it had been yesterday. Despite her protests to "find something with more oomph", you insisted on returning…just in case. Lana grins with delight, bouncing in her heeled boots as she takes it in.
"I'm getting drinks this time," she says pointedly. You open your mouth to protest, but she shuts you up with a look before turning and winding her way through the crowd in a blur of hair and perfume.
It's busy. Too busy. And despite the insistence to your brain that you weren't hoping to see a certain someone, a wave of disappointment hits you all the same. Because there's no way he'll be here with this many people around.
By some miracle, two chairs open up just as you push through a small opening of people. You sit quickly and take in your surroundings. A DJ booth is set up in the corner this time, the music loud enough to rattle the seat, and the pool tables are completely surrounded by people either dancing or ignoring the game altogether.
When your gaze finally drags over to the bar where Lana is currently leaning over it and pointing at something to the bartender, your heart nearly stops.
Those incredibly blue eyes, the ones who have seen you hit too many lows for comfort this weekend, catch your attention like a beacon. The eye contact is brief. Too brief…yet simultaneously too long. He turns away, but not before you catch the way his lips curl up at the corners.
Damn it.
"One cocktail for you, madame," Lana announces out of nowhere and hands you a glass. "Drink up."
"Actually," you say slowly, already setting the glass down, "I think I'm going to get some air." Lana doesn't say a word, watching as you leave for the door that leads towards a balcony overlooking the resort.
The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains, casting a pink and orange glow over everything. Lights flicker on across the resort and slopes as the night skiers begin their evenings. It's quieter out here, only the faint thumping of music filling the air.
You take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity for a moment before the sound of heavy boots approaches slowly, stopping just off to your side.
"Still standing, I see."
There's a lightness in his tone—impressed and teasing. Your eyes roll.
"I told you, you don't know me." You glance over at him. "I'm adorable, but I'm not helpless."
Bucky meets your gaze for a moment before looking out at the view. He nods thoughtfully before he shakes his head with a laugh, a real one that catches both of you off guard. He steps forward and rests his arms on the railing, close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him.
"For the record, I never said you were helpless. You just seemed a little too attached to your phone for your own safety."
You scoff, annoyed for a second, before conceding. "Yeah, sure. I'll give you that."
He smirks. "I guess this means I was wrong about you. You proved me wrong, bunny. You successfully made it down the mountain multiple times. Well done."
There it is again. Two incredibly simple words that shouldn't have the affect they do, yet the heat rising in your cheeks is unstoppable. What is it about this man that his approval so addicting?
You release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and turn to watch the ski lifts sway gently in the wind.
"Thanks," you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. The world suddenly feels smaller than it should. His gaze doesn't leave your profile, like he's studying you again. Reassessing.
There's a pause in the conversation, allowing the hum of muffled music and the squeal of children throwing snowballs down below to fill the silence.
Several moments pass before he leans a bit closer and breaks the silence. "You're awfully quiet right now. It doesn't suit you."
You raise an eye brow and glance at him. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet."
Something flashes in his eyes too quick to catch.
"Mm. I'm not sure that's it." He turns to fully face you now, elbow resting on the railing. "I watched you today."
Your heart stops, but you try and brush it off. "You were instructing me, of course you watched."
Bucky laughs, a rumble that vibrates deep in his chest. "No, I mean when you thought I wasn't paying attention. You know what I learned about you?"
You don't answer, choosing to focus on the way butterflies are threatening to erupt in your gut.
"You get flustered pretty easily."
His gaze holds yours, searching for any reaction, any hint that his words mean something. When you still don't respond, his voice lowers almost dangerously.
"I think you like the attention."
Your heart skips a beat.
"Maybe I do." Your voice comes out quieter than you intend. "But you're still giving it to me."
The way Bucky is looking at you makes your stomach do a somersault. With a twinkle in his eye and a grin he's fighting to keep hidden, he takes a half-step closer, making your breath catch.
"Probably because I like giving it to you, bunny."
Smooth as silk, and it hits exactly how he wants it to—a sharp breath and the flick of your eyes to the door leading back to the party inside before finding that unwavering gaze again. The sun has slipped completely behind the mountains now, leaving the warm lighting of the lodge's balcony to soften his sharp features.
"You're ridiculous," you whisper weakly, but you both know the tension in the air is thickening fast.
He chuckles softly. "Yet you're still here."
"I was here first."
He hums, looking out at the darkened view for a minute like he's considering something. And then his focus is on you again.
"Do you want to go somewhere else?"
He lifts his hand palm up between you, a silent invitation.
Your gaze drops to it. It's large and unfairly steady compared to the way he just made your pulse flutter. But you don't take it. Not yet.
"My room isn't far," you say without thinking, looking back up.
His expression shifts with a blink—eyebrows raising a fraction as a small smile, warm and satisfied, forms on his lips.
You take that as agreement, and suddenly your feet are carrying you back inside.
Every step is unhurried as you move through the noise and chaos of the lodge. You don't even have to glance back to know he's right behind you, a steady presence.
Each hallway gets quieter than the last, the tension slowly increasing with every corner you turn until finally stopping at your door.
For a moment, neither of you move.
Your fingers are wrapped around the keycard already, and the silence is almost deafening. When you second guess yourself and turn to ask if he's sure, you find him leaning against the wall.
Too casual. Too calm. Too—
Bucky smiles. Slow. Devastating.
Your breath catches.
His eyes flick to your lips, parted with a question that won't come out, then back to your eyes.
That's all it takes before you step towards him. Not the whole way, but enough. He closes the distance.
His hands cradle your face before his mouth finds yours, lips moving at a languid pace like we have all the time in the world. Your hands find the soft fabric of his shirt as he tilts your face just a little.
A soft hum slips from your throat, which only seems to encourage him into picking up the pace.
You don't break apart until the sound of footsteps and laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you find yourself gently pushing him away to try and get the door open. He barely moves, watching as you struggle to get the card in the reader twice before it finally unlocks.
Bucky holds the door open for you to go through first, and when it finally closes with a click, he immediately backs you into the nearest wall.
His body is a solid mass against yours, pressing firmly against you. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, as the other cups your face with a slow brush of his thumb.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."
His breath fans across your lips in ragged puffs, like he's desperately trying to stay composed. But when your arms encircle his neck and pull him in for another kiss, his restraint snaps.
It starts slow. Tasting. Exploring.
Then the kiss deepens—your hands in his hair, his holding the nape of your neck like he's afraid to let you go. When his knee slots between your legs, pressing right where heat has been pooling far longer than you realized, a small whimper pulls from your throat before you can stop it.
He freezes. A slow curve of his lips accompany a low chuckle, and suddenly his lips are trailing to your jaw and down to your neck, his hands beginning to explore.
"God," he mumbles against your skin, "you sound good. Wonder what other noises you make."
You huff a laugh, half flustered half amused, your own hands beginning to tug at his coat, but your mind is stuck on the hard length pressing into your lower belly.
Bucky doesn't waste another second. He shrugs off his coat before cupping both sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, more insistent now. He lifts his arms, only breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head before it's tossed aside and his mouth finds yours again.
The sudden movement has your head spinning, knocking you off balance when he begins to tug you by the waist one, two steps away from the wall.
You barely register each step as clothes begin to peel away, leaving a trail of fabric to the bed. When the back of your knees press into the edge of the mattress, he follows you down instantly, bracing himself above you with one hand as the other trails slowly down your side.
His eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Still wanting my attention?" he murmurs.
A soft laugh. "More than anything."
Bucky kisses you again with a low groan before starting a slow trail down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. He lingers too briefly at your breasts, kneading, sucking, and groaning softly before continuing down, ultimately settling between your legs with a gentle push of his hand.
You watch as his fingers play with the waistband of your panties, torturing you with a glance back up to your pleading eyes.
His lips part like he's going to say something, but then he glances back down at the fabric clinging to your wet heat and he groans instead. Slipping a finger into the gusset, he slowly peels it down and off your legs.
"Look at you," he whispers. "So pretty."
He starts slow, his thumb brushing carefully up your slit, gathering slick as he goes. Your fingers curls into the plush duvet when he licks his lips, looking like a starving man at a buffet.
And then his tongue is on you.
Hot, flat, and tasting you slowly from entrance to clit.
You gasp, your head falling back to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes closed, an "oh, fuck," slipping from his lips before he's spreading you open with both thumbs and licking again. The sensation has you tingling, fingers gripping tighter, and when his lips attach to your clit without warning, a strangled whimper fills the soft silence of the room.
He hums, seemingly pleased at your reaction. And then his tongue is moving again. Slow. Flat. Flicking your clit before circling it with expert precision.
"Bucky," you whine. Your hips buck up in a silent plea for more.
He chuckles, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through your core. "Oh, bunny, you taste incredible," he murmurs. Your chest heaves as he exchanges his tongue for a single finger, pulling back just enough to look back up at you, lips already glistening with your juices.
He's watching you carefully for every reaction, every hitch in your breath has he rubs tantalizingly slow circles on your clit with too-soft pressure. Seemingly satisfied, he licks his lips again and dips his finger into your entrance, curling it just right and pulling a soft moan from your throat.
Bucky grins like he just won the lottery.
He leans back in, continuing where he left off with unhurried movements as his mouth and finger work in tandem. Pressure is coiling low in your gut, tighter with every brush of his thick fingers against the soft spot deep inside. A second finger joins quickly, stretching you open. One of your hands abandons the duvet altogether, burying into his hair to ground you.
He grunts in approval, picking up the pace. His mouth is relentless, sucking and licking your dripping folds.
"Fuck," he murmurs, "you're squeezing my fingers. You close, bunny?"
You nod quickly, brows drawn together in pleasure as your fingers grip his hair a little tighter. He growls when he feels your back begin to arch off the bed.
"There you go—fuck, you're doing great. Just relax and let go."
You moan loudly when your orgasm crashes over you, a white hot pleasure coursing through your veins in waves. Your legs shake and squeeze around his head, earning a deep groan from him. Bucky keeps up his movements, prolonging the pleasure as he groans against you.
His tongue laps up the juices as you come down from your high.
"Good fucking girl," he mutters, pulling his fingers out. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh before moving back up and kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on him.
"You've got quite the mouth on you," you laugh breathlessly when he pulls away, lowering himself and pressing his still-clothed bulge against your sensitive folds.
Bucky chuckles.
"I've got more than that." He grins and does one grind against you to punctuate his point. Wrapping your arms and legs around him, your hips roll once with his, not caring you're soaking into his briefs.
"Do you have a condom?" he huffs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your flesh. "I…wasn't planning for this or I would've stolen one from my roommate."
You shake your head. "I'm clean and on the pill."
He groans, kissing you again and silently thanking any god that will listen for the snow bunny beneath him.
Bucky slips the now soaked material off, his cock slapping against his stomach as he looks at you with a newfound hunger, precum already beading on the flushed tip. Your eyes widen when his hands wrap around the length, giving one slow pump. He's thick and you're already salivating.
He moves to bracing himself above you. His knee pushes your legs further apart before he's rubbing the length through your wet folds, gathering your arousal before lining himself with your entrance.
He stops for a moment, chest rising and falling. Then his eyes are on you. And before you can say a word, he's pushing in.
Slow.
The stretch is delicious, each inch splitting you open. His eyes don't leave yours.
When he bottoms out, your eyes flutter shut, feeling more full than you ever have in your life. You can feel him shift, his body warm and solid as he settles above you, one hand bracing himself as the other gently grips your waist and waits for you to adjust.
When your eyes open again, his blue ones are watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation.
"You okay?"
You nod, your throat not quite working. He nods in response, doing one test roll of his hips and making you gasp.
He smirks.
"Don't fucking look at me like that." Your laugh comes out strained, your hands somehow find themselves in his hair again.
He chuckles and does another roll. Slower. Just to see if you'll make the same sound. He grins when you do.
"You're so tight," he grunts. "Fucking perfect."
Your cunt clenches around him, and he groans.
His hips begin moving more deliberately, pulling his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in. He moves like he's back on the mountain—controlled, unhurried. Every thrust feels like heaven, dragging against your sensitive walls with increasing ease.
"There we go, that's it," he mutters. His gaze flicks down to where you're connected and licks his lips. He slowly picks up his pace. His hand moves from your thigh to slip beneath you, lifting your hips for a better angle. You mewl helplessly at the feeling.
Bucky's eyes snap back up to your mouth where your lips are parted and panting, each thrust now pulling sounds out like a beautiful symphony.
"Fuck, bunny, you sound—" his hips snap once, harder, and you whimper. He grins. "I'm not gonna last if you keep—" He snaps his hips again and the same sound comes out.
His jaw tightens, like he's trying to hold himself back, but when he does it again, hitting that spongy spot perfectly and pulling a full moan from your lips, he loses control.
The pace picks up faster and harder until you're crying out his name with every thrust.
"You're doing so good, look at you. You're taking me so well, sweetheart, keep going."
The praise hits you hard this time, your cunt clenching around him like it's desperately trying to hang on. Bucky moans, a deep guttural sound as his hips stutter and slow to a near stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.
"You—you like that, don't you?" he growls. His eyes snap open. "You like the praise. No wonder you wanted it on the mountain."
You roll your hips up in his in an attempt for more friction. His cock twitches deep inside you. And then he's grinning wickedly.
"Bucky, please," you whimper.
"Please what, sweetheart? You look so pretty like this, underneath me while I split you open."
His words have the exact affect he wants and he chuckles when your body uselessly tries to cling on.
"Don't worry, bunny, I've got you. You're so good for me, huh? Already came on my mouth, think you can come on my cock like a good girl?"
"Oh, fuck…" you whine. "Yes, Bucky. Please."
He leans down, and gently presses a kiss to your lips. It's soft and lingering as he finally begins to move his hips again.
When you moan softly against him, he pulls back just enough to watch your face. "That's it. Let's get you there again, yeah?"
You nod, brows furrowed in pleasure, the edge slowly creeping closer as he slowly picks up the pace again. His calloused hand finds your thigh again, moving it to wrap around his waist. The change makes him feel even deeper when he bottoms out.
Bucky is pounding into you now, the sound of skin slapping skin mingling with heavy breaths.
"Bucky, I'm—I'm close."
He's panting, hips stuttering with his own impending orgasm, his eyes still not leaving your face. He reaches down between your sweat-slicked bodies and finds your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb.
"Give it to me, sweetheart. Come with me."
Three deep thrusts and your back arches as you reach your peak for a second time. You fingers tighten in his hair, tugging the strands. Moans fill the room as Bucky fucks you through your orgasm until his own release has him spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside you.
Hips roll in-sync, each of you pulling every last drop of pleasure possible out of the other before Bucky slowly pulls out with a groan.
"Good girl," he murmurs before climbing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth, cleaning you up carefully before tossing it on a side table. The two of you move to slip under the duvet, a calm weight draping over your bodies. Bucky pulls you into his side before pressing his lips to your temple.
A comfortable silence falls in the room and settles into the sheets, only the sounds of synchronized breaths filling the space between tangled limbs. Bucky's chest rises and falls in an increasingly slower rhythm under your head. His hands, the same ones that spent half the day correcting every mistake, now rub soothing circles on your back. Combined with the day's activities, your body is relaxing faster than you can stop it.
Bucky must sense it because his arms tighten around you a fraction before he murmurs, "Get some sleep, bunny. You had a long day."
— — —
You awake the next morning in darkness—or, you think it's morning—to the sounds of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled in the door's vicinity.
"Bucky?" you mumble sleepily.
"Hey," he whispers. His voice sounds distant and a little rough from sleep. Soft footsteps on the carpet tell you he's moving closer before the dimmed light of his phone flickers on, illuminating his face as he crouches near the bed. His hair is mussed from sleep, eyes tired. "I don't mean to leave you like this, but I have to get ready for work. Can I see you later?"
Something inside flutters at the thought.
"Of course. I'll be around." You offer a smile before blinking slowly. He chuckles softly.
"I'll find you," he says, pausing for a moment. "Just…don't cause any trouble today, okay?"
You wave a dismissive hand at him before your head plops back down to the pillow with a small "mm".
He laughs softly before leaving and plunging you back into darkness.
The room is quiet again, but it doesn't feel the same. Cooler. Emptier. Which should feel embarrassing, having only known the man for a day. But sleep overtakes you before you can think too much about it, pulling you back into a warm slumber with the promise of later.
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
origamiaround
titsay
