Six months after your discussion about tampons, Bucky finally made it. He fulfilled his promise and couldn't be happier.
“See, my pretty girl. I promised to keep those invaders out of you, and I kept my promise.” Bucky was busy nuzzling your crotch. His face buried in your lap, he talked to your vagina again. “I got her round, and now we can have as much fun as we want to. No more invaders touching any part of my sweet girl.”
“Bucky, that’s not funny!” You slapped the back of his head. He was a man obsessed and wouldn’t stop telling everyone, you know how he got you pregnant. “I still don’t know how you got me pregnant on my period. This is impossible.”
“Perks of the serum.” Bucky looked up at you, a cocky smirk on his face. “I told you that there’s no chance for your womb to stop my seed from growing inside of you. We made it.” He said to your vagina, not you. “My pretty girl only belongs to me now.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you groaned loudly, fingers tangling in his hair. “Bucky, we didn’t talk about having a baby yet. Now I’m pregnant only because you didn’t want me to use tampons.”
“Don’t mention them ever again,” Bucky growled before pressing his ear to your belly. “You can’t talk about these monsters in front of our baby.”
“You know that the baby will pop out of my vagina too,” you replied. Bucky’s head shot upward, but he didn’t look concerned. He was grinning again. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s my baby, doll. I don’t mind sharing my pretty girls with my baby.” Bucky chuckled at your angry expression. He was a little too excited about accidentally getting you pregnant.
“I know you got me pregnant on purpose, mister!” You accused, earning a stunning smile from Bucky.
“I know we never talked about children, but I want to have it all,” Bucky said, his voice cracking. “You know, when I was brainwashed and nothing but an empty shell, I never dared dream of having a wife, a baby, or at least a normal life.”
“You just ruined the stern speech I prepared,” you sniffled. “You can have it all, Bucky. We are in this together, you know. Me and you.”
“Me, you, and my pretty girl.” He grinned and knelt to nuzzle your crotch. “She allowed me to fill her up, and now, we are going to have a beautiful baby girl.”
Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles
prompt: Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / “And he shows them pearly white” -> Dancing Queen - ABBA / “Anybody could be that guy”
warnings: allusions to sex and masturbation
w.c.: 334
masterlist | event masterlist
“C’mon,” Nat drawled. “It’s time for you to get back out there. It’s been at least five years since your last relationship and we share a wall. I know you’re getting tired of those toys.”
You nearly choked on your cocktail, doubling over on the couch and thankfully not spilling anything on Tony’s obscenely expensive rug. You weren’t surprised that Natasha was pushing you to meet someone. You weren’t one to go out to bars, clubs, or anywhere else that people your age hung out. Crowds were a lot for you to handle. That’s the price of being an Avenger.
But to have your best friend call you out on your lack of a sex life by talking about how you were getting bored with your vibrators was pushing the box a little too far.
“Nat, please,” you tried to shoo her off, but she wasn’t having it.
“Sue me for being concerned about your wellbeing,” she deadpanned. “I’m just saying, anybody could be that guy…”
As she trailed off, the elevator doors opened and out walked Steve and Bucky, both sweaty from their sparring session in the gym. Your gaze caught on a certain super soldier who was pushing his hair out of his eyes with his metal hand. The sheen of sweat on his skin caught the light just right and he looked as if he was glowing.
Nat already knew that your toys were boring you, but you didn’t know if she knew that it was because nothing measured up to the vivid fantasies that ran around your head about Bucky. Ever since he joined the team six months ago, you had been growing more and more frustrated watching him strut around the tower like some Greek or Roman statue.
“I’m just saying, you’re gorgeous and an Avenger. Anyone would be lucky to fall into your bed.”
You downed the rest of your cocktail with a roll of your eyes, missing the way that Bucky perked up upon hearing Natasha’s comment.
Summary: You're a hockey reporter who is diabetic. You're in the middle of interviewing the assistant captain, James 'Bucky' Barnes, and end up passing out where you are taken to the hospital from your low blood sugar. When you're released, the assistant captain obsesses over your health and breaks their self-imposed 'no dating colleagues in the league' rule because he can't seem to get you out of his head.
Content warning: Reader is diabetic (I am not diabetic myself but a lot of people I know are so this is my observation of the disease), star assistant hockey captain Bucky with a left arm tattoo sleeve who is obsessed over you, little hockey talk/terms, bff Scott, and FLUFF.
"Ready for the interview?" Your cameraman and sound engineer Scott asked.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
You adjusted the microphone and the lapels of the blazer you wore while steadying yourself. The head coach of the team, Tony Stark came out of the dressing room to speak with the media.
He coached your city's hockey team, The Shield and had just won their second game of the playoffs.
"Mr. Stark." You put your hand up to ask your question.
Tony glanced at the crowd of reporters and rolled his eyes. It was a well-known fact that he hated doing any kind of interview but was always forced to because of his position. Usually, the assistant coach covered for him, but Phil Coulson was still in the locker room, and everyone in the media room was getting restless.
"Ms. Y/ln." Tony pointed to you.
"Yes, thank you coach. Congratulations on your win tonight. How do you prepare the team going into tomorrow night's game knowing you're up two games to none and heading into an environment that is hard to play in?"
"Hydra isn't a team to be taken lightly. They attack the neutral zone strong, their defense is solid, and their fanbase are rabid. We're ready and looking forward to playing there." Tony smirked at you.
You nodded and let the press conference finish.
Once he left the podium, you waited to see what two players the team was going to send out. You adjusted your microphone and looked at Scott who gave you the thumbs up when you saw two players come out and sit at the table.
Steve Rogers, Captain, and James Barnes, assistant captain.
Of course it was them.
The only player in the entire league that made you more nervous than Steve Rogers was James 'Bucky' Barnes. James was always a relentless flirt whenever you interviewed him, having to keep yourself composed and neutral was the hardest part of your job. None of the other guys on the team and in the league for that matter made you stutter, fumble with your microphone, or blush more than him and it annoyed you.
You were a professional and having a star athlete make you nervous was a rookie move.
Seeing them both freshly showered with dripping hair and flushed faces only made your insides contract and face heat while they settled themselves in the chairs. You looked over your questions you wanted to ask and sighed before you raised your hand up.
"Yes?" James winked at you while Steve chuckled.
"How do you prepare for the next two games knowing you're going to be playing in a hostile environment?"
Steve shrugged and said, "We're prepared just fine. Their arena and fans don't bother us one bit."
Steve looked over at James who agreed making the people in the room chuckle.
Cocky bastards.
A few more questions were asked by other reporters when you raised your hand up again.
"Yes?" Steve asked.
"Question for James. You took a puck to the ankle in the 2nd with that nasty slapshot you blocked. Do you have any concerns with it for the next game?"
James glared at you for a brief second before he scoffed and said, "It's all good. Nothing to worry about."
You glanced at one of their trainers who was in the room and he rolled his eyes. You made a note to probe further once the press conference was done.
🏒🍫🍁
"Did you see Y/n sniffing around Parker, asking him about your ankle?" Steve asked Bucky who was putting some things away in his locker.
"No, I didn't."
Bucky side-eyed his friend and captain wondering why he was watching you. Of course you were asking about the puck he blocked, or rather his ankle accidentally getting in front of a slap shot from the point.
His ankle was currently swollen like a balloon and was showing off the colours of the rainbow in which he would need to ice the shit out of it when he got home. Peter and the training staff cautioned him not to mention the injury to anyone.
James smiled to himself.
You had been in the back of his thoughts all god damn season with your shiny hair, expressive eyes, and pretty smile, but you're off limits. He doesn't date reporters or anyone close to the hockey world as he likes to keep that separate from his private life, but you were proving to be a challenge for his self-imposed rule.
"Probably looking at digging up information to expose your weakness to Hydra. Be careful with that one." Steve cautioned making Bucky chuckle.
"It's not fucking espionage Steve, it's hockey. They know I got dinged in the ankle so they may go after me next game. It's payoff hockey." Bucky shrugged, putting a few things in a bag then locking his cubbie in his locker stall.
The team was flying out the following afternoon to Jersey, so he had made sure to give the equipment guys what they needed to pack before he left the arena.
🏒🍫🍁
"You're all packed then?" Scott asked while you lingered in the hallway of the arena.
"Looks like it."
You were looking over your itinerary for the away games you were going to be covering. You stood with a few other reporters and radio announcers while waiting for your bus to the airport. Reporters, media, and team employees usually travelled with the team and for the playoffs, there seemed to be a few more who were along for the trip. You looked at the time and saw you had about 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to pull up.
"I'm just going to check my blood sugar."
You stepped aside and used your scanner on your arm. The beep of the app sounded, and you looked at the screen and saw it read 5.6.
"Thank god." You mumbled. You had been having a hard time with your sugar levels lately so seeing a normal readout for the first time in a while was a relief.
"Bus is here." Scott announced down the hall.
🏒🍫🍁
You boarded the plane and sat in the front where media had their assigned seats. You watched as the players boarded in their suits; some acknowledged you and some walked by. Even though the league has relaxed their dress code rules, the team still travels wearing suits, something they decided to do as a group.
You had to admit, seeing the players in their suits was the highlight whenever you travelled with them. An even better perk to the job that no one knows about was, once the players boarded the plane, most, if not all, stripped out of their suits and changed into comfy clothes in the middle of the aisle for the flight.
When you first started with the team, you had sat down in your seat, but you forgot your notebook in your carryon, so you got up to get your bag in the overhead bin. You stood and looked to the back of the plane where a few of the guys stood shirtless in the aisle and were changing.
You almost dropped your bag on Scott seeing their toned bare chests and underwear clad bottoms in the aisle. You immediately sat in your seat clutching your bag to your chest with a red face making Scott chuckle at your reaction. He thought it would be funny not to tell you they did that for your first away game.
Yeah, really hilarious Scott, but you're used to it now.
Now, you try not to sneak a peek when the assistant captain shucks off his white dress shirt exposing his tattooed left arm sleeve, then slowly folds it and places it in his bag while making eye contact you the entire time; something he does on every flight.
Like you told yourself countless times before, cocky bastard.
🏒🍫🍁
You watched the practise at the Hydra arena in Jersey with Tony Stark barking plays and line combinations out to the players while they skated. From your observation the team looks dialed in and ready as they skated their drills.
"Y/n?" Wanda Maximoff tapped you on the shoulder.
"Hi Wanda."
She stood next to you with her tablet and cell phone in hand. For being the teams head of PR and social media, she was remarkably always put together.
"I've secured you a one-on-one interview tomorrow after the game. We want it to be fun and playful for our socials"
"Oh? With whom?"
Inside, you were wishing it was ANYONE but James Barnes.
"Barnes."
Crap.
"Sounds good."
You usually liked doing one-non-one interviews with the players but anytime you interview James Barnes one-on-one, it was always challenging for you since he flirted relentlessly with you.
"I'll email you the list of questions later." She tapped on her iPad and then headed down the hall to the dressing room.
🏒🍫🍁
You sat in your hotel room and went over the questions for the one-on-one Wanda had sent. The questions were straight forward, mostly cute personal ones which should be an easy breeze for you to ask. You had a bunch of food in front of you, mainly some juice boxes and chocolate bars seeing as how your blood sugar levels were lower lately.
You had made reminders in your phone to check your blood sugar levels more often for the following day since it was a game day which usually means lots of on-camera reporting and filing reports before, during, and after the game.
Add in the new interview Wanda asked you to do, and it was going to be a long day.
🏒🍫🍁
"You got all your snacks in there?" Scott pointed to your tote bag.
"Think so. I feel good today, so I'm sure I'll be ok. I just want to get my readings back to normal."
Scott knew you were diabetic and was always looking out for you. You had set yourself up for your pre-game coach's interview.
You saw James Barnes saunter down the hall in his workout shorts, flip flops, and long-sleeved black compression top looking mischievous.
"Y/n." He nodded at you.
"Hello." You squeaked out.
He stopped and leaned into you and said, "I'm looking forward to our one-on-one after the game." He flashed a wink at you before disappearing into the players locker room.
Scott chuckled at the face you made because it looked like shock mixed with a grimace and maybe a blush.
"Let's just get this over with." You shook that interaction off, following Scott to the interview room.
🏒🍫🍁
You had jammed a granola bar in your mouth while you went over notes, players, lines, and the pre-interview requests but it wasn't enough.
"Here."
Scott handed you half a turkey sandwich he found in the dressing room, so you managed to eat a little of it.
"Thanks."
You pushed on and did a few sound checks, reports, repositioned the camera, and did a small interview with the radio team on what to expect for the third game in the series, and by the time you had finished, the game was starting.
"You good?" Scott looked over at you, and you shrugged, saying, "I feel fine. Your sandwich helped from earlier. I'll get something after the game."
You hadn't checked your sugar levels, but you felt fine, just as you replied to a few texts from the network and started your game notes.
🏒🍫🍁
"Overtime?" You groaned watching the players from both teams exit the ice surface.
You had almost filed your game report, but Hydra scored with 2 minutes left in regulation, tying it up. Your phone was dinging with new requests for small updates to the sports shows, so you were busy filming a few of those followed by a live interview.
"You, ok?" Scott asked when he heard you groan.
"I think so."
"Let me get you something to eat..."
"There you are." Came a booming voice from behind you.
"Nick." You bravely smiled at the network executive standing in front of you even though you were starting to feel a little funny. Nick Fury owned the network you worked for, so he was technically your boss' boss and anytime he came to a game, he always wanted to meet with the reporters and media.
"Hello sir."
"Y/n. How are things going on the road for you?"
You inwardly cringed at having to stop and chat with him. He was always nice to you, but you never wanted to make him angry; he knew too many people. Scott watched you take a few steps to the side and chat with him while he ordered some food for you.
🏒🍫🍁
"Did I miss anything?" You asked, heading back to your spot after your conversation with Nick Fury.
"Nah, you're just in time." Scott replied, looking around for the food he ordered.
You settled in for the puck drop but Scott got called away by the radio crew needing him to fix something, so you were left alone. The more you watched the overtime, the more you're convinced James is injured since he didn't look like himself on the ice. Every stride and push-off he did on his skates seemed to make him wince more.
Overtime lasted only 9 minutes when Clint Barton ended up knocking in a rebound from Bruce Banner's slapshot, ending the game. The bench cleared while you watched the team celebrate on the ice with boos reigning down from the agitated Hydra crowd.
"Thank god." You said, stomach grumbling while you made you way to the hallway for the post game interviews.
🏒🍫🍁
The team sent out OT goal scorer Clint Barton and Bruce Banner, for their post game interview so you managed to ask them some questions and got your answers you were looking for.
You looked at your watch and that's when it hit you.
"Crap."
"What?" Scott looked over.
"I should eat..."
"Shit, I forgot I ordered food for you, but they must not have dropped it off since I wasn't there..."
"There you are!" Wanda smiled wide.
"Shall we?"
She escorted you to an empty room that had two chairs, a camera, and lighting set up. You had wobbled a little on your feet when you walked with her, telling yourself you were unsteady for it being late.
"I figured we may as well start now." She grasped her iPad tight.
"Right...I was about to go and get..."
"Where do you want me, ladies?" James strolled into the room, looking fresh as a daisy from the grueling game he just played.
Your eyes focused on his ankle, but you didn't see him limping or hobbling. The trainers must be magicians.
"Right here." Wanda pointed to the chair.
"And Y/n will be there." She gestured to the other chair, smiling wide.
"We'll be over there." She waved to the corner of the room where a few more social media people were.
"Right then." You cleared your voice and fumbled with your notes.
You were starting to get a little shaky.
"You, ok?"
James watched you sit but there was something off about you.
"I'm fine James." You plastered on a smile.
"Call me Bucky." He winked at you.
Your vision started blurring but you quickly blinked and the feeling had passed.
Everyone was watching you and waiting for the interview that would quickly be edited so it could get out the following day to the team's social media pages.
You cleared your throat and settled yourself in. From the questions, you figured it would only take you about 30 minutes at the most to get through all of them so you could run and grab something to eat from the restaurant at the hotel lobby before you settled in your room for the night.
🏒🍫🍁
You were listening to James reminisce about some of his playing days on his junior team when you felt your heartbeat start to race and your vision was starting to blur.
Fuck no, not now, please God.
Your shakes were getting worse and the anxious feeling mixed with dizziness had come on strong. You gripped the arm rests of the chair you were on intensely while trying to keep it together.
"So, James...telllll meeeeeeeee..."
You swayed slightly then slumped over, dropping your notes as you went down with the darkness that surrounded your vision.
"Holy shit!" Bucky blurted out.
When he walked into the room, he noticed your face was pale and you were quieter than normal. He figured you were tired from working and the slight time change, but he never thought this would happen. When he first discovered you would be the one to interview him, he was excited because it meant he got to spend more time with you.
Even though he has a self-imposed rule of no dating media or people in the business, he somehow can't seem to get you out of his head. He watched you grimace as you smiled to Wanda before starting the interview and he couldn't help but feel a little defensive thinking you were not excited about interviewing him, but he quickly realised that wasn't the case at all.
Something was off about you.
Bucky looked over at you when he was finished and he saw you sway slightly, but then your face paled then you slumped over mid-question, collapsing in the chair you sat in, notes crashing to the floor. He quickly sprang into action, helping you down to the ground, careful not to injure you.
"What's wrong with her?"
Scott came running into the room and he froze.
"Shit!" He yelled, running towards you.
"Do you know what's wrong?"
"She's diabetic. Probably low blood sugar, which can be dangerous."
He looked you over. The team doctor came running in and assessed you with the paramedics following.
"She's diabetic?" Bucky asked, looking you over.
He held your hand in his while the doctor checked on you. When the doctor lifted your arm, Bucky saw the small round disc attached to the back of your arm. He'd never noticed it before. He looked at your face and he was worried.
You were so pale and you weren't responding well to anything since you were so out of it. The paramedics strapped you to the stretcher, and you were whisked away to the hospital.
"Go with her." Wanda waved to Scott who nodded.
He followed the stretcher, leaving Bucky in the room.
"I'm sure she'll be fine." Wanda patted his arm before she left to answer some calls.
"What hospital is she going to be taken to?" Bucky asked, but no one seemed to know.
He groaned and ran a hand over his face before he ran back to the locker room, grabbing his wallet.
"Where are you off to?" Steve asked.
Bucky replied with, "I'll text you when I get there." Then he was off, typing frantically on his phone for an Uber.
🏒🍫🍁
You smelled the sterile cleaning products and instantly knew you were at the hospital. Your eyes were heavy as you struggled to open them.
"Mmfph..."
You moved slightly but it felt like your limbs weighed triple what they did.
"...Low blood sugar"
"...Dangerous..."
"...Take better care..."
Deep voices and words came in spotty patches while your mind tried to clear itself and wake up.
You moved a little more and wanted to sit up, but your right hand was blocked. You had a hard time moving it.
"...waking up..."
Your eyes fluttered open and the bright sterile room you were in came into view.
"There she is." You heard Scott's voice from your left side.
"Scott?" You mumbled.
Your eyes focused on him while you took in the view. He sat on your left side, his eyes seeming to have dark circles around them.
"You gave us quite the scare."
You blinked a few times, clearing your vision but was squinting.
"Oh, let me turn these lights down a little."
He got up and headed to the door to where a light switch was and flicked it down.
"Thanks."
You smiled at your friend and co-worker. You heard a throat clear on your right, so you looked over and froze, eyes wide.
"Bucky?" You blurted out.
"I'll go and get the doctor..." Scott tapped your side then he left the room.
"Wh-what are..." You tried sitting up but felt weak.
Why is he here?
You looked down at your right hand that he held in his, fingers laced together.
"Shh...here, let me help..."
He let go of your hand and managed to help you sit up a little in the uncomfortable hospital bed you were laying in.
"Better?" He asked, making sure your pillow was fluffed.
"Y-yeah..."
You were still confused on why the assistant captain for the Shield was next to your hospital bed, holding your hand and watching you.
"You scared me." He softly said, moving a strand of your hair from your face.
"H-how...why are you here?"
"We still have to finish our interview silly..." He smiled wide.
"Interview?"
You thought back and that's when it hit you. You passed out when you were in the middle of asking him questions.
"Our interview? Now?"
You were confused and Bucky felt bad for teasing you.
"Just teasing you sweetheart. I wanted to make sure you were ok."
You glanced out the window and found the daylight creeping through the blinds.
"What time is it?"
Bucky looked around and shrugged.
"Around 7:30 am?"
"How long..."
"Hey, hey, shh...the doctor's coming back, he can explain everything."
"You sat at my side?"
"Had nothing else going on."
"Really? You guys won in OT, no bars to visit, or parties to go to and celebrate?"
Bucky shook his head no.
"Playoffs doll. We only have one thing in mind and that's to win the cup. No parties for us until this is all over. Team pact and everything." He stated proudly.
You knew Steve Rogers and him commanded the locker room and whatever they said, the team followed which is why they've been so successful this year.
"Then why are you here? You must be so tired..."
"Surprisingly, this chair is comfortable." He adjusted his large body in it which groaned under his weight making you chuckle.
Scott walked into the room followed by a nurse and the doctor.
"Hello."
"Oh, I should head out. I've got a morning radio session to help with." Scott looked over at you and smiled.
"Glad you're back with us. I'll see you later."
He patted your foot through the blanket and left the room, leaving you there with Bucky and the hospital staff.
"You gave us all quite the scare with that low sugar level."
The doctor seemed to scold you while he was typing on his laptop.
"We managed to correct it and adjust some things, but overall, you're going to be fine. I've already sent your chart to your own doctor, and you have an appointment with them when you get back, but other than that, you should be good to leave here this afternoon."
"Ok." You lamely replied, still confused why Bucky was at your side.
"Good thing your boyfriend was here with you to keep you company."
You looked at the door where Scott was, then over at Bucky who gave you a sheepish smile. "Right, boyfriend."
Bucky reached out and held your hand in his. His very big, calloused hand that felt somehow soft in yours.
"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone. I'll be by in a few to check on you again."
The doctor flashed you a wink then tapped his nose before he left the room with the nurse following.
"I didn't know you were diabetic." Bucky quietly said.
"Yeah, well...surprise." You waved your left hand up and wiggled it like 'jazz hands' making him chuckle.
"So, boyfriend?" You raised your eyebrows up at him.
"It was the only way I could stay with you."
"You could have just left..."
"Pfft, nope. You passed out in front of me so I felt it wouldn't be right if I left you alone."
"Oh, well, thanks."
Your face flushed at his little confession.
"Everyone's going to he happy you're ok."
"Everyone?"
"You gave us all quite the scare back at the arena..."
"Sorry..." You mumbled.
"It's all good." He lifted a shoulder and sighed. "Well, I should head to the hotel to catch a little rest. Coach Stark gave me the morning practise off today."
"Sorry you had to miss that..."
You felt bad Bucky was with you all night.
Bucky squeezed your hand and made sure to get you some water on your side table before he left.
"I'll see you later." He nodded at you then headed towards the door.
An orderly had walked into the room carrying a food tray then left it on your table.
"Make sure you eat that." Bucky pointed to the tray before he left the room, leaving you alone.
🏒🍫🍁
"So, he was with me the whole night?" You asked Scott who had picked you up from the hospital.
"Yup."
"Huh."
"He had gone to two other hospitals before he found where you were. When he came into the room, he was frantic, asking the doctors about your condition and why you were still asleep. Seemed really concerned."
You were shocked.
"He told the staff he was your boyfriend so he could stay with you all night. I was there, but then I left for a few hours. When I returned shortly before you woke, he was sitting at your bed, watching you."
Scott pulled into the covered entranceway to the lobby of the hotel and stopped, helping you out.
"You don't have anything scheduled tonight. Game four is tomorrow and Fury said you don't have to cover it if you aren't feeling it. He can have someone else fill in for you..."
"I'll be there Scott. I feel fine right now. All I want to do is rest a little more, but I should be good to go for the game tomorrow."
Scott looked you over but agreed. Your colour was back and you seemed more alert and focused. Your latest sugar levels were fine from the reading you did at the hospital before you were discharged.
"Ok. Schedule is still the same. The bus will pick us up in the morning. Text me later so I know you're still ok and if you feel funky, let me know and I can get you back to the hospital, so this doesn't happen again."
"I know, and thanks Scott."
"We've upped the food and snacks for you tomorrow so you should be ok."
"I appreciate it." You waved then headed to the bank of elevators to take you to your room. You wanted a shower, to eat something, then you were ready to flop into bed for the rest of the day.
You got into your room and dropped your purse at the door, locking it. You turned and froze, seeing a giant bouquet of red roses sitting on the desk in the room. You walked to it and smiled, smelling one when you took the card and read who it was from.
"Hope you're feeling better. From Fury and associates."
You looked at the bouquet then turned and was startled. On the bedside table was a giant gift basket full of food, snacks, fruit, crackers, and drinks.
"Woah." There was a card taped to the cellophane.
"This should be enough to get you through for tomorrow. Remember to take care of yourself. Bucky. PS – We still have to finish our interview."
You smiled and chuckled, examining the basket of food. Well, between this and the food Scott has ordered, you should be ready to go.
🏒🍫🍁
You worked game four without issue seeing the Shield win and sweep their playoff series with Hydra. Scott had almost over ordered on food and snacks for you and made sure you updated him on your sugar levels which were back to normal thanks to the time you made yourself. You scolded yourself for not taking care of your condition since you have lived with it most of your life.
You did your post game interviews and filed your reports as normal when you saw Bucky walk up to you in the hallway.
"Are you doing, ok?" He asked, his blue eyes searching your face.
"I'm fine, thank you. And thanks for the basket of food. I hope I can get it all packed in my bag to take home with me." You teased making him chuckle.
"Good, I'm glad."
He leaned in close when an equipment manager wheeled a large crate behind you. You were able to smell his cologne from his shower.
"Congrats on the win again." You said before you turned to head to the bus to take you to the terminal.
"See you on the plane." He called after you making you wave over your shoulder.
🏒🍫🍁
"Why aren't you sitting with me?" You asked Scott who was in the row behind you.
"Figured you could lie down and relax for the flight back."
"Scott, I'm fine, really. Maybe a little tired, but I'm feeling good, honestly."
You threw your carryon in the overhead bin. Just as you sat at the window seat, you saw the players board, excited from their win and to get home to their families. You buckled yourself in and waited until everyone was seated, grateful to Scott for giving you some extra room.
You had dreams of stretching out and reading your book, but those thoughts ended when you saw a large body standing in the aisle in your row.
"Bucky?"
"Hey." He said, placing his carryon on the seat next to you.
"What are you doing?"
Players always sit at the back of the plane and only come to the front if they have a question for the medical staff or coaches.
"Sitting here." He shrugged off his black suit jacket.
"But...but why?" You watched as he started slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt.
"Figured, I'd keep you company."
He shook off his shirt exposing his toned chest you always admired and grabbed a black t-shirt from his bag and slipped it on. Once he was set, he placed his bag in the overhead bin and flopped down next to you.
You turned and looked over your shoulder at Scott who hid a chuckle.
"Ok..."
Bucky settled in the seat and did up the seatbelt, leaning over you to look out the window. His shoulder brushed your arm when he did, making you feel his warm body heat.
"Should be a smooth flight." He said, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Right." You were still frozen in your seat gawking at Bucky, unsure what to say or do with this large hockey player in your space.
No one else seemed to care that he was sitting at the front of the plane, so you just went along with it. As the plane taxied down the runway, then got set for takeoff, Bucky reached for your left hand and held it, lacing your fingers together while the plane lifted off. You didn't dare say anything or move your hand seeing as how it was firmly in his for the entire flight. It felt like you were floating as he held your hand; like you were back in middle school with a crush.
Bucky made sure you were feeling fine, asking you every so often if you were ok, it was almost getting annoying, but you understood his concern. You would be worried if you witnessed someone pass out in front of you, then see them being whisked away to the hospital by an ambulance.
The plane landed and Bucky finally let go of your hand when it came to a stop. He got up and grabbed his carryon as everyone deplaned. You got your suitcase and had ordered an Uber when Bucky came up to you.
"So, you'll be ok then?"
"Yes, I will, thanks. I've got an Uber on the way, so I'll be fine."
You stuffed your phone in your pocket. He watched you carefully, almost like he was committing you to memory then he nodded, seeming to be ok with your answer.
🏒🍫🍁
You finally finished your interview with Bucky, the one where you passed out in the middle of it. Shield had made it into the finals playing against the Commandos and you had been busier than ever.
Your sugar levels were good, and you had no other issues apart from learning how to deal with an over-protective assistant captain who has been constantly checking in on you every chance he gets.
"Bucky, I'm fine, really." You insisted while going over your game notes.
The series was tied with game seven at the Shield arena, when you spied Bucky watching you from the doorway to the locker room like he didn't believe you.
"I'm fine." You assured him with a glare.
"Ok, sheesh, put the knife down doll." He teased, holding up his hands and slipped into the dressing room to prepare for their warm-ups.
"He's been obsessed with you lately." Scott teased.
"Ugh, I know. It's..."
"Cute? Romantic?"
"Crazy." You huffed making your hair flutter around your face.
🏒🍫🍁
"You ok over there?" Steve asked his assistant captain.
"All good."
"Hmm..."
"What?" Bucky glared at his friend.
"You've been obsessing over the reporter lately."
"Have not." Bucky snorted while Steve gave him a look.
"Since she was hospitalized."
"Just making sure she's ok."
Bucky put his shoulder pads on and did up his elbow ones.
"You know I have my rule..."
"Fuck your rule. You're head over heels for her, so why not ask her out?" Steve shook his head at his stubborn friend.
Bucky finished putting on his shin pads and pulled up his socks, all while thinking Steve may be right. He'd been low-key obsessing over you for a while and the hospital visit seemed to put everything in perspective for him.
He only had another year or two left to play out his contract and retire as a member of the Shield, so why not go for it? He's fairly certain you like him back, but would you accept a date with him if he asks you?
🏒🍫🍁
"Holy crap, they won the cup!"
Scott gave you a side hug while the team celebrated on the ice. The fans were going crazy in the stands with the win which only made it louder in the arena for you to concentrate. You watched the team celebrate, hug each other and laugh while the trophy was brought onto the ice.
You had your press pass out and showed it, allowing you on the ice with Scott following. You had gotten a lot of celebratory shots of everyone and a few on-ice interviews from the excited players, when you had Scott get into position while the trophy was going to be presented.
"There." You pointed to a spot next to another news crew who were setting up.
The players were handed their Championship hats while they skated around the ice. Some were holding onto each other, and others were waving to their friends and family in the stands when you felt a body stand behind you.
Scott had a small hand-held camera he had started, getting you candid shots the network's social media team could use.
You turned and smiled wide at Bucky who was sweaty and red from celebrating; his hat on slightly crooked.
You shoved the microphone at him and said, "How do you feel right now?" Which made him smile wide.
"I feel amazing doll." He winked at you.
You froze at his term of endearment he had been using on you lately, unsure how to respond.
"Right, well... We can't use that Scott..."
You looked over at Scott who gave you an eye roll.
"Why not?" Bucky asked.
"Well...I..." You couldn't think of anything to say while he watched you try to find words.
The team was getting into place as the commissioner was heading to the ice to present the team the trophy.
You stood with your microphone, unsure of what else to say when Bucky leaned down and planted a kiss on your lips.
A few catcalls and whoops were heard while his lips devoured yours. You dropped the microphone and grabbed his sweaty jersey, kissing him back.
You finally separated when you saw Steve Rogers whistle and smile wide at the two of you. He placed his arms around your shoulders and said, "Finally!" Before he let go to head to where the trophy was.
You snapped out of it and composed yourself, picking your microphone up from the ice.
"You can edit that out." You said to Scott who shook his head no.
"Actually, we're live." He mouthed making your face pale.
Frig.
"You ok?"
Bucky was suddenly focused on you, seeing you pale.
"Did you eat? How are your sugar levels?"
"I-I'm fine. We're live. That was live. Everyone saw." You mumbled, face turning red.
"Yeah they did." Bucky smiled wide, leaning over to kiss you again.
"Bucky!" You blushed.
"Anything you want to ask me?"
"Uh..."
Your mind was soup at what he did, but you quickly composed yourself.
"What are your plans with the offseason?"
That was the stupidest question to ask you chastised yourself. There would be no way any of the players would be thinking that at this moment in time.
He leaned back, a little caught off guard but he smiled.
"I plan on celebrating the whole night with my team and hopefully you at my side. Then, tomorrow, I plan on taking you out on a date, THEN I plan on volunteering my time with the Diabetes Association in the off-season."
He faced the camera as he spoke.
"Someone important to me has diabetes and I want to help in every way I can."
Your mouth was open in shock before he skated away with a wink and joined Steve where they accepted the trophy. The fans were cheering loud as they watched the team hoist the cup in the air with Scott giving you a thumbs up from behind the camera.
summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. then—
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.
some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.
"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in th—"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but bucky—"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fits—"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, please—"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touché."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
Have you seen those videos of people wearing clothes from the 40s/50s out in public??
What would Bucky do if he’s out one day and sees a fine thang walk by in 1940s attire?
Love you long time! You the bestestestest! 💕
OH MY GOD YESSSS!
-------
You don’t think much of it when you get dressed.
It’s just a dress. A pretty one, sure—soft fabric that cinches your waist just right, skirt flaring gently when you turn, the kind of silhouette that feels like it belongs to another time. You’d found it tucked into the back of a vintage shop, all delicate seams and careful tailoring, something that looks like it’s lived a life before you ever slipped it on.
You pair it with low heels, swipe on a little lipstick—nothing dramatic, just enough—and twist your hair up in a way you’d seen in an old photo once.
You feel… good.
That’s all it is.
---
Bucky notices you before he realizes why.
He’s halfway down the street, mind somewhere else entirely—groceries in one hand, the steady hum of the city grounding him in the present—when something pulls his attention like a thread snagging.
It’s not logical. Not at first.
Just a flicker of movement. The sway of fabric. The unmistakable silhouette of something—
Familiar.
His steps slow. His head turns. And then he sees you. But he doesn't just see you, he stares.
Because for one disorienting, breath-stealing second, the world tilts.
The city noise fades. The cars, the chatter, the glow of modern life—all of it dulls into the background as his brain scrambles to reconcile what he’s looking at.
You walk past him like you belong somewhere else entirely.
Like you stepped out of a memory he didn’t realize he still carried so vividly.
The dress. The shoes. The way your hair is pinned just so. Even the way you move—there’s a softness to it, a rhythm that feels pulled straight from the 40s, like something he used to see on crowded sidewalks in Brooklyn, back when everything smelled like cigarette smoke and fresh bread and possibility.
And you—
God, you.
You’re smiling to yourself about something, completely unaware of the effect you’re having, completely unaware that you’ve just knocked the air out of a hundred-year-old soldier.
Bucky stops walking entirely.
He just stands there.
Staring.
Because you look like something he lost.
And something he never thought he’d get to see again.
And also—very abruptly, very viscerally—like the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t hear him.
You keep walking.
And that’s what snaps him out of it.
Because no—no, absolutely not, he is not letting you just walk away like that.
He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly drops his groceries.
“Hey—!”
It comes out rougher than he intends. Louder, too.
You turn.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything fully clicks into place, because now he can see your face clearly—modern, present, undeniably you—paired with something that looks like it belongs in his past.
It hits him right in the chest.
Hard.
You blink at him, a little surprised, but not alarmed.
“Yeah?”
Your voice is normal. Casual. Grounding.
It helps.
A little.
Bucky drags a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but he’s still looking at you like you’ve just walked out of a time machine.
“Uh—” he starts, then stops.
Great. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly, the motion making the soft curls near your temple shift just enough to make his brain short-circuit again.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Where’d you get that?” he blurts out.
Your eyes flick down to your dress, then back up to him, amused.
“This?” you ask. “Vintage shop.”
Of course.
Of course it is.
He lets out a quiet huff of disbelief, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to clear it.
“You—” he gestures vaguely at you, like words are failing him completely. “You look like—”
He cuts himself off.
Because what was he going to say?
You look like every girl I ever noticed in 1943?
You look like something I used to dream about and never thought I’d see again?
You look like you don’t belong here and I don’t know how to deal with that?
Instead, he settles on something far less coherent.
“—you look incredible,” he finishes, a little quieter.
You blink.
Then smile.
And it’s not a shy smile, not really—it’s pleased. Warm. A little teasing, even.
“Thank you,” you say. “That was a lot of buildup for a simple compliment.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “Kinda threw me off.”
“I can tell.”
There’s something about the way you say it—llike you’re trying to figure him out—that makes him straighten slightly.
Because now he’s noticing other things.
The way you’re looking at him.
The way you haven’t brushed him off or hurried away.
The way you’re still here.
And suddenly, the disorientation gives way to something else entirely.
Interest.
“Didn’t mean to yell at you on the street,” he adds, a little more composed now. “Just—haven’t seen that in a while.”
You hum softly.
“I figured,” you say. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and surprised.
“Felt like it,” he admits.
There’s a beat of silence before you shift your weight, the skirt of your dress swaying gently with the movement, and he definitely notices that.
“So,” you say, glancing at the bag in his hand. “Did I interrupt something, or—?”
He looks down at his groveries like he forgot they existed.
Then back at you.
And makes a decision.
Fast.
“Nah,” he says, easy. “Can wait.”
Your brow lifts slightly.
“Groceries can wait?”
“For this?” he shrugs. “Yeah.”
Your lips press together like you’re trying not to smile too much.
“Bold.”
“Honest,” he corrects.
Another pause.
Then, softer, more intetional—
“Walk with me?”
He doesn’t know why he asks it like that.
Doesn’t know why it feels important.
Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s the way you feel like something out of time. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, something from his past doesn’t hurt to look at.
You glance down the street, then back at him.
“Okay,” you say.
Just like that.
Simple.
Easy.
When you fall into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his for half a second, Bucky realizes something quietly, steadily, and with surprising certainty.
You don’t look like the past.
Not really.
You just make him feel like maybe it wasn’t all lost.
PAIRING: mob boss!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 386 (this kinda ran away from me 🥲)
WARNINGS: inappropriate touching, violence, mentions of blood, possessive!bucky, no use of y/n, established relationship.
SONG PROMPT: mack the knife by bobby darin
LYRICS: “and he shows them pearly white.”
NOTE: this wassss a tricky one, i don’t think i’m very happy with it, but i’m trying and i didn’t quit so that’s a plus lmao. powered through writing this with a headache cause writing these prompts are like my little wind downs at the end of the day and i’ve actually been enjoying it so. i just sit on my bed with a podcast to watch 😭😭
event masterlist | day two | day four | main masterlist
The wind billows through your hair as you stand outside, the party behind you still raging on. You bounce on the balls of your feet, arms curled around yourself, Bucky's suit jacket the only thing keeping you warm as you wait for him to bring the car to you.
That's when it happens.
A hand skims your ass and squeezes. You freeze, blinking in shock.
Rumlow smirks, standing too close for comfort, "Lookin' good, sweetheart— where's Barnes, hm? Leaving a pretty thing like you out here all alone for the vultures. . ."
"She's not alone."
A shaky sigh escapes you at the sight of Bucky, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw grinding and silently seething.
Rumlow turns, "She sure seemed like it."
Bucky grins, shows them pearly white teeth, and then swings.
The crack is defeaning, ripping through the quiet of the night, the sick crunch of bone under his fist as it connects with Rumlow's nose.
You gasp, "Buck—"
"Stay there, princess," His hands fist Rumlow's shirt as rivulets of blood pour from his nose, "Gotta make sure this asshole knows not to touch what's mine."
"You ever touch her again," Bucky whispers, his voice so calm it sends a chill down your spine, "You'll be six feet under."
"Fuck you," Rumlow snaps.
Bucky's hand grasps roughly at the back of his neck, turning him around to face you, "Apologise."
Rumlow spits at your heels, leaving a splatter of blood, and Bucky jerks his head forward with a snarl.
"Apologise, otherwise I'll personally send you to Pierce in fucking pieces."
"Bucky," You murmur, "I just wanna go home."
His voice softens when he glances up at you, "We will, babydoll, I'm gonna take you home, but I'm not gonna let him disrespect you and walk away unscathed."
Bucky's hand tightens, fingertips digging into the sides of Rumlow’s throat until he chokes out an apology.
You watch Bucky shove him to the floor, satisfied as he watches the man drop, and then holds a hand out for you.
Your hand slides into his palm, intertwining your fingers, letting him pull you closer— safe and secure.
"You'll always be mine, babydoll," He whispers against your temple.
"I know."
Bucky gaze down at you for a long moment, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
"C'mon, let's go home."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
VIBE CHECK
best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader [14k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (author loves beefy men); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛
ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.
You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.
He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... it’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.
With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”
Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.
“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.
“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.
You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.
“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why—”
“You have your own stuff to do—”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.
He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... the last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.
“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.
Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.
She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.
She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.
She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?”
“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But—”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, mh?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.
“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”
The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.
“Feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
Yes, a good girl. His.
“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”
You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core.
“Shit.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.”
Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner.
“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.
“Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.
“Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
“Please what? Need words, angel.”
Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”
“I need—can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.
“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me.”
You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge.
“Again.”
You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around.
“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
You nod enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.
“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”
“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”
The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance.
Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.
Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens.
“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously.
His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock.
He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds.
His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.
“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts.
“Give it to me, doll. Use me.”
You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble.
“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you.
“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick.
Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.
“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.
“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”
“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”
He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.
Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.
You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.
“You are mine, right?”
“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds.
“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.
“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.
“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.
“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.
“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.
It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head.
And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.
You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.
“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”
His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done.
Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.
Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.
“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.
Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.
His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 3rd - Season of the Witch – Donovan/ “What do you think I see?”
The worn leather of the couch creaked beneath you, a sound easily drowned out by the ragged, trembling breaths slipping from Bucky’s lips. You were straddled over his lap, the thick, aching weight of him stretched deep inside you. But as you set the pace, sinking down to take him fully, his hands suddenly slid away from your hips.
He gripped the cushions, white-knuckled as his head tilted back, his jaw clenching. That familiar shadow of doubt was creeping in a sudden, fierce wave of vulnerability making him want to pull back, to shield you from his own intensity. But you weren’t going to let him retreat.
“Look at me,” you whispered, leaning forward until your chest brushed his. You rode him with a slow, agonizingly deliberate tilt of your hips, forcing a low, wrecked groan from his throat. When his blue eyes finally met yours, they were clouded with quiet panic.
"You gotta stop... I don't want to hurt you," he mumbled, trying to shift beneath you, trying to deny what you were so eager to take.
Anchoring yourself, you cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to hold your gaze. "What do you think I see?" you asked softly, pressing your forehead to his. He swallowed hard, silent.
"Answer me, please," you purred, rolling your hips. The slick, friction-heated contact drew another aching groan from his chest. "I want you to watch me, Bucky. See exactly how much I love having you inside me."
Your hand slid down to his shoulder, rising up before sinking down slowly. The breathless sound that left you both was pure sin.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, the shy retreat instantly evaporating. "Fuck... remember, you asked for this." His hands locked onto your hips and he bucked upward, taking fierce control of the rhythm.
bucky and reader trying to get pregnant but for some reason they can’t, and both of them individually think it is their fault (without communicating this guilt or sadness to the other). eventually one day late in the evening maybe after another negative pregnancy test, reader feels like she is failing bucky so she quietly confesses that she thinks there is something wrong with her but then bucky’s heart breaks bcuz he thinks there is something wrong with HIM, and they just reassure each other and happy ending pls <3
The bathroom light is too bright for this hour of the evening, sharp and clinical in a way that makes everything feel worse than it already does. It reflects off the tile, off the mirror, off the small white stick sitting on the edge of the sink like it’s something important instead of something that keeps breaking your heart.
Negative.
Again.
You don’t pick it up this time. You don’t flip it over like maybe the answer will change if you look at it from a different angle. You just stare at it, arms wrapped tight around your middle, like if you hold yourself together hard enough you won’t come apart.
The apartment is quiet. Bucky is in the living room—you can hear the faint murmur of the TV through the wall—but he hasn’t come to check on you yet. He never hovers. He gives you space, always, like he’s afraid of crowding you when you’re already hurting.
You know why.
Because every time this happens, he looks at you like it’s his fault.
And every time, you let him.
Just like you let him believe you’re okay.
Your throat tightens, the pressure building until it feels like it might choke you, and you press the heel of your hand against your mouth to keep the sound in. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to come in and see you like this—again, always again—because you’re so tired of the way his face falls, the way guilt settles into his shoulders like something heavy and permanent.
You hate that he carries it.
You hate that you do too.
You close your eyes for a second, breathing through it, counting in your head the way you’ve learned to do when things get overwhelming. One, two, three—
You’re fine.
You’re going to be fine.
You just need a minute.
But the minute stretches, and the silence presses in, and the thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for months now finally pushes its way forward, loud and impossible to ignore.
What if it’s you?
What if there’s something wrong with you?
The idea settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. All the negative tests. All the waiting. All the quiet disappointment that never quite gets spoken out loud.
You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, and finally reach for the test just so you can shove it into the trash, like getting rid of it might make the feeling go away too.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
When you step out into the hallway, the light from the living room spills toward you, warm and soft in contrast to the harsh brightness you just left behind. Bucky is stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, the TV flickering across his face in shades of blue and gold.
He looks up the second he hears you.
“Hey,” he says quietly, voice careful in a way that makes your chest ache. His eyes flick over your face, searching, and you can see the moment he understands. His expression softens, something sad slipping in around the edges. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, because if you go to him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep it together.
But you go anyway.
You always do.
He shifts to make room for you, sitting up just enough to pull you into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders automatically, tucking you in close like you belong there. Like you’re something to be protected.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. “It’s okay.”
The words hit something fragile inside you, and before you can stop it, you let out a shaky breath that sounds a little too close to a sob.
It’s okay.
It’s not, though.
It hasn’t been for a while.
You press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to ground yourself in it, but the thought won’t leave you alone now that it’s out in the open, circling and circling until it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.
“Buck,” you whisper, your voice small against the fabric of his shirt.
His hold tightens immediately. “Yeah, doll?”
You don’t know how to say it.
You don’t know how to put something like this into words without breaking something between you, without confirming the fear that’s been eating at you for months now.
But you can’t keep it in anymore.
“I think…” Your voice catches, and you have to swallow hard before you can keep going. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
The words hang in the air between you, fragile and terrible all at once.
For a second, everything goes very, very still.
And then Bucky’s hand freezes where it’s been rubbing slow circles against your arm.
“What?” he breathes.
You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face is enough to make your heart twist painfully in your chest. He looks…stricken. Like you’ve just said something that physically hurts him to hear.
“I just—” you start, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We’ve been trying for so long, and it’s just…nothing, and I keep thinking—maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t—” You cut yourself off, your throat closing up around the rest of the sentence. “I feel like I’m failing you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to physically reject them.
“No,” he says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”
“But—”
“It’s not you,” he insists, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, almost frantic. “Jesus, sweetheart, it’s not you.”
You blink at him, confused by the intensity in his voice. “Then what is it?”
His jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing across his expression before he looks away, like he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.
“I thought…” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I thought it was me.”
You stare at him.
“What?”
He lets out a humorless little huff, shaking his head. “All the stuff I went through. Hydra. The experiments. I figured they probably messed something up.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “I thought I was the reason we can’t—”
“Bucky,” you breathe, your chest tightening painfully.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continues, the words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Didn’t want you to think I was…broken, or that I was the one keeping this from happening for us.”
Something in your chest cracks wide open.
All this time.
All this time, you’ve both been carrying the same fear, the same guilt, just in different directions.
And neither of you said anything.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, your hands coming up to cover his where they’re still holding your face. “Buck…”
His gaze finally meets yours again, and there’s so much vulnerability in it that it makes your heart ache.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”
“No,” you shake your head, tears slipping free despite your best efforts to hold them back. “No, I should’ve told you. I’ve been sitting there thinking I’m the problem, and you’ve been thinking the same thing, and we just…never talked about it.”
He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours.
“Guess we’re both a little stubborn,” he murmurs.
You let out a watery laugh, the sound soft and shaky but real.
“Yeah,” you agree. “A little.”
For a moment, you just stay like that, breathing each other in, the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally starting to lift, piece by piece.
“It’s not your fault,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.
“It’s not yours either,” he replies just as gently.
The words settle into something warm and steady between you, replacing the cold uncertainty that’s been there for so long.
“We’ll figure it out,” he adds after a second, his voice firmer now, more certain. “Whatever it is. Together.”
Together.
The word wraps around you like something solid, something you can actually hold onto.
You nod, leaning in to press your lips to his, the kiss soft and lingering, full of something deeper than just comfort. It’s reassurance. It’s promise.
It’s hope.
When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No more keeping this stuff from each other, okay?” he says.
“Okay,” you agree, your own smile coming a little easier now.
He presses one more kiss to your lips, then pulls you back into his arms, holding you close like he never plans to let you go.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel quite so heavy.
Reader always falling asleep next to Bucky, yes. BUT. Hear me out okay, Bucky always falling asleep next to reader. Pre-relationship. All reader has to do is be in the same room as Bucky and he's out like a light. It becomes comical because the team tries to figure out who it is and stay w Bucky alone to see if he falls asleep, but it's not until he's sitting alone with reader that he passes out within the minute. The team thinks it's funny, Bucky is embarrassed, but reader thinks it's cute and gets him to start sleeping in her room so he can sleep properly 😋😋
It truly was an acccident.
You’re in the common room late one night, curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket tucked around your legs and a file open on your tablet. The compound is quiet in that rare, fragile way it only ever is past midnight. You hear the soft, familiar whir of servos before you see him.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask without looking up.
Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.
You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.
It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.
You blink.
“Barnes?”
No response.
You lean closer. He’s out cold.
You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.
You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.
The next night it happens again.
And the next.
It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.
The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.
“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”
“What?” you ask innocently.
“Sleep. Like that.”
You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.
“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.
Natasha catches on next.
She tests it.
One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.
He doesn’t so much as yawn.
You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.
“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.
Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.
And promptly passes out mid-sentence.
Natasha stares at him.
Then at you.
“Oh,” she breathes.
Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.
Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.
Nothing.
Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.
But the second you’re alone with him?
Lights out.
The breaking point comes during movie night.
The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.
“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.
The movie starts.
Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.
And lands squarely on your shoulder.
The room erupts.
Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.
Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”
You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.
It is funny.
But it’s also… something else.
Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.
It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.
He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.
“You okay?” you’d asked softly.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, once.
“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.
He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.
“I know.”
You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.
His eyelids start to droop.
You watch it happen in real time.
“Buck,” you murmur gently.
He blinks at you, trying to fight it.
“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”
It’s like someone flips a switch.
He sways once.
Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.
You freeze for a second.
Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.
He doesn’t stir.
The next morning, the team finds him there.
In your bed.
Still asleep.
Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”
Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”
You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.
“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”
His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.
“You serious?”
“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”
There’s a beat.
Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.
The team never lets him live it down.
But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.
PAIRING: congressman!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 300
WARNINGS: slight suggestive content(?), bucky really loves his girl, no use of y/n, established relationship.
SONG PROMPT: i wanna be bad by willa ford
LYRICS: “i won’t do that.” / “i wanna be bad.”
NOTE: so did we all see the photos of mr. stan looking too hot for his own good as soon as we woke up yesterday? because i did and crashed out and this was the outcome.
event masterlist | day one | day three | main masterlist
"Hey, baby."
You turn at the sound of Bucky's deep rumble and his keys hitting the trinket dish you keep near the front door.
"Hi," You greet softly from the couch.
He tilts his head back, throat bobbing and his eyes close for a second, resting briefly against the door like he's relishing in the sudden quiet of your shared apartment. You watch him with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as he loosens his tie.
"Rough day?"
Bucky huffs a tired laugh, "Rough life."
He toes off his shoes, leaving them on the hazardous pile by the door and walks towards you, dropping down next to you— slouched, legs spread, his head resting against the back of the couch.
You give him a moment to settle, let the silence stretch, and before you could say anything he reaches for you. Bucky's hand grasps your hip and tugs, gentle but insistent, guiding you over until your astride his lap, enveloping you in his strong arms.
His eyes track your hands as they curl around his tie.
"You should get some sleep."
"No," Bucky rasps with a slow shake of his head, leaning up with his metal hand cradling the back of your head to kiss you— languid, unhurried, sensual.
"You're tired," His fingers tangle in your hair, "You should."
Bucky kisses the corner of your mouth, tucking your hair behind your ears as he cups your face, thumbs swiping across your cheekbones, "Won't do that."
"Bad boy." You tease softly, tugging him towards you, silk wrapped around your fists.
His lips twitch into a small, tired smile— something private and just for you, resting his forehead against yours and gently nudging your nose.
"Maybe I wanna be bad." He whispers as he leans in to steal a second kiss.
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
Imagine being upset Bucky didn’t know how long you’d been married or forgot your wedding anniversary only to find out his confusion stems from him thinking of you both as a married couple since the day you met and always counting since then (not that he’s ever told you incase you think it’s weird) but eventually he does because he can’t have you thinking he doesn’t care.
What if he went straight out and bought a ring the day he met you? He just knew.
You know something is wrong the second he hesitates.
It’s small—so small most people wouldn’t catch it. But you know him. You know the way his metal fingers still for half a breath when he’s caught off guard, the way his brows pinch just slightly when he’s trying to remember something he thinks he should know.
“How long’s it been now?” you ask lightly, leaning against the kitchen counter while he dries a plate. “Since we got married.”
You’re smiling when you say it. Teasing, mostly. You’d been flipping through old photos earlier—your wedding day, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his entire life. The anniversary’s tomorrow. You’ve been thinking about it all week.
He pauses.
The dish towel stops moving.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Uh,” he says, and the sound is careful. Measured. “Three years?”
Your smile falters.
“Three?” you repeat softly.
He sets the plate down too slowly. “Four?”
You don’t mean for it to hurt. You don’t. But something inside your chest drops heavy and cold.
“It’s five, Buck.”
The kitchen feels suddenly too quiet. Too still. The hum of the refrigerator is loud in the silence between you. He looks at you like you’ve just told him something impossible. Like you’ve corrected him on a fact he knows in his bones.
“Five?” he echoes, frowning.
“Yes. Five.” You cross your arms without meaning to, the motion defensive before you can stop it. “June eighteenth. Five years tomorrow.”
His eyes flicker away.
And that—more than the number—makes your throat burn.
“You forgot.”
“I didn’t forget,” he says quickly, too quickly.
You huff a humorless laugh. “You didn’t know.”
His shoulders tense. “That’s not—”
“You didn’t know, Bucky.” Your voice wobbles now, and you hate that it does. You hate that this matters enough to make your eyes sting. “It’s our wedding anniversary.”
He stares at you like you’ve just accused him of something unforgivable. And maybe you have. Because this is the man who memorizes the way you take your coffee. The man who still traces the shape of your engagement ring when you’re half asleep. The man who can recall entire mission briefings from ten years ago with photographic precision.
But five years of marriage?
He’s confused.
You swallow hard. “I didn’t think it was something you’d forget.”
“I didn’t forget,” he says again, more firmly this time—but there’s something strained underneath it. Frustration. Not at you. At himself.
“Then why didn’t you know?” you whisper.
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
Runs his flesh hand through his hair.
And then—softly, like he’s stepping off a ledge—he says, “Because that’s not when it started.”
You blink.
“What?”
He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. “That’s not when we started being married.”
Your heart pounds, anger tangling with confusion. “Yes, it is. That’s literally what a wedding is.”
He shakes his head, slow and stubborn. “No. That’s when we had the ceremony.”
You stare at him.
And for the first time, you see it. There is no world where Bucky doesn't care about your wedding day.
“Buck,” you say carefully. “What are you talking about?”
He exhales hard through his nose. Paces once. Twice. Like he’s trying to find the right words and they keep slipping out of reach.
“I count from when we met,” he mutters finally.
You go still.
“What?”
His jaw clenches. “I count from the day I met you.”
The words hang in the air between you.
“You—what?”
He gestures vaguely, frustrated. “We were already… it was already you. From that day. I knew. So I just—” He shrugs helplessly. “That’s when I started counting.”
Your brain struggles to catch up. “Counting what?”
“How long we’ve been married.”
You stare at him like he’s just spoken another language.
“You didn’t tell me that,” you say faintly.
“Yeah,” he snaps, immediately regretful. He drags a hand over his face. “Yeah, because I figured you’d think it was weird.”
Weird.
You think about that first day. The coffee shop. The way he’d watched you like he was memorizing you. The way he’d walked you to your car even though it was broad daylight. The way he’d looked startled when you’d joked about “marrying a stranger.”
“You’ve been counting since then?” you ask.
He nods once. Reluctant. Embarrassed. “Thirteen years,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
Thirteen.
You’ve been together ten. Married five.
He’s been married to you—in his heart—for thirteen.
“I just… I don’t separate it,” he says, voice low now. “You weren’t my girlfriend. Not really. Not in my head. You were my wife. I just didn’t have the paperwork yet.”
Your chest feels tight in a completely different way now.
“So when I said five,” you murmur, “you thought I was wrong.”
He gives you a small, sheepish nod. “I thought you were testing me.”
You blink, and then despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes you. “Testing you?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought maybe you forgot the first eight.”
You stare at him.
And then your eyes fill for an entirely different reason.
“Bucky,” you breathe.
He steps closer instinctively, like he can’t stand the distance anymore. “I wasn’t dismissing it,” he says urgently. “I wasn’t forgetting. I swear to God, doll, I wasn’t forgetting you. I just— I’ve never thought of June eighteenth as the start.”
Your voice trembles. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He hesitates.
Because you’d think it was weird.
Because he’s always afraid of being too much. Of loving too intensely. Of holding too tightly.
“Didn’t want you thinking I was… I don’t know. Crazy,” he says finally.
You step into him before he can finish the thought.
He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you like they were made for it. Like they’ve always known where to go.
“You absolute idiot,” you whisper into his shirt, and your voice is thick with tears and laughter all at once. “You thought that would make me think you cared less?”
“I didn’t want you thinking I didn’t care,” he murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I can’t have you thinking that.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Thirteen years?” you ask softly.
He nods.
“And you never told me.”
“Figured it was safer in my head.”
You cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes.
“I married you five years ago,” you say gently. “But I’ve loved you for thirteen.”
Something in his expression breaks open. Soft. Vulnerable.
“So,” you continue, wiping at your cheeks with a watery smile, “tomorrow is five years of marriage.”
He nods.
“And thirteen years of you being secretly insane.”
A huff of laughter escapes him, relief flooding his features. “Yeah. That too.”
You lean up and kiss him slow and certain.
“And for the record,” you murmur against his lips, “that’s not weird.”
His arms tighten around you, like he’s anchoring himself.
“It’s the most Bucky thing I’ve ever heard.”
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes soft and shining.
warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, fwb, slowburn(?) smut, dirty talk, pussy pronouns if you squint, more plot than porn, suggestive themes, reader is sort of ambiguous, also SHIELD is still active but they're good again bc i said so??? this is NOT proofread, i did the outline a few days ago and i just sat down and locked in all day today to get this written on time.
author's note: can you believe this…? the final chapter of devil is here. when i posted the first chapter in august, i had no idea if anyone would even read it. i thought i’d maybe get a couple of likes on the post, and that would be it. and here we are, nine months later. thank you to anyone who’s been reading since day one, and anyone who’s picked it up along the way and binge read what’s up so far. thank you for your patience as i’ve gone back and forth editing and posting things in between. i rewrote the last chapter because i wanted it to be a special send off. the original final chapter was about 5k words, and it was so lackluster, it made me sad. it was not the ending i wanted for these two. i would say this is still not very grand, but it’s an ending that feels right. this is undoubtedly the most fun i’ve ever had with a writing project—the way they were always under each other’s skin has always been so delightful to write. please enjoy, and thank you for reading. <3
part eight
With the newfound discovery of those three little words actually meaning something real to Bucky, he began to test the waters. It still felt foreign, alien, like he’d learned a new language, or perhaps found himself remembering one he’d long since thought he’d forgot. Bucky had love in his life, sure. Steve, Sam, this whole network of people he’d fallen in with that consistently stayed in his life, checked in with him, listened to him. It was as close to the past as he could get, in some ways.
But this love, this romantic love, this want to be with you all the time, the satisfaction of making you smile, of seeing your expression change just slightly when you caught sight of him… It was a love altogether more strange. Bucky knew with a certainty that he’d been a lady’s man once upon a time. Dinners, dancing, you name it, he’d done it, apparently. But there was no one woman he could recall—not any women, really—that had made him feel the way you did. It was something he’d asked Steve months ago, when he’d felt more comfortable asking for clues to his makeup as the Bucky Barnes he was today. But even Steve had shrugged and said, “To be honest, Buck, I never really knew what your goal was. If you were looking for a wife, or… just a bit of fun.”
It was something to ponder. Because Bucky didn’t think he knew how to be a boyfriend. The word felt way too juvenile for someone who’d passed the centennial of his birth. In fact, he couldn’t imagine either of you saying it. Felt people would think he was joking if he ever introduced himself that way.
But he was getting ahead of himself anyway. You clearly weren’t ready to say the words. He was surprised that he was at all. But the only way you’d be leaving the team would be through death. There was no danger of abandonment aside from that, and each of you walked along that tightrope every day. And a small part of Bucky really didn’t think that he’d be able yo scare you off too much. Maybe to pull back, maybe to fight with him, maybe to give him the cold shoulder, but something he’d learned over months and months of being around you was that you would always come back eventually.
Bucky tried to be careful and precise when he started to drop the words between you like offerings. He was alarmed with the lack of alarm he felt when he would murmur, “I love you,” into your skin when you were too far gone from an orgasm. He had expected resistance within himself, an abject fear that regardless of his inner reckoning that he did in fact, love you, something in him would want to snatch the words back, to bury them somewhere that no X marks the spot map would be able to find.
But it was scarily easy. When you slept together, you would stay the night, though not every time. And he would always wake up when you’d quietly slide out of bed, thinking him asleep still. On those nights, when you’d been utterly exhausted by pleasure, it was easy to wrangle you into his arms, to smooth your hair back against the pillow, and to whisper it to you as you were falling asleep.
You hadn’t seemed to catch on quite yet. He was unsure if the words were melting into your skin and bones when they left him, diluting into your bloodstream, or if you were deliberately reshaping them in your head. Not ‘I love you’ but ‘I love this’, ‘I love how you look right now, ‘I love the sound you just made’. Either way, Bucky wanted you to get attuned to it, to recognize it as easily as you would the taste of vanilla over chocolate, the smell of citrus over earth.
Selfishly, it was a little bit of a self-test, too. He was testing the waters. He wanted to make sure he meant it. He doubted he would ever be the type of guy to do a sweeping declaration, given the first time had been a complete mistake, like he’d walked into the wrong room. But he believed that he did. That somehow along the way, he’d become capable of it.
As for you? Bucky didn’t want to brag, had no one to brag to, but he was fairly certain that by this point you did like him for more than just sex. But you were just as stubbornly closed off as him, most of the time. He remembered when you’d bottled your emotions up, punching at that bag until he’d told you to stop, until he’d folded you in his arms and you’d cried over the loss of your friend, the other agent. You hadn’t wanted to break then. Hadn’t wanted anyone to see. And he doubted you would now. Matters of the heart, to you, were a territory he and anyone else were banned from. But maybe with time…
And Bucky got it, to an extent. He’d been wiped clean every time he’d shown some sort of emotions, something other than standard compliance that had been drilled into him by HYDRA. He understood that emotion felt dangerous and like it could be used against you at your weakest moments. But still, he felt good about it. It was freeing, actually, to be able to acknowledge what he felt, and not have to face any repercussions about it. It was what made him feel so bold. He was confident that with time, he would get you to the same point. But he would just be the open one for the both of you until then.
The next time he was with you, you were flat on your back on your bed, which had no less than four different throw blankets on it (his had a lonely gray comforter and nothing else). Your legs were wrapped around him like a vice. He kept touching your breasts, licking into your mouth. “Hate you.” you gasped between thrusts.
“I could never hate you.” He said against your neck, right into your skin.
He didn’t know if you heard him. He kept at it, giving in to the rhythmic glide of you. Right before you were about to come, he pulled his head back so he was looking you in the eye. He was about to do something brave. Or stupid. “You know that, right? You could never make me hate you. Ever. Not really. Not in a way that would change things.” He was tender, something he never was in the past, something he felt he always was now, when he tucked your hair back from your face.
You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, caught between pleasure and confusion, your lips parted, breath catching in your throat. For a heartbeat you looked almost uncertain—unguarded, the walls down, the game forgotten. Your fingers flexed against his back, holding him close as your thighs trembled around his hips.
“Barnes—” you whispered, but whatever words you were going to say scattered when he thrust in again, slower this time, rolling his hips, letting you feel every inch. He held your gaze, thumb stroking your cheek, his other hand splayed wide over your ribs.
He kissed you, and the heat of your usual fury was replaced with something aching and raw. “You piss me off every day,” he murmured against your lips, “but I don’t care.” He could feel your pulse jump beneath his palm, see the way your eyes went glossy, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.
You let out a shaky laugh, not mocking, just stunned. “You’re such an idiot,” you said, but your voice broke halfway through, all vulnerability and no bite.
“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, grinning crookedly, thrusting deeper, holding you tighter, “but I think that I’m your idiot.”
You squeezed your legs around him, arching up to meet him, your head thrown back as a moan tore out of you. He fucked you slow, savouring every sound, every shiver, the way your hands slid up into his hair, holding on like you were afraid he might disappear. You gasped, nails raking down his back, and he could feel you getting close again, your body trembling under his, every muscle straining toward release.
“Say it again,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “Tell me.”
He brushed his mouth over your cheek, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, then hovered just above your lips. “I don’t hate you, angel. I couldn’t. I—” His voice caught, and he hesitated for just a second. Not because he was afraid of the words, but he was afraid of letting you see the truth, naked and ugly and perfect, when you were still so coherent. “I love you.”
You whimpered, body clenching, your orgasm crashing through you, dragging him right over the edge alongside you, a pair of cliff divers seeking the ocean floor. He groaned your name into your mouth and saw sparks behind his eyelids when he closed them, his body locked to yours, every inch of him imprinted on your skin.
For a long time, neither of you moved, tangled together in the mess of your blankets, sweat cooling, breaths slowly syncing. Bucky brushed his knuckles along your jaw, letting himself just look at you—flushed, spent, beautiful and untouchable to anyone else, but his, somehow, for now.
You ran your fingers through his hair, eyes searching, hesitant, but soft. You looked like you wanted to say something, like you were searching through your arsenal for the right weapon, but instead, your tongue darted between your lips to wet them, and you stayed staring at him, mystified.
He smiled, his thumb tracing your lower lip. He settled beside you, pulling out at the same time he pulled you close. You were always softer, much more unguarded, after sex. It just depended on how long it took for you to be firing on all cylinders again. For now, you burrowed into his arms, your own loose on his waist. You could have just this, for a little while. And Bucky would take it all, if it meant you stayed for a little longer.
It was getting harder to fight against the current of ‘casual’. Bucky wanted nothing more than to hold your hand, to kiss you when he walked past you in the hallway, or to put his arm around you when you were with the others in some shared laugh. But he had to refrain from it, for you. He could imagine your hissed, “What are you doing?”, could almost feel the sting of you slapping his hands away, your head darting left and right to check that no one had seen the obvious PDA.
Bucky thought he could handle any of the teasing that would inevitably come from the team, from the prying eyes and the dozens of questions. But he thought you would shrink away, get defensive, when you should be able to puff out your chest proudly, and not take shit from anyone. That was usually your way, at least. But the scrutiny of a choice you might make to let him into your heart wasn’t something that you’d be so quick to face, he believed. If you’d managed to hide even the most basic of details from Wanda and Natasha, there was no way in hell that you’d be willing to offer up any knowledge to the group at large, and certainly not about your deepest feelings.
That was okay. Bucky would wait. He felt like he was playing one of those claw machine games. People were often unlucky, either getting the wrong toy from it, or missing completely, and getting nothing at all. Well, he’d put all of his coins in, and the prize was you, and he would very carefully manoeuver that claw until he was completely sure he could grab you. He wasn’t going to miss.
An area that you were still wildly confident in was work. The only emotional decision you had to make was if you were able to pick your own team, and who was going to be on it. Most of the time, it was assignment, but others, when the choice was in your hands… With vague, faint surprise, you had started to pick Bucky first, and to assemble the rest of the team based on what the two of you would be doing. He remembered a time when he’d see your name on a mission objective list and scowl, bitching to Steve about it to no avail. And he also remembered, with perfect clarity, hearing you do the same. And poor Steve had been stuck in the middle, helpless to appease either one of you.
Sometimes, Bucky still didn’t want to work with you, but not because he didn’t want to be around you, not anymore. It was more out of concern. He knew you could handle yourself. That had never been a question, even if your methods tended to differ from his. But the fear of you being in the line of fire was real all the same. It was something he’d just have to live with, even if he didn’t like it. He tried not to let it get in the way of letting you do real work. He knew how much you hated to be benched.
Your teamwork had begun to become more seamless. He’d still fight you on choices you made, but it was less to provoke and more to make sure that every single avenue had been explored, that there would be no surprises that you had neglected to consider. If you were alone, he’d lean close, speak the words slow, soft, to show you that he wasn’t questioning your idea, but rather to encourage you to be thorough. He didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere along the way of sneaking into empty rooms to steal time with you, he’d begun to trust you in a way that meant if you told him to walk into fire, he would do it, because you undoubtedly had a good reason for it.
It was unfamiliar. An absence that had formed, no hackles raised, no shouting and pointing of fingers. Well, there was always a little of that from you, along with your nail poking him firmly in the chest, but now he’d just give you a lopsided grin and put his big hand over yours rather than glare icy daggers at you. But the vacuum wasn’t bad. Bucky knew that you’d throw down with him immediately if he provoked you. That, at least, hadn’t changed. But he wanted to see how far he could go without pushing your buttons over semantics. If you could exist together without it, or if it would become boring without the bickering.
The Amazon. More specifically, the smaller bit of it that crossed into Peru. That was where you were on this evening. The safehouse wasn’t really a safehouse. It was a shack. It didn’t even have a bathroom. It was humid, the loud sounds of the rainforest all around. There had been no sight of toucans or macaws, the bright colours of their beaks and feathers, but they certainly made themselves known, calling to each other through the thick foliage. Beetles the size of golf balls had scuttled along as you and Bucky had trudged through the undergrowth. A dragonfly so large it made a loud thud against Bucky’s arm when it made contact was actually not the worst thing he’d seen today. Every vine that he’d stepped over on the poorly maintained path had potential to be a snake instead. The gun he’d held over his torso had been more for apex predators than human enemies. Jaguars were known to roam around here.
The bed, when you’d both fallen into it, exhausted, was little more than a rickety pallet. Your hair had long since begun to frizz with the humidity. Bucky remembered how it had looked 42 hours ago, slicked back and tidy. Your suit was sticking to your skin, and so was Bucky’s. He wished he didn’t have to be so clad in leather. His sweat had been rolling from his skin down his metal arm.
It was a fairly standard item retrieval request, but he couldn’t help wondering if someone else could have done the job this time. They’d only sent in the two of you, but with enough firepower to take down a decent amount of opposition, of which intel had told you there would be plenty. Supposedly, a covert base had been carved into the forest of the Amazon. Bucky couldn’t imagine much more than a series of treehouses strung together by bridges that would coast through the forest, but he wasn’t sure. Any drones that had been sent had been shot down. So you didn’t really have the element of surprise.
Neither of you were all that bothered, though. You were laying together on the pallet. It was night, the rainforest black as pitch, the nocturnal creatures skittering through the underbrush. Bucky could hear every move they made. If this had been a year ago, he would not have been laying beside you. There would have been a fight that probably would have left him bleeding and you fuming, and the pallet blown to smithereens, with the pair of you sullenly sleeping curled against opposite walls. Now, though, you were in a light sleep beside him, and all he had to do was touch his fingers to your hip for you to mumble, “mmm…?” and roll towards him.
The roof had holes in it. If it had been raining, pools of water would have gathered around you. There were no holes directly above him, though, as he stared up at the wooden ceiling. But he could still picture the vast midnight blue of the sky. The perfect, round diamond moon. The smaller, scattered rhinestones of stars. Despite the heat, you tucked yourself against him. Bucky shifted his arm only to drape it around you. He’d take the heat, both of the forest and of you, your hair brushing against his jaw, and what he was sure was a spider the size of a hamster in the corner of the shack. He’d take it all. Despite his exhaustion, he stayed awake, basking in your warmth, listening to your breaths, and marvelling at how easy it had been to get you to curl into him.
The roll of the jeep’s tires on the earth wasn’t exactly silent, but it was fairly well disguised by the other sounds. The rattle of a snake’s tail. The chatter of small, leaping monkeys. The sloth Bucky slowly drove past turned its head with patience and stared. It had a passive, pleasant smile on its face as it hung from a branch. You were hooked over the side of the doorless car, your gun smacking lightly against the roof with every bump Bucky crawled over. He wanted to tug you back into the seat by looping an arm around your knee, but he knew you wouldn’t be balancing so precariously like that for no reason.
It had taken some time, some wrong turns, and a horrifying moment where you’d both encountered a python as thick as Bucky, but he’d been able to ease the jeep down a narrow path eventually. He’d gotten only a little bit of whiplash from some low hanging branches. By all accounts, you should be on the site soon. It was why you were hanging outside the car like you were. Your head was on a swivel. You had no idea how close you were, and neither of you wanted to find out by getting riddled with holes. Just as Bucky thought it, though, there was the telltale ping, ping, ping! of gunshots against the metal of the trunk. Pi—the sound stopped. You’d taken out that shooter.
But then, right as the next chorus of gunfire rang out, the trees seemed to open up, impossibly, and a ramshackle base of operations greeted you both. And so did about a dozen men, rifles of staggering size much more obvious than they needed to be. It seemed that the element of surprise was out.
Bucky jerked the jeep sharply to the side and you both dove from it, using its body as a shield. Bucky was very lucky that you’d given him such a thorough pat down before leaving. It had only been to see what other surprising places you could sneak extra bullets into. Your own suit didn’t have quite so many pockets as his. There was no telling how many men were waiting in the wings after the first wave, but Bucky had always been a perfect shot, and you weren’t so bad yourself.
You were firing with twin pistols. Bucky had his rifle, and then a pistol like yours strapped to his back. He stuck with the rifle. It was grim satisfaction that flooded his veins, coupled with adrenaline, that kept his aim true. It was times like this that he was also somewhat grateful for the metal arm. The men here seemed to only have primitive weaponry at best—no high tech gear that SHIELD and your other compatriots had. No fear of his arm being disabled. It meant that he could have it in the line of fire without worry.
You darted into the trees at some point, leaving him at the car. He didn’t move until you’d both mowed down half of the men, before he stood and started his bold descent. It had been with a bit more luck that you’d both stopped near the top of a slope. The men were like fish in a barrel, some ten feet down. One by one, they went down, with Bucky taking glancing blows. Maybe the leather and additional bulletproof padding wasn’t so bad, despite the fact that he felt like an oiled pig underneath.
By the end of it when you reconvened, you were out of breath, bent at the waist, hands on your thighs. You had smudges of dirt on your chin and cheeks from a barrel roll—that had been your showy exit from the car. Hair was plastered to your temples. A hot, steady drizzle of rain had begun near the end, slicking Bucky’s armour. He felt it dripping down the back of his jacket. If he wasn’t careful on the drive back to the safehouse, and then the subsequent one to the extraction point, you would both be in danger of getting stranded. He could tell already, with the way the ground sucked at his boots with every step, that the paths would become muddy and impossible to navigate without slow consideration.
Bucky checked over you without touching you, scanning only with his eyes. “You okay?”
You were less winded, but no less exhilarated, confirming with a nod of your head. “Are you?”
He twisted his left arm out, and you both looked at the slight dents in the vibranium. It was nothing some careful maintenance couldn’t fix, and really, the bullets had mostly pinged off. It was only when he’d gotten closer than he should have that any surface damage had been taken.
You both split then, intent on your search and recovery. He could hear the occasional shot, which he guessed was you clearing out any surprise henchmen, and he did the same. There were, in fact, some treehouses littering the canopy above. But mostly it was a series of decently crafted bungalows. He had a feeling more had been done underground than he could really see. The rainforest had stayed loud around the clearing. He supposed whatever wildlife lived here had gotten used to the human subjects dwelling in this spot. Your comms stayed mostly quiet, between you. There wasn’t much to report yet. Once you’d cleared your side, you murmured down the line about checking in on the SAT phone.
Bucky’s scan so far had brought up nothing. You regrouped in the middle, guzzling down water and rations, confiscating what had belonged to the men you’d taken out. Eventually, thinking maybe you would have to traverse underground, you came upon a slab of cement. It was out of place in the rainforest. It was also mostly hidden by four of the men you’d taken out. They’d been nestled there behind sandbags, a sort of outlook to try and keep intruders out. It was an interesting place, to say the least, for them to hide a safebox. Bucky pried it from the ground with some effort. You had searched the men and tucked the key you found on one of them under your suit. It might not be the key, but it didn’t hurt to grab it.
You scanned the safebox doubtfully with one of Stark’s fancy devices. It didn’t do much—the box was quite obviously lead-lined. But it was about the right size for what you’d been sent to retrieve. Only time would tell, when you’d brought it back, if it was indeed the right thing. Bucky looked at you then, flushed, sweaty, dirty. You’d been chewing your lip and the useless readout on the device after smacking it a few times against your palm, but you looked at him then, sensing his gaze. “Ready to move out?” He asked.
You nodded. “They’ll have to send us back with another team if this isn’t it. And we don’t have the support to go under… even though I bet they have all sorts of toys down there. Let’s go.”
But before you could turn to the jeep, Bucky placed his hand on your cheek and gave you a soft kiss. It was against protocol to do something so sentimental and stupid, but he’d wanted to in the moment, and so he did, and you’d accepted it without any hesitance.
As you stepped over bodies, he put an arm around your waist, the other holding the safebox, and you headed back to the car together.
After the success found among the lush forests of the Amazon, you were pulled apart again. You were never able to drift in each other’s orbits for too long, but every time you came back together, it felt better to Bucky than the previous one. He couldn’t believe he’d started to become so sentimental. He would see things when he was out and think of you. Down in the thumping heart of New York, passing boutiques and restaurants alike, a loose, flowy skirt on a mannequin, the exact same shade of blue as the dress you’d worn at that restaurant. Anything with angel wings or cherubic faces made him think of you at Halloween. Even scrolling past an. advertisement for the zoo on his phone, the animal in question being a flamingo, had him thinking about the dusty, barren road you’d been driving down in that horrible old car in search of a man you needed to bring back to SHIELD, the trailer park with the faded plastic birds strewn over the grass.
Bucky found that he didn’t mind. Because what was love, if not the memory of all the times you’d been together, times that meant something to him, and the promise of all the future times that would mean just as much, if not more? Bucky supposed he had done all of this backwards with you. He’d experienced a little of the traditional courting atmosphere in the 40s, still lingering around the edges from the turn of the century, but it had been cut short by war and a fate worse than death. He didn’t quite know how well a date would fly, if you’d laugh it off and invite other people to keep it casual, but he let the idea stay in the back of his mind anyway. Maybe one day.
Bucky hadn’t let himself focus completely on the way your eyes and your body seemed to inevitably soften instead of tense up when he was nearby. He tried to only pay attention to it post-sex. And you were still pretty good at locking away your emotions. It was a shame, really, that you still felt like you needed to guard your feelings. Bucky was ready to lay his across a table set for two, each one ready to be devoured under a silver dome. He hoped that you would be able to do the same, at some point.
Usually, Bucky weaseled his way out of charity events when possible. Everyone knew he wasn’t the conversation starter, or holder, for that matter. It was better to let him stay back at the Tower or put him on assignment. In fact, Steve had done so more than once, even under express directions to make sure Bucky was free for appearances.
This was one that neither soldier could keep Bucky out of. So there he was, with his hair slicked back, making him think of a younger, not quite so jaded version of himself. The suit fit but it still felt tight around his shoulders, though he didn’t know if it was more because of his discomfort in general rather than the jacket. And there you were, in a devastating dress. Floor length black silk that flowed like inky water. It hugged your body like a lover might, like Bucky wanted to. The back of it was entirely open, save for the string of pearls that hung down your spine. It was clearly the focal point. But Bucky didn’t care about the pearls.
You’d been wining and dining all the important people while he’d lurked in the corner, as was the usual fashion. You were good at this. You would cut in at just the right time, seamlessly replacing Wanda or Tony with your own presence when they were ready to move on. He could hear your light, tinkling laugh bouncing off the walls. Your eyes were bright, your smile a gleam.
He hadn’t gotten close to you the entire night, but that was by design. He thought that if he did, he’d get one whiff of your perfume and then he’d be resigned to following you around the rest of the night like a puppy on an invisible leash. But eventually, like fate had predicted, you approached his corner of the room. The string quartet on the raised platform had been playing all night, but now people were dancing in pairs. And so to, where you and Bucky, a few minutes later.
It was a rare time where you were both soft around the edges instead of rough. The room was warm, the lights yellow and dim, though not too much. Your lips were painted red, only just barely beginning to feather at the edges. Bucky could have smudged it across your face with a swipe of his thumb. Could imagine how gorgeous you’d look, tantalizing ruination. But he was too transfixed by every word that fell from your silken mouth. You were only talking about each of the figureheads you’d met with, keeping him apprised. You knew he never remembered much about them anyway.
Bucky’s flesh hand was on your bare back, under the line of pearls. They grazed against his knuckles as you swayed. He wondered, if he took his hand away, would he see an imprint of it, seared into your flesh like a brand? Your eyes were scanning the room as you talked, never settling on him for too long. It was a typical move for you, to know the room, to see how it changed, but he got the feeling that it was something else keeping you from making more than flickering eye contact. Your hand was clasped in his metal one like it belonged there, like they were a well-made pair. He moved that hand so that he could kiss your fingertips, quick and succinct, in such a manner that no one would see. Your eyes darted back to his then, framed by your lashes. He wondered if your heart skipped a beat at the action. It was too noisy for him to focus on it.
“Barnes, you’re looking at me like you’re gonna sneak me into one of the balconies and split me open. I know we’ve cut it close with the voyeurism a time or two, but that seems a bit much, don’t you think?” You were teasing, trying to lighten the mood, he thought.
He knew he wasn’t giving you just bedroom eyes. He knew that you knew there was something infinitely more deep in his stare tonight, and you didn’t want to face it. But you needed to get used to it some time. He didn’t see it changing anytime soon.
“No, I wouldn’t take you here. I’d want to take my time. I wouldn’t want to rush. I’d want to enjoy it. Enjoy you.” It was thoughtful. It wasn’t exactly a non-answer.
In reality, he wasn’t thinking about sex at all. He wanted to be alone with you, yes. He always did. But not to just get out any pent-up frustrations. You didn’t have anything to say to that. You just readjusted your hand on his shoulder, like you had no quick rebuttal. Spitfire reduced to quiet, uncertain embers. Bucky pulled you an inch closer, and admired the way the light from the chandelier coated your skin.
You were split up for a few weeks again, separate missions dragging each of you halfway around the world. Bucky held onto what he had as a memory. It was true what they said. Absence made the heart grow fonder.
He got back first, after a nice and easy data extraction a few states away. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the early evening, and everyone had left him to it. The sun had cast over him in a slow crawl, painting his hair, his face, his shoulders gold, until it had gone to sleep too, sending the moon out as a sentinel. He was only woken up by a soft thud, followed by a harsh whisper that said, “ow, fuck!”
He blinked awake. It was black, the only light coming in slivers from the other skyscrapers outside. It was probably midnight, he’d slept so long. He sat up, looking over the back of the couch. He could just make out your silhouette in the light as you winced, holding your hand to your chest, next to the kitchen island ten feet away. “You’re back?” He said around a yawn, standing with a stretch.
The kitchen’s sensors came on when he moved close enough to the cabinet, the soft glow of the cupboard’s overhead lights illuminating the room just enough that he could see your features. You nodded, cradling your hand. “Yeah. I just hit my fucking hand on the corner of the island. Hurts like a bitch.” You shook your hand out, scrunching your nose up.
He followed the line of your hand to the island, to the box sitting on it. It was a pastry box with a clear plastic top. He frowned at the triangular shape, trying to parse it out. “Are those… scones?” He asked.
Your hesitation was an ocean, and Bucky felt a prickle on the back of his neck, like he was about to be swept into the tide. “...Yeah. Blueberry. They’re your favourite.” You said quietly.
You’d never done anything nice for him before, not like this. The box looked much more familiar, suddenly. The red squiggle outlining the plastic top confirmed that it was from Lazlo’s. That was halfway across the city. It was also Bucky’s favourite bakery. The name and ownership had changed a few times over, but it had been a bakery in the 40s, and it still was now. And the blueberry scones, as boring as they were, were his favourite. It was like you sensed it, the fact that he’d put this line of thinking together. Your voice got a little louder, a little higher, like if you spoke with enough defensiveness, enough determination, it would negate the thoughtful gesture. “It’s not—I didn’t—I didn’t think you’d still be awake. Or in here. I was just gonna… leave ‘em on the counter.”
“I’m so fucking in love with you.” He said simply.
You froze, your hand hovering in midair, the scone box halfway between you. For a second, your eyes went wide in the gentle kitchen light, your mouth parted as if you’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, almost as if you couldn’t help yourself, you laughed—a quick, soft, startled sound, shaky with nerves and relief and something warmer beneath.
You shoved the box toward him, as if it might shield you from the enormity of what he’d just said. “You’re so goddamn weird,” you whispered, but your voice trembled. “They’re just scones. Pepper does this kind of thing all the time.”
He took the box from you, setting it down gently on the island, and closed the distance between you, hands bracketing your hips. He saw the protest brewing—your mouth already opening, probably to scold or argue or deflect—but he cut you off, his voice quiet and certain, thick with sleep and honesty.
“I mean it,” he said, staring you down the way only he could, as if he could will you to believe it. “You don’t have to say it back. Hell, you can punch me for it if you want. But I love you.”
You just shook your head, swallowing, your tough shell slipping for once. “You’re an idiot.”
“I think we’ve established that already. The new information here is that you brought me scones from across town, in the middle of the night. They close at six.”
“I had a standing order. This is not a thing. I’d do it for anyone.”
Yes, maybe you would. But the fact was, you’d done it for him.
“You hate blueberry scones.”
“Whatever,” you said, rolling your eyes, but he saw you bite down on a smile, felt the way your hands hovered between you before settling on his chest, twisting at the fabric of his t-shirt. “Can’t believe you’re such a sap, Barnes,” you muttered. “All I wanted was to drop off some food and go to bed.”
He ducked his head, brushing his lips over your forehead, over your cheek, over the tip of your nose. “Consider the first half of your mission accomplished.”
You huffed, but your arms slid around his waist, anchoring yourself there. You didn’t say the words, but Bucky felt them in your actions. He’d take that as gospel. It was enough. He squeezed you tight, breathing you in, all the tension of weeks apart draining away in the feel of you pressed against him. He pulled back only to grab at one of your hands, the one you’d smashed into the counter’s nefarious corner. He kissed your knuckles, holding your hand to his mouth for longer than he needed to, before murmuring, “Let’s go to bed.”
And to his surprise, you let him lead you to his room, and under the blankets, without so much as a single protest.
Morning following the events of the previous night was a gorgeous, soft thing. Almost as gorgeous and soft as you. Bucky had woken up first, squinting at the sun. Everything looked a little blue, the light cast through his curtains giving everything a vague hue. His blanket was low on his waist. You were half curled over him, your leg hooked over his hips, your head and one of your hands pillowed on his chest, right by his heart. His fingers tangled in your hair.
The shift of him waking up was what brought you to the surface, and you snuggled against him all the more, like his flesh could keep the light from penetrating your vision. Your fingers curled into his shirt. You groaned, the heat of your breath a warm puff. “What time is it?”
Bucky didn’t care to reach for his phone. He considered the light again, the angle it seemed to sweep in from. “You could stand to sleep a little more.”
You nestled again, like you were seeking an entrance to a safe, hidden place. Like you could burrow into his ribs and come out the other side. “You need blackout curtains.” When you said this, you tilted your head, cheek brushing against him, to peer at him. You were frowning.
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“What else is on the list?”
“I don’t know. What else do you think I’m missing?”
You did a slow assessment of his room. “One blanket is not enough.”
His laugh was a steady rumble beneath you. “Okay. I’ll just take one of yours. You only have like, a million.”
“That’s a million and one, thank you very much.” You pressed down on his chest to push yourself up a bit more. Now your face hovered over his, your eyes filling his vision.
He only needed to tilt his head a little to capture your mouth in a slow kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured, though the time for pleasantries had sailed already.
You sank into him, and his arms came up around you. “Good morning,” you muttered back, nipping at his bottom lip.
The minutes melted together, a honey sweet blend, tinged blue. He took his time, and you didn’t seem to mind. It was a natural progression to you being astride him, hands braced against his sternum. You were doing all the work. Bucky was helpless to stop you. All he could do was run his palms up your thighs to your waist and back again. What he wouldn’t give to stay suspended in time with you. Nothing else mattered. Just you, your eyes glazed with pleasure, the warmth of your body, your nails piercing his skin. His shirt had landed on your pillow. Yours… Well, it was halfway across the room somewhere.
His hands travelled up again, trailing your spine. He pulled you flush to him, chest to chest. You weren’t close enough. You’d never be close enough. You could fuse together and still feel too far apart. You met him where he wanted you, the angle changing. It made you shudder. Or maybe it was him. He couldn’t tell. But each time your body moved, he kissed you. He whispered I love yous against your mouth and you sighed like each one was a separate caress. He could see your end coming in the reflection of your eyes, your lips parting on a gasp. “Let go, baby. Let go.”
And you did, with Bucky following suit. Like your allowance was his allowance too. That time, it was both of you shuddering, your mouth falling open, a sound stuck in your throat, Bucky muttering out a string of profanities against the side of your neck, one of his hands cupping the back of your head, pulling you as close as he could.
You drifted in liminal space for a time. Hate fucking had always been great. Of course it had. It was how Bucky had gotten to this place, after all. But this? What he got to experience now, without you flinching from his honesty, with you matching him beat for beat in your own way, with you draped lazily on top of him like a kitten in a sunbeam? This was what he was hoping for. He wished he could bottle the moment up. He wasn’t going to let you go.
Even after, when your eyes had refocused, when the sweat on your body had cooled, when your legs had stopped trembling on either side of his waist, he held on tighter to you each time you tried to slide away. He was keeping hold of whatever he could reach, his fingers on your ribs, your arm, your thigh. He trailed them across your skin lightly, a tickle more than a grasp, once you’d decided to stay put, all to hear your involuntary laugh. Your lips grazed his neck lazily. “Maybe I like you too, Barnes.”
It was perhaps as close to an admission of feelings as he could get from you. He waited until you looked up at him with a teasing smile, before saying with mock surprise, “Hold on. Let me get my phone. Can you say that into the camera?”
You both laughed. He wasn’t serious. He would have given his other arm to hear you say it a thousand times over, but he didn’t expect you to. But to his astonishment, you sat up, sitting on top of him like you had nowhere else to be, and plucked up his shirt before pulling it over your head, letting the hem pool over your thighs, before reaching over him to the nightstand to grab it.
With wild bed head, sleepy eyes, and a seductive smile, you turned the screen to you, and said into the recording, “You’re not the worst person in the world to spend all my time with,” you looked off-camera to him, then back to the phone, “I guess.”
The recording was cut off when he pulled you back down again, your giggles the last thing on tape.
There was a change now. The beginning of one, at least. When you and Bucky were alone together now, without others around, you seemed to more readily accept his affections. You didn’t always say anything—you didn’t even always react—but you accepted, leaning into touches without hesitation. He could touch your face and pull you into a kiss and you would comply. It was thrilling. However, that didn’t mean you’d simply turned into some sugarplum fairy, some sweet, delicate thing overnight.
No, you were still yourself, combative and grumpy at the best of times. Only now, there was no real heat to it. Working with you when you were in that state was never the most fun. Being stuck in a nondescript SUV for six hours on a stakeout with you was even less so.
You were both sitting in the front, obscured from the outside by the tinted windows, staring at a warehouse. You had been mostly silent the entire time, because your nerves were shot. Even when Bucky had tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, bored, you had sighed and asked him to stop.
Bucky was fairly certain he knew the reason for your mood. Despite the newfound affection between you both, something that was more than just taking your frustrations out on each other, you were still separated a lot of the time. The only downside to being in your bubble was now, selfishly, Bucky wanted all your time. He had grown used to it. So being apart was worse than it had once been, and he knew that you were feeling the effects of it, too. Even now, over the last week, when both of you had been grounded. That should have meant plenty of chances for alone time, of the sexual variety or not, but you’d both been go go go anyway. You’d been tied up in meetings, paired with Steve on something or other, and Bucky had been yanked in the other direction by Sam. Every time he thought you had a moment to steal away, somebody, whether it was a real person or FRIDAY, had something pop up that needed your undivided attention immediately. It was beginning to be a real cockblock.
Bucky had been watching you shift restlessly for about half of the stakeout, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the mind-numbing task. You had been keeping notes on your tablet while you watched, tracking movement, anything suspicious, anything worth noting. When you hit hour seven, you sent off the update, shifting again in your seat. Yeah, sitting still for that long was no fun, either.
Your phone rang a minute later. “Hey. I think you guys are good to clear out for now, come on back. We’re going to analyze this information along with what we already had to form a plan to storm it.” Steve said on the phone.
You sighed heavily, glad to be done with the thankless job. It really could have been handled by rookies instead. “Got it. See you in a bit.”
You hung up then, turning to Bucky. “We’re clear. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He patted your leg. You slapped his hand away with a glare. He gave you a tired, but amused look. “You’re really grouchy today.”
You crossed your arms. “No I’m not.”
He looked you up and down. “Baby, you just smacked me.”
You shifted again. “Don’t touch me right now unless you’re planning to take me in the backseat.”
Surprise passed his face before it split into a grin. He didn’t think you’d so readily admit to the problem. “Are you telling me you’ve been acting like this all day because you’re horny?”
You stared down at the gear shift. “...No.”
His cock twitched in his jeans. You were unfathomably cute when you got like this. “Get in the backseat.”
Your head snapped up. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not.” He said simply.
Your mouth parted, staring at him for a moment, before you were all but diving over the middle console and into the back.
Bucky didn’t waste a second. He followed you, heart pounding, already half-hard from the days of anticipation and interruption, the endless hours of watching you fidget and squirm in that seat beside him. You were still pretending to pout, arms crossed as you sank into the old, squeaky upholstery, but he saw the flash in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you tracked his every move.
He crowded in close, knees braced on either side of your thighs, the car’s ceiling forcing you both to hunch together in the too-small space. His hands slid up under your jacket, over your ribs, and he pressed his mouth to your ear, voice rough, low. “You could’ve just told me, you know.”
You snorted, biting back a grin, your cheeks flushed with heat. “Yeah, right. Like you’d ever let me live it down.”
He grinned, nosing along your jaw, letting his breath fan over your skin, teasing. “Maybe not. But I’d make it worth your while.”
You shivered, the fight draining from you, hands fisting in the hem of his shirt as you pulled him in for a kiss—hot, hungry, all your frustrations at being apart laid plain. Bucky vaguely wondered if you were the possessive type. He groaned, sliding his hand down to cup your ass, dragging you up against him until you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.
“You gonna stop being so grumpy after this?” he murmured, lips brushing yours.
You rolled your eyes, but your hips rolled too, searching for friction. “I hate you.”
He grinned, nipping at your bottom lip, already undoing your jeans, his fingers slipping under the waistband with practiced ease. He felt his muscles jolt at how wet you were. You really had been jonesing for it. “You just keep on saying that, baby.”
You arched into his touch, head thumping back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed. “Shut up, Barnes. Just—shut up and do me.”
He did, fast and frantic, clothes tangled around your knees, the old SUV rocking on its wheels. His mouth never left yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, every curse. Your hands clawed at his back, his hair, anything you could reach, desperate to keep him close. He took great joy in the fact that your eyes seemed to keep rolling back with consistency. He knew he was hitting the spot.
When you came, it was with his name ripped raw from your throat, Bucky, I— flung around the car’s interior like a grenade. It was all you said. But he thought he could imagine the end of the statement. Your nails dug crescents into his back, your whole body clenching tight around him. He followed, biting down on your shoulder, groaning into your skin, spilling inside you as the world narrowed to the heat and pulse of you, the slick, perfect clutch of your body.
Afterward, you just lay there underneath him, not complaining at all about his weight over you. You finally sighed, satisfied. “I’m never waiting that long again.”
He kissed your forehead, laughing, feeling light as air. “I’m right there with you. But angel, next time you feel needy, just tell me. You know I’d be on my knees anytime, anywhere.” He paused then, before grinning down at you wickedly. “I think maybe being in the car just makes you wanna get your rocks off. Remember the first time?”
You punched his arm, but your hand was gentle. It was affection over violence. The windows were fogged up.
The conversation was admittedly a silly, lighthearted one. It was a rare moment of quiet in the kitchen. The subject matter? All the public places you still had yet to defile together. You were talking about where you’d still like to go. Bucky tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We haven’t done it outside yet, have we?”
“No. But we’ve had nice views. Remember Greece?”
“Of course I remember Greece. Remember that bathroom that one time?”
“I remember you feeling me up in the closet beforehand, yeah.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, you can’t blame me. My balls were so incredibly blue.”
You laughed, before considering him. “What’s your favourite place been?”
There were so many. It should have been hard to pick. Each time you’d collided was memorable. But the answer came to Bucky as clear as day. “Your bed.” Your fingers tangled together. He’d already been holding your hand, but your fingers locked together all the tighter. You were both thinking of Halloween, he thought.
You, on the other hand, didn’t have an answer when he turned the question back to you. You claimed you couldn’t settle on just one. You smiled like you were trying to hold in a laugh as he needled you, poking at your side with his free hand. “Maybe my favourite time has yet to happen. Ever think of that?”
He pretended to be offended for the space of a second, only long enough for you to laugh, but then you sobered up, suddenly honest. “Each time becomes my favourite time. They overwrite each other. I can’t just pick. It’s too hard. You can’t have just one, not with someone you love.”
Bucky straightened, muscles locking, like a dog scenting a rabbit. You didn’t notice, distracted by sounds in the hallway. By the sound of it, it was a spirited argument between Sam and Steve, the topic of which being baseball. You turned back to him. “Anyway, should we go? I really don’t want to get stuck in the conversation of ‘Best Plays of All-Time’ again.”
Bucky agreed, following alone, keeping your admission a secret just for him, for now. But he kept holding your hand.
Just like the earth was destined to continue revolving around the sun, Bucky was destined to part ways with you. He was going. You were staying. He wasn’t supposed to be gone that long. He’d been on much longer, more complicated missions than this one. And so, it stood to reason that the goodbye between you would be short and sweet. He was leaving late at night, so there was no one to see him lingering in the doorway of your room when he came to say goodbye. All through the day, whenever he’d seen you, he’d gotten the distinct feeling that you kept almost reaching for him before thinking the better of it. He’d seen your hands hovering listlessly in front of you before dropping to your sides, or fidgeting with the zip of your sweater, rather than whatever they so clearly wanted to do.
He kissed you on the mouth, then on the forehead, before his departure. It felt good to know that he had something to come back to—someone. Someone who drove him a little crazy sometimes, but someone that dragged him to her room and laid on him for hours on end, nonetheless. Earlier that morning, you had stripped him of his t-shirt and put it on. You were wearing it now, having claimed it as a pajama shirt for the night. He saw you turn your head and breathe into the collar, even though he was still there, still in the flesh right before you. But he had a warm feeling that you were going to sleep with it on every night until he came back. “There’re more shirts, you know.”
You glanced up at him, like you had forgotten he was there during that intake of breath. “Hm?”
“There’re more shirts. You can just go into my room and take one. If you want.”
“But I like this one.”
It was light gray, a little stretched at the collar. It threatened to hang off one of your shoulders. It was just a shirt. He had a dozen more like it. “Why do you like that one?”
You paused. Your fingers toyed with the hem. He saw something in your eyes, like you were debating whether to lie or not. “You um, you were wearing it the time you, uh… The time you threw all my coffee cream out.” Then your mouth closed in a firm line, unwilling to say more.
The time he’d…?
Oh.
When he’d riled you up, then had his way with you. But more importantly, when he’d accidentally spit out those three little words that had since become as normal to him as the change of season or the expectation of sunrise and sunset. It took everything in him not to throw you back onto the bed right now, to mutter the words into your skin, to breathe them into your mouth right now. Instead, he kissed your forehead again, his hand on the back of your neck. “I’ll see you in a few days,” he said, unable to keep the warmth from his voice.
It was routine, or it was supposed to be. He’d been gone for a few days, just like he’d said, but on the tail end of it, he’d accepted another. It was in the same general area, off the coast of France rather than in the city like he had been. He was largely at sea for this one. The ship was disguised as an oil tanker. The team he was with blended in with real workers seamlessly. The base he needed to infiltrate was somewhere well below sea level. Bucky didn’t love the idea of descending my submarine, the idea of the enclosed space with millions of tons of water above his head, but he’d done worse.
Communications were short, but he was grateful to even have them.
As the mission wrapped, he was nursing a headache and a pretty decent slash on his forearm, a crude set of stitches keeping it closed. But the first thing he did, upon being told they were setting course back to land, was call you. You answered despite the time. He knew it was coming on two in the morning for you. “I’ll see you in maybe twelve hours,” he said, after filling you in on the basic details, leaving out the injury. “Did you pick up any assignments?”
“No. Well—yes, but it’s not starting for a few days. Apparently it’s taking awhile for them to build me a decent profile.” He could imagine your shrug. “Undercover, Morocco. I’m looking at a three week operation.”
His lip curled in distaste at the confirmation that you’d be apart, yet again. He didn’t know how Tony and Pepper could stand it. He understood now why Stark always did his best to go behind Pepper’s back and try to get her to come along to things that were supposed to be less dangerous. An agent hovered in his periphery with a tablet, a questioning look on her face. His eyes flicked up, and he gave a small nod, waiting until she was out of earshot to respond to you. “Well I’ll see you soon. I plan to use up all your downtime before then. Consider this your only warning.”
You laughed. He’d missed the sound. “Okay, heard.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The shock was palpable, like a string connecting you both from worlds away. He was stunned that you’d said it. You were stunned that you’d said it. You abruptly hung up, nothing but dead air left on Bucky’s side of the phone. It wasn’t when he’d expected you to say it, not at all. And judging by your hasty mobile exit, it hadn’t been your expectation, either.
The migraine melted away on the ocean waves, replaced by a buzz of impatience.
The knocking was insistent, loud, and unapologetic. Bucky was exhausted. He knew he probably looked like shit. But he’d crossed all the t’s, dotted all the i’s, and strode down the hall to your room as quickly as he could. He’d dumped his bag in the hallway next to your door, not so much as wanting to pause at his own room. He couldn’t. What a waste of time it would be. He switched to knocking with his metal hand, hearing the plates in his arm flexing. He heard the softness of your footsteps a few seconds before the click of the knob, and then the door was opening, you hesitantly peering at him from the other side.
Before you could even say a word, your mouth half-open to speak, probably to deflect and deny and make another scone-based excuse, Bucky’s arms were around you, his hands flying up and down your ribs like twin hummingbirds in search of nectar. He crushed you in a kiss. “God, I missed you,” he didn’t even know if his words were coherent enough for you to understand, unwilling as he was to stop. “I love you, I love you.” He couldn’t decide if he wanted to say the words to you, to tattoo them into your brain, or to show you with his body more.
Your own hands fluttered at his jaw, a staccato beat of your fingertips against stubble. “I love you, too. I love you, too.”
It made his ears ring. He finally got to hear it, straight from you, in person. There was no worry stitched between the words, only perfect clarity. How did he get here? How did he go from not understanding what everyone else liked about you, from thinking if he only saw the back of you, if he never got stuck in conversation with you again, he could breathe easy, to feeling like he actually couldn’t breathe unless you were right there beside him? It was a complete mystery. But maybe it was one he didn’t need to solve.
He walked you backwards, kicking the door closed behind him. His bag was forgotten outside. “Say it again.”
You reared back then, peering up at him. “Ugh, do I have to? I feel like I just said it so much. You’re gonna think I’m a softie if I keep saying it.”
His laugh was a rich, warm thing. Like a blanket over your shoulders. “Come on. We have a 10 to 1 ratio. I think I should get to hear it at least a few more times, spitfire. It’s only fair.”
“For the record, I wasn’t planning to say it. Before. On the phone. Tech records our calls sometimes, you know.”
“They record them every time.”
You groaned. “Great. Now they know I have stupid feelings for you.”
He pressed his lips to your cheekbone. “Yeah, well, I said it on the phone too. So I guess we’re in the same boat.” Then he poked you in the ribs. “Now say it. Or do I have to resort to more seductive means to hear it again?”
You half shrugged. “I mean… Probably wouldn’t hurt.”
He shook his head, sighing loudly. “The things I do for you…” He hooked his arms under your legs and lifted, until your ankles crossed at his back.
You smiled. “I love when you decide to be all business.”
He leaned you back on the bed, hovering over you. “Me going down on you is considered business?”
“Well, I think so. You certainly work for it like you have to close a deal.”
He pinched your waist and you yelped, before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your neck. “You’re killin’ me, angel. Say it, for the love of God.”
You twisted your fingers through his hair. “Fine, you devil. I love you. I suppose.”
But you couldn’t keep a straight face, beaming at the way he nuzzled against your throat before looking at you again. “I love you, too. You better get real used to saying it. I expect nothing less. I’m a words of affirmation type of guy.”
It was bullshit, and you both knew it, but you pulled him down to you again. “I’ll take it under advisement. But enough talking, I’m tired of waiting. Undress me already. I might have missed you, but she missed you more.” You wriggled beneath him for emphasis.
“‘Course she did. She loves me, too.” He teased, hands coasting down your body.
“Against all odds, yeah.”
Against all odds. That was really what it came down to, between you. Against all odds, you’d wormed your way into each other’s orbits, and now, stubbornly, you were both there to stay. And Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way.
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
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!
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special: thank you bri for being my number one fan. she really do be thatonefangirl @iamthatonefangirl
Summary - You and Bucky Barnes are assigned to an undercover mission posing as a married couple to infiltrate a high-profile gala and track a dangerous target. What starts as a strictly professional cover—shared hotel suites, fake wedding rings, and carefully rehearsed affection—quickly becomes complicated when forced proximity turns into undeniable chemistry.
Warnings - MDNI! smut, undercover mission/fake marriage, forced proximity, one bed, dirty talk/praising, Light BDSM undertones (consensual power dynamics, implied), explicit sexual content, consensual sex, praise kink, dirty talk, possessive undertones, intense intimacy, heavy mutual attraction, Bucky Barnes being unhinged (affectionate), pet names (sweetheart,doll) overstimulation vibes, size kink? Power imbalance dynamics (fictional/consensual), degradation-free but very intense praise, public tension spillover into private scenes, fluffy after sex, gala setting use of the word ‘daddy’ implied in a sexual way during conversation
Writers notes - no proof read or word count. This is a long one grab a snack 🍿
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you inside polished brass and suffocating tension.
For three floors, neither you nor Bucky Barnes spoke.
His hand was still resting against the small of your back.
Warm. Heavy. Possessive enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
The couple from the lobby had probably thought it romantic.
You knew better.
Bucky only touched people when he meant to.
“You can let go now,” you said lightly, staring at the glowing floor numbers instead of him.
“I know.”
But he didn’t move.
The elevator mirrored your reflection back at you: your fitted black dress, the glittering ring on your finger, Bucky looming behind you in a charcoal suit that looked criminally good on him. Dark hair pushed back. Clean shave. Blue eyes fixed on the elevator doors like he was tracking threats instead of trying not to look at you.
A married couple.
The cover had barely lasted thirty minutes, and already it felt dangerous.
The doors opened onto the private suite floor.
Bucky’s hand finally slipped away as he guided you into the hallway, every movement smooth and watchful. You hated how naturally the act came to him. The attentive husband. Protective. Close enough to touch.
Maybe it wasn’t all an act.
The thought settled low in your stomach.
Inside the suite, the door clicked shut behind you.
Silence.
Then—
“You flirted with the receptionist.”
You blinked, tossing your clutch onto the couch. “Excuse me?”
“He gave you the room key and you smiled at him”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re jealous.”
Bucky loosened his tie with one sharp pull. “I’m focused.”
“Oh, absolutely.” You crossed the room toward the minibar, hiding your grin. “Nothing says professional assassin like pouting in an elevator.”
“I don’t pout.”
You poured yourself a drink. “You brood. It’s basically the same thing.”
From behind you came the sound of jacket fabric shifting. You turned just in time to see him shrug out of his suit coat and drape it carefully over the armchair.
It should not have affected you the way it did.
But the sight of Bucky Barnes relaxing—even slightly—felt unfairly intimate.
The hotel suite was absurdly luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city below, all gold lights and rain-slick streets. A king-sized bed sat in the center of the room beneath dim amber lighting.
One bed.
Of course.
You noticed Bucky noticing it too.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Don’t start,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“We’ve shared worse places.”
“Not while pretending to be married.”
That shut him up.
For a moment, all you could hear was the distant patter of rain against the glass.
Then Bucky exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You hungry?”
The sudden normalcy of the question caught you off guard.
“A little.”
“I’ll order something.”
You watched him cross the room toward the hotel phone, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the metal of his vibranium hand beneath the cuff. The blue glow flickered faintly under the warm light.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Most people saw the arm first and the man second.
You had learned the opposite.
Bucky murmured something in Romanian to room service—apparently the mission file had included language prep—and you found yourself staring longer than you should have. His voice dropped lower when he was tired. Rougher around the edges.
Dangerous.
Your eyes drifted to the wedding ring still sitting on his finger.
Fake.
So why did it look right there?
“Quit staring,” he said without turning.
Heat rushed to your face. “You literally have enhanced senses. That’s cheating.”
A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.
Victory.
Tiny, rare, but real.
When he hung up the phone, he turned to face you fully for the first time since entering the suite.
And suddenly the air changed.
You’d seen Bucky in tactical gear. Bloodied after missions. Half-feral in fights.
But dressed like this—dark suit molding to broad shoulders, tie loosened, eyes shadowed with exhaustion—he looked devastatingly human.
Which somehow felt more dangerous.
“You nervous about tomorrow?” you asked softly.
“The gala?”
“The mission.”
Bucky leaned against the table behind him, metal fingers curling over the edge. “Not the mission.”
Your breath caught.
“Then what?”
His gaze lifted to yours slowly.
“This.”
The word landed between you like a live wire.
You tried for humor. “You scared of playing house, Barnes?”
Bucky moved instantly, all softness gone. One hand slid behind his back toward the concealed gun at his waistband as he checked the peephole.
Room service.
He relaxed slightly and opened the door just enough to let the waiter wheel the cart inside.
You watched the transformation happen in real time.
The second another person entered the room, Bucky’s arm wrapped around your waist effortlessly, pulling you against his side like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The waiter smiled politely. “A beautiful honeymoon suite for a beautiful couple.”
Your stomach flipped.
Bucky looked down at you.
And smiled.
Small. Crooked. Lethal.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I got lucky.”
The waiter left a minute later.
Neither of you moved after the door shut.
Bucky’s hand remained splayed against your waist.
Your fingers rested against his chest without you realizing.
You could feel his heartbeat beneath the crisp dress shirt.
Fast.
Not calm at all.
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
Your breath stalled.
“Bucky…”
The warning came out weaker than intended.
His thumb shifted against your waist almost absently, brushing the fabric there.
“You should tell me to stop.”
But he wasn’t moving away.
Neither were you.
—
Rain streaked the windows behind him, silver city lights catching in the sharp angles of his face. Close enough now, you could see the faint scar cutting through his stubble. The exhaustion in his eyes. The restraint.
Always the restraint.
Like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
Your hand slid higher against his chest before you could think better of it.
Bucky inhaled sharply.
That tiny sound nearly destroyed your self-control.
“We’re supposed to be pretending,” you whispered.
His gaze darkened.
“Feels real to me.”
Bucky stared at you like he was losing a battle with himself.
Every second stretched tighter.
Your hand was still pressed against his chest, feeling the hard thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Too fast. Too uneven for a man pretending to be unaffected.
“Feels real to me.”
The words lingered between you.
Then you kissed him.
It wasn’t tentative.
Weeks of tension snapped all at once as Bucky made a rough sound against your mouth, one hand gripping your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him. The other cupped the back of your neck carefully—as if even now he was terrified of hurting you.
The contrast nearly wrecked you.
His kiss was desperate restraint unraveling in real time.
Hot. Deep. Possessive.
You felt him shudder when your fingers slid into his hair, and suddenly he was walking you backward without breaking the kiss, guiding you toward the bed with slow, deliberate steps.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he muttered against your lips.
Instead of answering, you kissed him harder.
That seemed to break the last thread of composure he had left.
Bucky’s hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. A startled gasp left you as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned softly, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “You have any idea what you do to me?”
The back of your knees hit the mattress a second later.
Bucky laid you down carefully for someone breathing this hard.
Then he just looked at you.
Like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
Your dress had ridden halfway up your thighs, your hair messy already from his hands, lips swollen from kissing him—and the expression on his face turned almost painfully hungry.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said roughly.
The praise made heat curl low in your stomach.
Bucky noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
His eyes darkened at your reaction as he leaned over you again, kissing down your jaw slowly this time, savoring every little sound you made for him.
“So responsive,” he murmured against your skin. “Pretty thing.”
You whimpered softly when his teeth grazed your pulse point.
Bucky froze for half a second.
Then he let out a low groan that sounded dangerously close to losing control.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Thank God nobody can hear you.”
Your breath hitched.
“The perks of the honeymoon suite,” he added, voice rough with amusement and desire.
The sentence alone sent another wave of heat through you.
He noticed that too.
“Yeah?” His metal hand slid carefully along your thigh, pushing the dress higher inch by inch. “You like hearing that?”
You nodded too quickly.
Bucky gave a quiet, wrecked laugh against your throat. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.”
The nickname made your stomach flip.
Every movement after that felt deliberate—like he was trying so hard to stay in control while you steadily destroyed it.
He kissed you until you were breathless, until your fingers were clutching at his shirt, until every praise he whispered made you melt further beneath him.
“That’s it.”
“Good girl.”
“Look at you.”
“So pretty when you fall apart for me.”
Every word pulled another helpless sound from you.
And every sound seemed to drag Bucky closer to the edge.
By the time his forehead pressed against yours again, his breathing was uneven.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, even now.
The concern in the middle of all this nearly shattered you.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky—”
He kissed you hard enough to steal the rest of the sentence.
The tension finally broke completely after that.
Hands everywhere. Clothes discarded between desperate kisses. His control fraying every time you reacted to him.
Especially when he pushed your legs farther apart and you gasped sharply at the feeling of him pushing deeper inside you.
Bucky cursed under his breath, eyes squeezing shut for one dangerous second.
“There,” he rasped, gripping your thigh tighter. “That’s the sound.”
Your nails dragged down his shoulders and his composure visibly cracked.
“God, sweetheart—”
He buried his face briefly against your neck like he was trying to steady himself.
It didn’t work.
Not when you kept reacting to every touch like this.
Not when you kept saying his name like it meant something.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression wrecked now—completely undone by you.
“So good for me,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so well.”
The praise made your head spin.
His metal hand settled beside your head against the mattress while the other stroked slowly up your thigh, grounding and possessive all at once.
“You have no idea,” he admitted quietly, almost like a confession, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to memorize you.
Every movement after that became rougher, needier—the careful restraint he’d clung to finally slipping every time you reacted to him.
And you reacted to everything.
The drag of his mouth against yours.
The scrape of stubble along your throat.
The deep sounds he made every time you whispered his name.
“Fuck,” he groaned quietly against your lips, breath uneven. “You feel incredible.”
Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he moved against you harder now, enough to make the headboard tap softly against the wall. The luxurious suite around you blurred into warm gold light and tangled sheets and the overwhelming feeling of him everywhere.
Bucky’s control looked dangerously thin.
Dark hair falling into his eyes. Chest streaked with scratches from your nails. Mouth swollen from kissing you.
Beautiful.
His vibranium hand slid up your body slowly before settling against your throat—not squeezing, just holding gently there, thumb brushing your pulse as he watched your reaction carefully.
Your breath caught sharply.
Bucky cursed under his breath at the sound.
“That okay?” he asked immediately, voice rough.
You nodded without hesitation.
The answering look on his face nearly ruined you.
“Christ.”
He kissed you again hard enough to steal the air from your lungs as his pace turned almost punishing, powerful enough that pleasure kept knocking startled sounds from your throat no matter how hard you tried to stay quiet.
“Don’t hold back,” he muttered against your mouth. “Nobody’s gonna hear you up here.”
The promise shattered the last of your restraint.
Your back arched hard against the mattress as another wave of pleasure hit, intense enough to make your vision blur. Bucky groaned at the sight of you beneath him, one hand gripping your thigh tighter to keep you spread open for him.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “God, look at you.”
You were shaking already, overwhelmed by the relentless rhythm of him, by the way he kept praising you through every breathless gasp and broken moan.
“So fucking pretty.”
“So responsive for me.”
“Taking me so well, sweetheart—fuck—”
The pet name combined with the rough drag of his voice sent you over the edge again with a sharp cry, your fingers locking around his wrist instinctively—the vibranium one still cradling your throat gently.
Bucky’s entire body tensed.
His forehead dropped against yours as a wrecked groan tore from him.
“Fuck, gonna—”
He stopped himself barely long enough to look at you.
Even now.
Always checking.
Your chest heaved as you nodded quickly, fingers tightening around his wrist.
“Yes.”
His eyes darkened immediately.
“Yeah?” His voice cracked slightly. “You sure?”
You pulled him down into another desperate kiss in answer.
That finished him.
Bucky swore against your mouth, losing the last of his composure completely as he held you tightly through it, breathing hard enough you could feel it against your skin.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Your bodies were tangled together in ruined sheets, both of you covered in sweat and faint marks—scratches across Bucky’s shoulders, darkening love bites along your throat and collarbone, his fingerprints ghosting your thighs.
Bucky finally lifted his head enough to look at you.
His expression had gone soft now. Almost stunned.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
Carefully, almost reverently, his flesh hand brushed sweaty hair back from your face.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You laughed breathlessly. “You ask that after everything?”
A tired grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Occupational hazard.”
You traced lazy circles over the scratches on his chest. “You know,” you murmured, “for a fake husband, you’re very intense.”
Bucky leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours again.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I stopped pretending the second you kissed me.”
—
The hotel suite was quiet except for the rain against the windows and Bucky’s steady breathing beside you.
You were curled against his side beneath the sheets, half-dozing while he absently dragged his fingers along your bare shoulder. Every inch of both of you still carried evidence of earlier—faint scratches, bruised lips, love bites carefully hidden beneath blankets for now.
Bucky looked wrecked in the best possible way.
Relaxed.
You didn’t think you’d ever seen him relaxed before.
The bedside phone suddenly buzzed.
Bucky swore softly under his breath.
You hid your smile against his chest as he reached over carefully, clearly assuming you were asleep.
“Barnes.”
A familiar voice crackled through the line.
“Well, that sounded tired,” Steve Rogers said immediately.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “What do you want, punk?”
“Mission update.”
“It’s midnight.”
“And yet you answered.”
Bucky glanced down at you instinctively, his expression softening for a split second before he looked away again.
You kept your breathing even.
Fake asleep.
Definitely not listening.
“So,” Steve continued, amusement already creeping into his voice, “how’s married life?”
Bucky went completely still.
“It’s a cover mission.”
“Mhm.”
Silence.
Then Steve asked casually, “How’s the honeymoon suite?”
Bucky sighed the sigh of a man seeing his future collapse in real time.
“Only one bed.”
There was a long pause.
Then Steve burst out laughing.
Actual loud laughter through the phone.
You bit your lip hard to keep from joining in.
“Oh my God,” Steve wheezed. “You two finally—”
“Keep your voice down,” Bucky hissed immediately, horrified.
That only made Steve laugh harder.
“I leave you alone for one mission—one mission—and suddenly you’re acting like a teenager.”
“Shut up.”
“She there right now?”
Bucky looked down at you suspiciously.
You remained perfectly limp against him.
“…Sleeping.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“She is.”
Steve’s grin was practically audible through the phone. “Buck, I’ve known you for like a hundred years. You only sound that guilty after sex.”
Bucky looked genuinely offended. “I do not sound guilty.”
“You sound emotionally compromised.”
“Go to hell.”
Steve snorted. “So that’s a yes.”
Bucky muttered something deeply unfriendly under his breath.
“Look,” Steve said, still amused, “just don’t let it screw up the mission tomorrow.”
Bucky’s expression shifted slightly at that.
More serious now.
“It won’t.”
You felt his hand settle unconsciously against your waist under the blankets.
Protective.
Certain.
Steve noticed the silence on the other end immediately.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Damn. You really got it bad.”
Bucky stared at the rain-streaked windows for a second before answering quietly:
“Yeah.”
Something warm twisted painfully in your chest.
Steve’s voice gentled. “Just be careful, Buck.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then Steve ruined the moment instantly.
“But for the record? Sam owes me fifty bucks.”
Bucky groaned. “You bet on us?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’re all assholes.”
“Yeah, but we’re right.”
The call ended a minute later.
Bucky set the phone down before leaning back against the headboard with another exhausted sigh.
For a while he just sat there, fingers tracing lazy circles against your side.
Then quietly, almost to himself:
“You can stop pretending to sleep now.”
Your eyes opened immediately.
Bucky looked down at you with the most unbearably smug expression you’d ever seen.
“You knew?”
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “you smile in your sleep when you’re actually dreaming.”
Heat rushed into your face.
“You heard all of that?”
“All of it.”
You buried your face in his chest groaning while he laughed softly for the first time since you’d known him.
A real laugh.
Warm and rough and beautiful.
“Steve is never letting this go,” you muttered.
“Nope.”
“And Sam bet money on us?”
“Apparently.”
You looked up at him suspiciously. “Did everyone know except us?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
—
The next morning felt…different.
Not bad.
Just dangerously real.
You woke tangled together in white sheets and warm sunlight, Bucky’s arm draped heavily around your waist like he belonged there. For one disorienting second, you forgot about the mission entirely.
Then reality returned all at once.
The gala.
Undercover identities.
Targets.
Surveillance.
And the fact that you’d very enthusiastically slept with your fake husband.
Awkwardness settled in almost immediately after breakfast.
Not because either of you regretted it.
Quite the opposite.
It was the awareness now.
Every accidental brush of hands lingered too long.
Every glance felt loaded.
Bucky seemed especially affected.
You caught him staring at your mouth multiple times while adjusting his cufflinks.
“You’re doing it again,” you said finally.
His eyes lifted slowly. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
A beat of silence.
Then, completely serious:
“How am I supposed to look at you after last night?”
Your face went hot instantly.
Bucky looked extremely pleased with himself for someone who had spent months emotionally constipated.
“Wow,” you muttered. “One night and suddenly you have confidence.”
He stepped closer to fix the necklace clasp at the back of your neck.
His fingers brushed your skin carefully.
“You noticed that, huh?”
Your breath caught slightly as he leaned down near your ear.
“Hard not to,” he murmured.
—
The ballroom that evening looked like something out of a movie—gold chandeliers, live strings, champagne flowing endlessly beneath glittering lights.
Every dangerous person in Europe seemed to be attending.
Including your target.
And unfortunately for your concentration, Bucky looked devastating.
Black tuxedo.
Dark hair pushed back.
Gloves covering the vibranium hand tonight.
Husband material, your brain supplied traitorously.
Bucky offered you his arm as cameras flashed near the entrance.
The second your hand slipped through his arm, his entire posture changed.
Protective.
Close.
Possessive enough to feel real.
A nearby socialite smiled warmly. “You two are such a beautiful couple.”
Before you could answer, Bucky’s hand settled low against your back.
“Thank you,” he said smoothly.
Then quieter, only for you:
“She’s right.”
—
The ballroom buzzed with music and low conversation, crystal chandeliers scattering gold light across polished marble floors.
You stood at the bar pretending to sip champagne while scanning the room discreetly for exits.
Beside you, the target wouldn’t stop talking.
Viktor Moreau was exactly the kind of man you’d expected—expensive watch, too-white smile, the unmistakable arrogance of someone who thought money made him untouchable.
Unfortunately, he also seemed fascinated by you.
“A woman like you,” Viktor said smoothly, leaning one elbow against the bar, “should never have to pay for anything.”
You smiled politely. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” His gaze dragged over you openly. “Jewelry. Cars. Private islands. Whatever you want.”
You gave a soft laugh, playing the role perfectly. “That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous man.”
From across the ballroom, you could practically feel Bucky glaring.
You ignored it with difficulty.
Viktor leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Honestly, sweetheart, if you were mine, I’d spoil you rotten.”
You tilted your head innocently. “And what exactly would you expect in return?”
His grin widened.
“Very little.” He paused dramatically. “Maybe hearing you call me daddy once in a while.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
And right on cue—
A warm hand settled possessively against your waist.
“Funny,” came Bucky’s calm voice beside you, “she already has one of those.”
Your pulse jumped instantly.
Viktor blinked as Bucky stepped fully into your space, tuxedo immaculate, expression perfectly polite in a way that somehow felt more threatening.
His arm tightened slightly around your waist.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind everyone exactly who you belonged with tonight.
“Husband,” you corrected lightly, glancing up at him.
Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours for half a second.
That look alone nearly knocked the breath out of you.
“Right,” he murmured smoothly. “But I like my title better.”
Viktor laughed awkwardly, clearly reassessing the situation now that your very large husband had appeared out of nowhere.
“You disappeared,” you said to Bucky, staying in character.
“Had to take a call.” His thumb brushed slowly against your hip through the fabric of your dress. Casual. Intimate. Dangerous. “Miss me?”
The question sounded directed at you.
The warning underneath it was absolutely for Viktor.
You smiled sweetly. “A little.”
Bucky hummed softly like he didn’t believe you.
Meanwhile Viktor, oblivious to the fact he was two seconds from being thrown through a window, recovered enough to smirk again.
“No offense, my friend, but your wife deserves expensive tastes.”
Bucky’s expression didn’t change.
“She has them.”
The answer came so fast you almost laughed.
Viktor gestured toward the ballroom around you. “Come on. Men like us understand each other.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Men like us.
Rich.
Powerful.
Entitled.
Bucky smiled then.
It was not a friendly smile.
“No,” he said pleasantly. “I really don’t think we do.”
Your stomach flipped.
God, he was good at this.
Viktor either missed the threat entirely or ignored it. “Relax. I’m just admiring your wife.”
Bucky looked down at you slowly, gaze softening in a way that felt devastatingly real.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “People tend to do that.”
Heat rushed into your face before you could stop it.
Viktor chuckled. “Careful. She might leave you for a billionaire.”
Bucky’s arm slid fully around your waist now, pulling you flush against his side.
“If she wanted a billionaire,” he said smoothly, eyes never leaving yours, “she could do a hell of a lot better than you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself from smiling.
Viktor looked mildly offended.
Bucky didn’t care.
Instead he leaned down near your ear, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear it.
“You okay?”
The immediate concern beneath the possessiveness made your chest tighten.
You nodded once.
Bucky’s hand squeezed your waist gently before he straightened again, every inch the attentive husband.
Only you noticed how tense he still was beneath the tuxedo.
And only you heard him mutter under his breath as Viktor turned to flag down another drink:
“‘Daddy’? Seriously?”
Viktor laughed at his own joke, swirling the amber liquor in his glass like he genuinely believed he was charming.
Beside you, Bucky Barnes looked moments away from committing a felony.
You could feel it in the way his arm tightened around your waist.
The dangerous calm in his expression.
The faint flex of his vibranium fingers against your hip.
Then Bucky smiled suddenly.
Slow.
Crooked.
Trouble.
“Well,” he said conversationally, “if she starts calling anybody daddy tonight, it’s probably gonna be me.”
You nearly inhaled your champagne.
Viktor barked out a startled laugh.
Bucky continued smoothly, glancing down at you with a look hot enough to melt steel.
“Though,” he added thoughtfully, “knowing her? She’ll probably be screaming it.”
Heat flooded your entire face.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.
Bucky looked infuriatingly pleased with himself.
Viktor laughed harder now, assuming this was all rich-married-couple banter instead of Bucky openly threatening your ability to think.
“Your husband’s got a sense of humor,” Viktor said.
“Hm.” You shot Bucky a warning look. “Unfortunately.”
Bucky’s thumb stroked once against your waist in silent retaliation.
Then, casually, he stepped closer to Viktor and gave him a friendly pat on the back.
One quick movement.
Easy to miss.
Except you saw the tiny black microphone transfer from Bucky’s palm to the back seam of Viktor’s designer jacket.
Mission complete.
Your eyes widened slightly.
Bucky didn’t even blink.
“Excuse us for a minute,” he said smoothly. “My wife and I are gonna get some air.”
Viktor smirked knowingly. “Of course.”
Bucky leaned in just enough to deliver the final blow.
“Besides,” he said lightly, “I wanna get her back upstairs and see if I can pull a ‘daddy’ out of her at least once.”
Your entire body went hot instantly.
Viktor nearly choked laughing.
Meanwhile you stared at Bucky in complete disbelief as he guided you away from the bar with perfect composure.
Only once you disappeared into the hallway outside the ballroom did you finally hiss:
“What is wrong with you?”
Bucky immediately lost the battle against a grin.
“A lot of things.”
“You cannot just say stuff like that in public.”
“I absolutely can.”
“You are impossible.”
His laugh was low and warm as he tugged you gently into a quieter corridor lined with gold wallpaper and dim lighting.
“You should’ve seen your face.”
“My face?” You stopped walking long enough to stare at him. “You threatened psychological warfare in front of an international criminal.”
Bucky leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you, eyes bright with amusement now.
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Annoyingly, yes.
The mic was planted.
Viktor trusted you both.
Mission progressing perfectly.
Still—
“You enjoyed that way too much.”
Bucky’s gaze slid slowly over you.
Not subtle.
Not professional.
Definitely not helping.
“You have no idea.”
The look in his eyes made your stomach flip hard.
This morning’s awkwardness had vanished somewhere between the ballroom and the bar. Now there was only tension again—thick and crackling and dangerously addictive.
Bucky stepped closer until the edge of your dress brushed his legs.
“You know,” he murmured, “you almost slipped up back there.”
“What?”
“When he started talking to you.” His gloved fingers traced lightly along your waist. “You kept looking for me.”
Your breath caught.
Because he was right.
The crowded ballroom had felt wrong the second Bucky walked away.
Unsafe somehow.
Bucky noticed your silence immediately, expression softening just slightly.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Then, before you could answer, his comm crackled softly in his ear.
Sam’s voice came through faintly:
“Mic is live. Nice work, Romeo.”
Bucky rolled his eyes instantly.
“Shut up, Wilson.”
“Oh, we are absolutely not shutting up after whatever the hell that daddy line was.”
You burst out laughing while Bucky groaned in genuine irritation.
Note A very small thing. I apologize for any mistakes and if I am somehow paraphrasing, that's not my intention. As always they're sickly in love it's nauseous as hell.
The safehouse is a shoebox. One room, one bed, one flickering bulb that buzzes like a dying insect. Rain hammers the tin roof, and somewhere in Ajijic, the trail on your target has gone cold. You’re re-checking the window seal, peering through the gap in the curtains to watch the wet street below, when his hands land on your hips—not gently, not hesitantly, but with a full, firm claim that pulls you back against his chest like you belong there, like he’s been waiting all day for the excuse to touch you. His body is warm even through the tactical gear, and you feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your spine, that stubborn rhythm that somehow always manages to stay calm no matter how bad things get.
“Eyes on the street,” you murmur, even as your body betrays you by leaning deeper into him, your head tilting just enough to give him access to the curve of your neck.
“Street’s empty, baby,” he says, and his mouth finds that spot just below your ear—not kissing, not yet, just breathing you in like you’re the only real thing in the entire city. His stubble scrapes softly against your skin, and a shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold rain outside. “Has been for an hour. Checked five times. One was enough. One because you were distracting me and the other three because you were looking fucking hot in that reflection.” He murmurs, his fingertips tickling you a bit. “Empty as hell, honey.”
“We don’t know that,” you try, but your voice comes out weaker than you intended, breathier, and he notices because he always notices everything about you. His metal fingers splay across your stomach, cool through the thin fabric of your shirt, and he finally presses a kiss just below your ear—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that says I’m not going anywhere.
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin. His flesh hand comes up to turn your face toward him, and you twist properly in his arms to look at him. Rainlight catches the edge of his jaw, the shadow under his eyes, the way his dark hair has come loose from its tie and fallen across his forehead. Bucky, the one that was called by many, either the team or the general public as the grumpiest Avenger, the one who never laughs at Tony’s jokes, who drinks his coffee black and glowers at anyone who talks before noon, (anyone except you, you could be yapping and he would hear each word with so much interest), who once made an agent uncomfortable just by staring at him across a briefing room table—is looking at you like you reinvented gravity. Like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. “Scanned the street many times. The building across the way twice. The roof access once for fun.”
“You’re supposed to be watching our six,” you whisper, but it comes out less like a reprimand and more like an invitation, and you both know it.
“I am watching our six,” he says, and then he kisses the corner of your mouth—lazy, devastating, the kind of kiss that makes your knees feel unreliable. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it all over again. “You’re our six. You’re our seven, eight, and nine. You’re the whole damn number line, doll.” You snort and roll your eyes, because that is genuinely the worst line he has ever given you, but he just grins that rare, crooked grin and presses his forehead to yours. “Four days,” he says quietly, and his voice cracks on the last syllable. “Four days of sharing walls, sleeping in not very comfortable ways, not touching you except to pass a scope or a bandage. Four days of watching you through a sniper lens and wanting.” He swallows hard, and you feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your hips. “I miss you. Even when you’re right here. That’s pathetic, right?”
No one would believe it. Not the grumpy man who sits in the corner of common room parties and leaves by nine. Not the man who once told Parker to shut up with a single look, just because the teenager was innocently flirting with you, and actually succeeded. Not the guy who glares at anyone who tries to hug him and talks about his space. But here he is, clinging to you like you might evaporate, his broad shoulders curved inward just to fit himself around you, his eyes soft and desperate and so full of love it makes your chest ache. This is the Bucky no one else gets to see—the one who falls asleep with his head in your lap, who makes you coffee exactly the way you like it without being asked, who says your name in the dark like it’s a prayer. It’s the most him thing he’s ever done, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
You turn fully in his arms, sliding your hands up his chest over the ridges of his tactical vest, and you feel his breath hitch when your fingers curl into the fabric. “The comms are off?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.
“Pulled the battery myself,” he confirms, and his voice has dropped to something lower, rougher, something that makes your stomach flip.
“And the target?”
“Two blocks east, probably asleep.” His hands slide down to your waist, squeezing once, and his eyes are nearly black in the dim light. “And right now, I don’t give a fuck, baby,” You kiss him first, open-mouthed and a little rough, the way he likes when he’s been holding back for too long—and he makes a sound against your lips that is low and grateful and almost pained, like he’s been starving and you just handed him a meal. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wall with a soft thud, and then his hands are everywhere. Undoing, unclasping, mapping every inch of you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The metal one is careful at first, his vibranium fingers gentle against your ribs, and then less careful when you tug his hair and say his name the way you do when you mean faster, harder, please. The flesh one slips under your waistband, and he groans against your throat like it physically hurts him to stay quiet.
“You have no idea,” he breathes, his lips dragging down to your collarbone, teeth grazing the delicate skin there. “What you do to me. What I’d do to keep you.” Your head falls back against the wall, and you can feel him smile against your skin, smug and adoring all at once. “Mmhm say it, please,” he murmurs, almost in a whimper, “My name.”
“James,” you whisper, and his grip tightens like you’ve just given him something precious.
“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “That’s it. That’s all I need.” And then he drops to his knees.
Just like that, the guy who grumbles about team movie nights and once told Sam Wilson he’d rather eat glass than do a trust fall, the man who acts like affection is a foreign language he never bothered to learn—on his knees on a cracked linoleum floor in a Mexican safehouse, looking up at you like you hung the moon. His flesh hand splays across your hip, thumb stroking small circles through your pants, and his metal one presses flat against the small of your back, steadying you like he knows your legs are about to give out. “People think they know me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt, and then another one lower, and another one lower still. “They don’t. They get the grump. The whole history. The resting murder face. They don’t get this.”
His teeth graze the waistband of your pants, and you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair. “They don’t get the part of me that stays awake just to watch you sleep,” he continues, his voice muffled against your hip bone. “They don’t get the way I say your name when no one else is listening. They don’t get how I’d burn down every mission, every protocol, every order if it meant keeping you safe.” His eyes meet yours, blown wide and wrecked already, and you feel your heart crack open a little. “You’re the only mission I never want to complete,” he says softly. “Because then what? Then I’d have to stop coming home to you.”
“Bucky,” you try, but your voice comes out strangled, and you’re not sure if you’re asking him to stop or to never stop.
“Thank you,” he cuts in, and his voice is thick, almost reverent. “For this. For tonight just being us. No extraction team listening in through the comms. No Nat making that stupid eyebrow thing tomorrow morning. No Steve raising his eyebrows across the breakfast table like he knows exactly what we did.” He presses one more kiss to your stomach, right above your navel, and then he rises slowly, dragging his body up against yours so you feel every inch of him—the hard planes of his chest, the cool press of his metal arm, the very obvious evidence that he wants you just as badly as you want him. His mouth finds your ear, and his breath is hot against your skin. “Just you and me and this shitty bed with its shitty springs and its shitty scratchy sheets.”
You laugh, breathless. “You want the bed?”
He grins—that rare, crooked thing that still makes your chest ache after all this time—and his hands slide down to grip your thighs. “I want you on every surface in this room,” he says, low and rough, and the sound of it goes straight between your legs. “Starting with the one that won’t give you splinters. Then the wall again. Then maybe the floor if you’re still standing after all that.” He lifts you like you weigh nothing—like you’re made of air and starlight—and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically, your arms looped around his neck. He carries you across the room without breaking eye contact, and something about the way he looks at you makes you feel seen in a way no one else has ever managed.
When he lays you down, the ancient springs scream in protest, and he doesn’t care. He just lowers himself over you, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you, and for a moment he just looks. His flesh hand comes up to trace your face—your brow, your cheek, your lips, the curve of your jaw. Like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s praying to a god he doesn’t quite believe in and thanking them anyway. “I love you,” he says, and it sounds like a secret he’s been keeping too long, something too big for his chest to hold. “I love you so much it makes me stupid. Makes me sloppy. Makes me forget there’s a world outside this room and this bed and you.”
You pull him down by the back of the neck, your fingers threading through his dark hair, and you kiss him slow and deep and certain. “Then stop talking about it,” you whisper against his lips.
He laughs against your mouth—a real laugh, bright and broken and so full of something tender it makes your eyes sting. And then he stops talking. He stops thinking about missions and targets and extraction points. He stops being the so called grumpy one, the man with the metal arm and the dark past and the walls built so high no one could ever climb them. He just becomes yours—every desperate, clinging, embarrassingly in love inch of him. Every soft whisper and needy sound. Every time he says your name like it’s the only word he hasn’t forgotten how to say.
Outside, Ajijic keeps raining, and the target stays two blocks away, and none of it matters. Inside, the grumpiest man you know is tracing the line of your collarbone with his lips, and his hands are shaking slightly, and he keeps pulling back every few seconds just to look at you again like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
No one back at the compound would ever believe it. They see the scowl and the silence and the way he keeps everyone at arm’s length. They don’t see him like this—soft and wrecked and so deeply, stupidly in love that he forgets to be anyone but yours.
But you don’t have to tell them.
Let them think he’s just the grumpy one. You know better. You know exactly what he sounds like when he falls apart on your name, and you know exactly how he feels tangled around you in a too-small bed in a too-loud city, and you know that tomorrow morning he’ll make you coffee and complain about the rain and act like nothing happened.
And you’ll smile and drink your coffee and let him pretend.
Because tonight? Tonight he was yours. Just like tomorrow and everyday after that. Every broken, beautiful, desperately in love piece of him.
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